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| Dingo safely over jump number 2 in the showjumping. |
(As with a lot of Horse Trials, this event was run over two days. I was competing grade 4 on Dingo, and our Dressage and Showjumping were on Saturday, with Cross Country on Sunday.)
I rock up to the venue alone as my handy little strapper is off at a friend's birthday party. She will be joining me later, and in addition to Dingo, I also unload Tornado, who immediately gets "oohs" and "ahs" and "isn't he cute" from the adjacent float.
I potter around doing the usual stuff, registration, cleaning the float, tying up the hay for the ponies, getting acquainted with where the rings are, when suddenly it dawns upon me. I realise just exactly where I am.
My mind flashes back to a bleak day, about 16 years ago, when I had my first competition attempt on my first horse. Princess. My friend's Dad floated us and our two horses out here for a hickstead. My Mum came out to watch - I was kind of hoping she would be my support crew - but when she saw Princess rear at a piece of hay on the ground, a mere 2m from the float, she couldn't bare to watch and she left. She's never been back.
There are many stories to be told about that day, what with me and band aids and stuff, but the long and short of it was that I never competed. My horse was out of control, and when I tried to follow my friend over the warm-up jump, Princess and I parted company. My friend's Dad kindly captured the fall on video, and we have all laughed about it ever since.
Well, today is more sunny than bleak, but the memory opresses me somewhat. It lingers in my mind, it haunts me. It's like a mist in the air - you can't quite grab it, you can't disperse it, and yet it's there clouding your view.
I get on with the job at hand, and the Dressage goes reasonably well. At least we seem to have conquered one thing - Dingo is no longer on three tracks, no longer eying off the white edge of the arena. We even get some lengthening in the trot. Woo hoo!
Then my husband arrives with my daughter, and the clouds begin to gather. No, the weather is just fine. In fact, the weather is getting more pleasant and summer like by the minute. The emotional clouds. Something about me "riding horses too much" comes out. I bristle up like a terrified echidna, and the sharp discussion just adds to my anxiety. My husband departs, and I start warming up Dingo for the showjumping.
The showjumping warm-up area is not ideal. There is a nice warm-up area with jumps, but that's only for the three horses about to do their rounds. Everyone else ... well, maybe the Dressage warm-up area? It's not far, but you won't exactly hear your number being called. I know I need that extra warm-up, so I head two paddocks down.
Then I spot her - my friend who's Dad brought us here so many moons ago. What a sight she makes. Striding confidently as ever, big smile on her face, her two gorgeous girls in tow. We have a laugh about the old times, then I proceed with my warm-up.
When I enter the jumping warm-up area, I don't feel confident. All is not well. There is stuff playing in my mind, but I can't quite grasp what's going on, or what I need to do about it. I tackle the cross rail. Ok. I tackle the straight bar and Dingo skids to an amazing stop - he'd get 10 out of 10 if this was a Western Show. I get catapulted forwards along the neck, and stop just behind his ears. Perhaps I grab the ears, perhaps I don't, but somehow I stay on and manage to slide back down the neck towards the saddle. My friend runs out laughing, and holds Dingo while I slip back into the saddle.
The steward looks at me dubiously, and calls out "Are you ready?". The showjumping ring is ready, the judges are ready - I wonder whether they actually saw the last showjumping round, or whether they were watching the "sliding stop show" next door. Am I ready? No way! "Yep", I say and ride into the ring. Some things are just meant to happen, and you've got to let God play it his way.
We're over the cross rail, then Dingo stops at number two. I turn him in a tight circle, which puts him on his hindquarters, and we get over it. We have another refusal, but other than that go clear, although somewhat out of control. The crowd - primarily my friend and my daughter - go wild. "I got a photo of Dingo stopping!", my daughter jumps up and down with excitement. "I got the whole thing on video", laughs my friend.
Now the day has turned seriously warm, and with all this anxiety and excitement I am feeling very thirsty. My friend pulls out some fresh fruit and we relax on the grass while our girls play with Tornado.
We make the one and a half hour trip home, and then the heavens open up - the evening is an emotional disaster. There's a part of me that just wants to collapse and forget the XC tomorrow. Even without the emotional turmoil, it was going to be hard enough. Now I have "rides too much" and "competes too much" and a swag of other accusations to deal with. I would love to just give up, but something in me stays more determined than even "me". Plus, I need to go there tomorrow anyway to judge a cross country jump.
The next day I wake up looking about 10 years older. The anxiety of "how exactly am I going to ride this cross country course?" is massive. When I load Dingo on the float he starts shaking. It's balmy warm. He's shaking with fear. It's not helping.
During the journey many visions flash through my mind - mainly of Dingo stopping at a fence, of me falling off somewhere, of someone approaching my daughter and saying "unfortunately, your mother has fallen off". It's crushing.
When we arrive at the venue the cross country for the higher grades is in progress, and the entrance we used yesterday is blocked off. There is another entrance but we're not sure where that is, and I'm anxious and edgy so I'm not brilliant at finding my way. About 3 U-turns later - U-turns with a float and two ponies, on busy roads, feeling anxious! - about 3 U-turns later we arrive, park and unlaod. We have just enough time to report for jumps judging.
We set ourselves up at the last jump, our backs to the sun. It's the first day of summer. I give my daughter the job of recognising the numbers. I put on my safety vest, turn on my walkie talkie, and look down at my clip board. I have never been a cross country judge before. In my clipboard I have a score sheet, and a "fall report" sheet. On the fall report it has three squares for reporting the severity of the fall. They are labelled: Mild, Severe, Fatal. Fatal. Sobering.
The riders start coming through and we watch carefully for numbers, stops and refusals. I watch how these riders ride their horses, how they approach the jump, and how they jump it. Most of the horses go clear. As my judging time draws to a close, I form a plan.
I relax, and speak directly to my subconscious mind "I want you to ride like a pro today. All these riders you've just seen, they ride like amateurs. I know, that you know how a pro rides. I know that I have all the skills and ability to ride like a pro. I want you to ride like a pro today." Then I take a long hard look at the last jump, and visualise Dingo going over it and across the finish line, while I punch the air and shout "that was the best 5 minutes of my life". And from then on, everytime I get a vision of me having a mishap, I replace it with the picture of Dingo going clear over the last.
In the cross country warm-up I focus on control. This has been my bane ever since the start of time. The warm-up goes well, and I don't get a single refusal. I get out of control on the landing a couple of times. A couple of times - that means two.
The starter counts me down, and we're off. Not at some fast canter, or mad gallop, but at a controlled trot. Three strides out from the jump I make sure that Dingo has seen it. Two strides out, I let him go and he pops over it effortlessly. It feels like just another canter stride. Then he tries to flatten out. I don't let him. I bring him back to a bouncy canter, a collected trot, anything, as long as his hindquarters are underneath him.
And so we tackle the course. One jump at a time. Total control in between the jumps. Sometimes I let him go two strides before the jump, sometimes just one stride. At the steps I ride him right up to the jump, nice and slow - after the first drop he falters for a split second - as expected. He's never done steps before. At the ski ramp I hear Tornado neigh and I clamp my legs on tighter to make sure that Dingo stays focussed. Then Dingo eyes off the water, and thinks about skirting around the edge. I drive him forwards. The cheer squad, led and rallied by my daughter, claps. And then ... and then the last jump is right there in front of me. I drive my pony towards it, and we clear it, we pass the finish line, and I punch my fist into the air and call out "that was the best 5 minutes of my life". I glance at my stop watch - ok, maybe the best 7 minutes.
Sabina runs towards me, joy on her face, and we give each other a hug. We give Dingo a hug - he is lathered with sweat. The Vet gives us the thumbs up and we're off to get a long cold drink. Half way to the canteen, I stop, look at my daughter and say "Sabina, I've just had my Christmas".
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| The last jump on the cross country course. |
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