"Maybe I've got my feet too solidly planted on the ground. I've been to the Scottsdale sales. I thought I was at a Mafia funeral. There's something so excessive about it. It misses the essence of the thing, which to me is you and your horse out there with the leaves and the wind, and the moon rising up through the trees, and the sound of the river and the smell of the trail."
The essence is in the riding. For better or worse, Arabian horses have been one of the trappings of wealth for a few thousand years, from Bedouin chieftains to Scottsdale's nouveau-riche oil moguls. That's not what gives the Arabian its nobility. The horse doesn't know if the rider on its back is a king or a commoner. But it knows if that person can ride.
The Englishman Palgrave described the feeling some 130 years ago: "I often mounted them at the invitation of their [Bedouin] owners and, without saddle, rein or stirrup, set them off at full gallop, wheeled them round, brought them up in mid-career at a dead halt, and that without the least difficulty.... The rider on their back really feels himself the man-half of a centaur, not a distinct being."
For anyone who cares to hop on, we've got the horse-half right here.