In this chap­ter titled The Man Who Hunts and Doesn’t Like It, intro­duces a reflec­tion on those who ride not for plea­sure, but to meet social expec­ta­tions. The hunt, for them, is less about exhil­a­ra­tion and more about obligation—a per­for­mance played out in boots and breech­es to main­tain appear­ances with­in a com­mu­ni­ty that reveres tra­di­tion. While oth­ers pre­pare for the chase with excite­ment, these indi­vid­u­als approach the sea­son with reluc­tance masked by rit­u­al. Their turnout is immac­u­late, their hors­es pol­ished, yet their hearts are nev­er in the gal­lop. This qui­et contradiction—between what they por­tray and what they tru­ly feel—sets the tone for a chap­ter that unpacks the emo­tion­al dis­so­nance behind the well-dressed hunter who nev­er finds joy in the ride.

The reluc­tant hunter still plays the part con­vinc­ing­ly, engag­ing in con­ver­sa­tions about horse breeds, tack, and the lat­est tai­lor­ing trends as if enthu­si­asm were gen­uine. Vis­its to sad­dlers and boot­mak­ers become not just errands, but oppor­tu­ni­ties to rein­force an iden­ti­ty tied more to pre­sen­ta­tion than expe­ri­ence. The antic­i­pa­tion of com­pli­ments on their gear offers fleet­ing sat­is­fac­tion, even as the hunt itself remains a source of dread. They fol­low the unspo­ken code: par­tic­i­pate, dress well, appear keen—regardless of whether they enjoy the mud, the pace, or the end­less hours in the cold. This form of par­tic­i­pa­tion becomes an elab­o­rate exer­cise in social cam­ou­flage, allow­ing them to feel includ­ed while silent­ly endur­ing the activ­i­ty itself. Their belong­ing is pur­chased not with pas­sion, but with pol­ish.

As the sea­son draws near, their anx­i­ety qui­et­ly builds. Days are spent prepar­ing their horse and wardrobe, but their minds linger on the dis­com­forts that accom­pa­ny every meet—frozen fin­gers, aching legs, and unpre­dictable trails. When the morn­ing arrives, they rise ear­ly not with excite­ment, but with res­ig­na­tion, won­der­ing if this might be the day the expe­ri­ence feels worth­while. Yet even as their horse is groomed and the break­fast scarfed down, a lin­ger­ing weight sits on their chest: the knowl­edge that plea­sure may nev­er come. Their moti­va­tion is a blend of fear—of miss­ing out, of social exclusion—and the per­sis­tent hope that maybe, this time, things will be dif­fer­ent. But once they mount up, the truth returns like cold rain: they do not enjoy it.

The hunt itself unfolds with all the usu­al scenes—gathered rid­ers, the calls of the hounds, the dis­tant horn—but for this man, none of it stirs gen­uine thrill. Every fence looms with dread, each gal­lop feels forced, and minor incon­ve­niences grow into nag­ging frus­tra­tions. A lost stir­rup, a slip­pery turn, a pulled rein—each adds to the qui­et litany of dis­com­forts that con­firm what he already knows. The phys­i­cal strain feels harsh­er, the mud deep­er, the cold more cut­ting, all because the spir­it isn’t aligned with the sport. He is not chas­ing the fox but endur­ing the ride. The inter­nal mono­logue becomes loud­er than the hounds, ask­ing, again and again, why he con­tin­ues.

At the peak of the day, mis­for­tune often finds him. A mis­step by the horse, a poor­ly timed hedge, and sud­den­ly both rid­er and mount are down—mud-streaked and bruised. It’s a fall not just of body but of pre­tense. In that moment, any illu­sion of enjoy­ment col­laps­es, and the dis­com­fort becomes unde­ni­able, wit­nessed by fel­low rid­ers whose sym­pa­thy might be tinged with silent judg­ment. Pride is hurt more than flesh, but the sting lingers long after the aches fade. It’s a moment that crys­tal­lizes the under­ly­ing truth: this is not his pas­sion. It is a per­for­mance, and it has cost him more than he ever admits aloud.

Return­ing home, sore and dis­heart­ened, he reflects not on the fox, the coun­try­side, or the thrill oth­ers chase—but on the weight of pre­tend­ing. He won­ders how many oth­ers feel the same, masked behind smiles and sad­dle pol­ish. The hunt is not mere­ly a test of skill or courage, but of conformity—an unspo­ken demand to belong, even when the spir­it rebels. He may return next week, or he may not. But the ques­tion lingers: how much longer can he endure what brings no joy?

This chap­ter lays bare the emo­tion­al com­plex­i­ty behind social par­tic­i­pa­tion in activ­i­ties that do not res­onate on a per­son­al lev­el. It under­scores how iden­ti­ty can be shaped not by what we love, but by what we feel oblig­at­ed to be seen doing. The man who hunts and doesn’t like it is not a fail­ure, nor a fraud—he is sim­ply caught in the ten­sion between self and soci­ety, nav­i­gat­ing the uneasy space between authen­tic­i­ty and expec­ta­tion. His sto­ry is not just about hunt­ing, but about every expe­ri­ence where image over­shad­ows truth, and where par­tic­i­pa­tion is dri­ven by pres­sure rather than pas­sion.