When I Was a Kid…Tall Boots Came with a Warning Label

Do you remember when leather riding boots came with the warning label, “Wear at your own peril!”?

That was an era when riders had a strong constitution. There was no sliding into your boots like you slide into someone’s DMs. Life was fraught with danger, and our tall boots were no exception.

If paramedics were called due to a broken ankle housed inside your tall boots, the fear was real.

“Don’t cut the boots! Just pull them off, I can handle the pain,” you’d wail, and bystanders would nod in appreciation. Leather boots were expensive and one little broken ankle was not going to destroy a pair of $800 Vogels. Around $100,000 in today’s money.

In the old days, leather boots were a status symbol. They said, “I’ve reached a certain level in my riding where fashion outweighs comfort, ease and common sense,” because those tall boots came with a few unique challenges, namely getting them on and off. Something this zippered nation of today will never experience, so allow me to paint you a picture.

It’s circa 1980 and in your boot bag you carried four things:

1. Your boots, obvs.
2. Boot pulls that closely resembled meat hooks.
3. Several mismatched pairs of well-used knee-high nylons, hopefully, free of runs.
4. The now frowned upon substance of talcum powder and lots of it.

Part A: Putting on Pull-On Boots

Putting your boots on in the ’80s was not a slapdash move as it is today. You had to plan and set aside enough time to get the job done. There was a method.

Step one—Fill your boots with as much talcum powder as you dare and hook the boot pulls through the tabs inside your boots.

Step two—Whilst standing, slide your nylon-clad leg, with pointed toe, into your boot and start pulling. Do not, for the love of all things holy, dislodge a boot pull or break a tab. I shan’t take you down that avenue of hell.

Step three—Once your foot is in and stuck, generally around the ankle part, sit down on a bale of hay and resume pulling. Your leg will be stretched in front of you beyond the capabilities of your hamstring, but now isn’t the time to lament quitting jazzercise. Once the quivering in your thigh begins, you’ll want to stand once more. 

Step four—Now standing, you’ll find that you are teetering on one leg because the other is neither in nor out of the boot. Desperation and unbalance will take hold and you’ll put the sole of the boot on the ground and heave the boot pulls skyward. You will fail and be compelled to stomp your foot on the ground because it might help. It won’t, but it’s worth a try. 

Step five (a)—Eventually and without reason, your foot will slip into place and, if lucky, your calf will follow suit. But we weren’t always lucky. 

Step five (b)—Last night’s sushi was a mistake; you know that now because, curiously, your boot is scrunched down around your ankle like a slouchy sock.

Do you forge ahead or start over? There is no right answer but there is always an audience. Parents, kids and random family members in town for the weekend are eager to help, but sadly this is a one-man show. Godspeed.

Boots on, you stride purposefully toward your horse, plumes of white powder puff out through stitching and the cuff, like floating asbestos, gently clogging your lungs with each meaningful step.

Part B: Removing Pull on Boots

The competition is over, your horse is cooled out and his braids removed. The only thing left to do is to get out of your hot, unforgiving show clothes. Your hunt coat is tossed to the side, your ratcatcher dangles from your stock pin and the one last move to freedom is taking your boots off.

Step one —You find the bootjack that is, for reasons unknown, not in your boot bag, you drop it to the ground, flip it over with your foot and then ram the heel of your boot into the mouth of said jack.

Step two—One foot securely jammed into the jack you awkwardly place your other on the sloped bit, which means you have one foot directly behind the other. There is no stability with this stance, and you’ll likely cling to the stall door or Aunt Cheryl’s shoulder.

The risks are now plentiful. If your leg is reluctant to come out of the boot, you will tip over sideways. If your foot frees itself with surprising ease, you’ll fall backwards and take Aunt Cheryl with you. If suction plays a role in this due to the regrettable sushi, well then, the only thing you will be pulling is your groin.

Step two (b)—The boot jack didn’t work, shocker, and you call for a reinforcement, which comes in the form of Uncle Bob, husband to Cheryl.

Step two (c)—Sit down on that same hay bale.

Step two (d)—Uncle Bob slowly backs into you, the back of his trousers inching ever nearer.

Step two (e)—Lift one booted leg and slide it between Bob’s two unbooted legs.

Step two (f)—Uncle B will grab your boot heel and you’ll place your free foot on his buttocks.

Step two (g)—Bob will pull forward and upward. You’ll push for leverage against his hindquarters, praying he has a strong back and an empty stomach.  

Step three—If this works Uncle Bob will unwittingly fling your boot into the air as he lurches forward, you will fall backward off the hay bale. Freedom is now partly yours, one boot to go.

If steps 1-3 fail, feign a broken ankle and the paramedics will have them cut off in a jiff.

And that’s how it was done. The under-40s of today will never understand the Herculean effort it once took to look show-worthy. Zippers are for the weak, that is all I know.