Deary me. It seems all of you can hardly wait for the moment where you get to sit on the edge of your seats and watch Trebuchet and I launch pumpkins from, well, trebuchets. I’d meant to inflict horses upon you today, but never let it be said I neglect my readers. Well, not badly neglect. I’ve done the hack-and-slash on the video I shot, and here you are: two trebuchet vids!
Mind you, the camera was left sitting on a trailer hitch, it’s a bit tilted, and you can’t always follow the pumpkin. But you do get to see nearly all of this first one’s flight:
That was the tiny trebuchet, with an unknown boy firing. That one’s just about my speed. I could store a trebuchet like that on the porch, and use it to annoy – ah, I mean, entertain – my neighbors. I’ll bet you I could reach the treeline from where I am. May have to remove the porch roof, though. The new owners of the complex may become upset. Perhaps I should have Trebuchet introduce them to trebuchets first…
Right. This next one is not, alas, the record-shattering hurl. The record-shattering hurl was not captured on video. But this was a respectable hurl, and I got to pull the trigger for it, too, and you might enjoy it anyway, although you unfortunately don’t get to see the pumpkin go splat at the end. Hire me a camera crew the next time we go out and I’ll get you pumpkin-pulping action.
For now, this is what you get:
And really, it’s close enough to that trebuchet’s personal best as makes no difference.
So there ye are. My first experience at pumpkin hurling, and we set a record for best distance achieved by that trebuchet, and the weather was glorious and the pumpkins abundant. If I figure out how, I’ll delight you all later with some gifs of the large trebs launching. And Trebuchet himself can discuss some of the technical details.
I’m going to go pretend I never put a video on YouTube of myself participating in a pumpkin hurl now. Must… find… distraction…
This is where I admit a particular weakness for “those spindly, fancy, dancing warmbloods.” Draft horses have always been a kinda meh thing for me – I mean, they’re horses, and for that reason alone I squee when in their presence, but they seem plodding and oversized and those huge hooves are frankly comic. I go weak in the knees for the Thoroughbreds, the Arabians, the Paso Finos (no, I know you’ve never heard of a Paso Fino – don’t look at me with your mouth open like that, click the link). I love sleek and elegant horses that look like a zephyr and run like stilettos. And I like Mustangs and quarter horses and Morgans and all those bread-and-butter breeds, those home-on-the-range, cowboy-rides-away horses. I quite like Standardbreds, too, and for sheer oddity, I loves me a Tennessee Walking Horse – you’ll never forget your first sight of that bizarre gait of theirs.
And if you ever need to bribe me, you can make it a Black Andalusian.
I will admit that draft breeds are entirely awesome. When the Budweiser Clydesdales are passing by, it’s like a substantial mobile earthquake. Before John Deere, there were Shires. They’re the early tanks and tractors, and they’re wonderful. Admittedly. They just don’t make my heart flutter whilst going pitter-pat.
You show me a Friesian, and then it’s like the best of all possible worlds.
Power, grace and style. Oh, yes.
And then someone came along and seems to have said, “What will make RQ and Dana both go utterly speechless with helpless adoration?” and, after some brainstorming, bred this. But that’s a story for another day…