In the Cross Country start box - "Good Luck"

Riding cross country in a horse trials event is serious business.  Even at the lower grades. The obstacles are solid with a capital S, the ground can be slippery, and the horse has a thousand things to spook at, starting with the jumps judges.  Every rider about to go out on cross country gets some level of nerves, and rightfully so.  A history of events prove that sheer luck might play an important part in a successful completion of this exciting phase.

So, when the starter counts down each competitor, his final words are "3, 2, 1, Go! Good luck!"

At this point, I always thought that there exists a certain understanding between horse and rider.  A partnership based on mutual trust, developed over months and years of training together.  You (the horse) take care of me, and I (the rider) will take care of you.  I have seen countless situations where this is so true, where the horse loses balance and a steadying rein from the rider helps the horse to recover before the next jump.  Situations where the rider loses balance on the first obstacle in a combination, and the horse completes the combination perfectly despite flapping reins and a lack of direction from the rider.

I long for that sort of partnership, that sort of understanding, that sort of trust with my horse.  But recently, I have decided that between myself and Dingo it's not necessarily so.

When that starter says "Good Luck", Dingo grows little devil ears, he rubs his little hooves together, his spirit does a little mini rear of defiance, and the pony whispers "Yeah Mummy ... Good luck, ha ha ha!" as he gallops wildly off towards the first jump with no regard for the feeling on the reins.

Well, for years I have lived in my little world of believing in trust and understanding, while Dingo was rubbing his little hooves together and zooming off on every occasion.  But, recently, I've finally wisened up.  I've realised that our partnership has to be based more on mutual boisterousness, than mutual love.  A kind of respect for each others physical strength and mental power.

So now, our starting line conversation goes something like this:
Starter: "3, 2, 1, Go!  Good luck!"
Dingo: "Yeah Mummy ... Good luck, ha ha ha!"
Me: "Yeah Dingo ... Good luck."  (Followed by a solid check on the reins.)

Westcoast ARC Horse Trials 2016

Dingo's last competition was two years ago when I got eliminated on him during the Dunolly Horse Trails cross country for jumping a grade 3 jump.  Then I got eliminated again in the showjumping when I fell off before the double.  At the time, I decided it wasn't really working and relegated Dingo to trail riding duties.

However, a sequence of events - Lil getting stringhalt, Echo getting an abscess - put Dingo back in work, and back on the critical path for another crack at horse trials.  So we ended up in Elcho Park, warming up for the dressage phase of the Westcoast ARC Horse Trials.

The judge was running late, and the dressage went to pieces.  Dingo was overbent, flicking his tongue over the bit, and freaking out at the weeds surrounding the arena.  Really Dingo?

Since the dressage judge was running late, we were running late for our showjumping round.  Already coming back from gear check Dingo felt tired.  He jumped well in the warm-up - very well in fact.  The warm-up was on grass with a sandy soil base.  The competition ring was sand.  The minute he put hoof in that sand arena, things didn't feel right - he felt out of control.  I put on the breaks.  We got two refusals at jump one, clear over two, then a refusal at jump three and that was the end of our round.

I left the showjumping ring gutted, and did a few more warm-up jumps to mull it over.  He jumped very well.  Damn that sand.

I gave Dingo a well earned rest and some lunch, and I mulled over the situation some more.  Technically I was eliminated, but could still ride the cross country if I wanted to.  Did I want to?  Should I?  My reflection process was long and boring, but in the end I decided to ride cross country.

After a quick warm-up (which was on sand, and Dingo jumped the warm-up jumps well), we were in the start box, and the starter was saying: "3, 2, 1, go!  Good luck!".  And Dingo responded "Yeah Mummy ... Good luck in trying to hold me back!  Ha ha ha!".  And I gritted my teeth with "Yeah Dingo ... Good luck in trying to get away from me!".  And we were off.  Dingo was off.  Holding him back was tricky ... almost impossible.

Jump three was out of control and we were barrelling through the middle of the course when I caught sight of jump four on my left.  We doubled back.  I had to almost stop him to do that switch back to four.  But I did it the right way - I kept his head up.  I didn't let his chin go to his chest.  Over four, and then we got this amazing bouncy canter - forward, yet on his hocks.  I felt I could jump over the moon from that canter.  And from then on, all the other jumps became mere obstacles.  It was no longer a question of whether he will jump them, it was only a question how fast I will allow him to jump, and how elegant I can make it look.  There was no longer a question of control, there was only a question of using my reins and my heels to communicate with him.  It was amazing.  I have never ridden this pony so fast over cross country and yet felt so much in control, felt so sure he would jump everything, felt so in awe of how much power was propelling him forward.  I could now see that this pony easily had more scope.  It was incredible.

In the end, the result - me being eliminated - was immaterial.  I was the real winner.  That cross country ride just changed the way I jump - for ever.  That cross country ride made me realise that the next rung of my horse riding journey was within reach.  That cross country ride was like a thousand clinics rolled into one.

I jumped off my tired pony - and I have never ever seen Dingo that tired - and jumped up and down with joy!

Leg Aids

I waltzed into my dressage lesson on Echo and my instructor immediately said "Stop!  We've got to fix those legs of yours."  Really?  What is wrong with my legs?  I've got my heel down, my heels are in line with my hip, and I feel super secure.  What's there to fix?


Well...


"Your toes are turned out, and the back of your calf is on.  I want you to turn your toe in so that it is pointing to the front, your foot is parallel with your horse, and if you need to use your calf, you use the inside part of your calf."  Ok.


No, not ok, my horse is not responding to my inner calf.


"Aha ... remember your horse can feel a fly sit on him.  So your horse is not responsive enough.  Use your whip until your horse learns to respond to the feel of your inner calf."  And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the solution to about 80% of all your riding problems.


When the horse doesn't respond to the "feel of the inner calf" us riders resort to using the back of our calf.  Then we draw up our heel and use our heel.  When that doesn't work well enough we resort to using our hands to compensate.  Yes!  Using our hands.  Except that this actually tucks the horse's head in, and puts him on the forehand.  Then, some horses pigroot and we complain.  Or get scared.  Or both.


What really came home to me during this lesson is that we don't ride with our hands.  Our hands just mostly sit there.  Allow me to rephrase that.  The rider's hands are held upright, as though they are holding one glass of champagne each, slightly in front of the pommel of the saddle.  That is pretty much all.


It is the legs - and the lightest touch of the inner calf - that drive the horse forwards and sideways.

My best Cross Country so far (Mornington Peninsula Pony Club Horse Trials)

Dingo safely over jump number 2 in the showjumping.

"An arrow can only be shot by pulling it backwards.  So when life is dragging you back with difficulties, it means that it's going to launch you into something great.  So just focus, and keep aiming."

(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".

The last jump on the cross country course.

Balance

One of the most important things I have taken away from my lessons with Ron Patterson is "balance".

In my very first lesson with Ron, he walked up to my horse, pointed two fingers just in front of the girth, and just below the saddle flap, and said "Your horse's centre of gravity is here".

My mind panicked, because of course I was sitting a solid 10cm behind that point.  But as it was my first lesson, shyness overtook me, and I said nothing.  I wish I had screamed "why am I sitting so far back then?  Isn't that wrong?".  I should have screamed.  Or at least asked the question.

Later in the lesson, when Lil was travelling particularly sluggishly, Ron told me to lean forward.  But he meant bring the hips forward, not lean forward with your shoulders.  The minute I brought my hips forward, Lil shot forward with renewed energy.

Since that experience I have been madly experimenting with balance.  The more I experimented, the more I got it right.  The more I got it right, the more my position aligned with the text book description of what a correct position looks like.  But, I've stressed this before, and I will stress it again - the correct position feels nothing like what it looks like.  Don't copy the visual perception, understand how it needs to feel.

Also, the more I got it right, the more I realised how unbalanced I had been.  I realised how often I lost my balance; how often I still lose my balance.  I learnt how much I had been sitting back in the saddle as though it's a recliner.  Or leaning on the reins for balance.  It's not that I didn't have the strength or the skill, it's just that no one had explained it correctly.

When you are unbalanced, the more fussy horses will fuss because, quite frankly, they are not comfortable.  They might run, put their ears back, or pigroot.  I have experienced all of these, at various levels, on different horses.  My first reaction was always to question the horse's soundness - is it's back ok?  is it stiff?  do I need to call out the chiropractor?  And I hate calling out the chiropractor - it's expensive!

I noticed that Lil's fur was wearing thin just where the back of the saddle sits (Lil is my more fussy horse, who puts her ears back a lot, and has thrown the odd pigroot or two).  Maybe the saddle doesn't fit correctly?  I also hate calling out the saddle fitter - it's also expensive.  Well, I have found that since realising where true balance lies, and working towards perfecting my balance, those saddle marks have disappeared.

And regarding those pigroots - imagine if you were wearing a backpack, and that pack kept sliding further, and further down your back.  What "action" would you do to send it back up?  Wouldn't it be the equivalent of a pigroot?  I am not saying that all pigroots are caused by poor balance.  I am just saying that if your horse pigroots, try and fix your balance first.

So, how do you know if you're balanced?  How do you achieve balance?  Halt.  Stand up in your stirrups.  Drop the reins.  Balance.  Found that sweet spot?  Now drop all the weight into your heels.  Balance.  Find that sweet spot again.  Now lower your bottom until it just touches the saddle.  Don't sit down.  Just touch.  Now ride.  Walk, trot and canter.  Try to ride on a loose rein so that you don't use your reins to balance.  For one or two or three or however many sessions it takes, forget your reins, and forget about your horse.  Once you get your balance your horse will progress much faster, and you will make up the time.

Don't look for perfection.  Just look to get the "feel" of it.  You'll probably spend the rest of your riding life perfecting it.  You just need to become aware of what true balance really is.

You are allowed to have a break.  Sit back in the saddle.  But see that as a break, then get back to balancing again.  Once you "get" the "feel" it will become easier.  You'll be able to relax.  You'll be able to play with it.  Enjoy it.

In The Judge's Seat

Recently my club held a Dressage competition.  I didn't take part in the competition so I offered to do some pencilling for a Dressage judge.  I did it out of pure desire to help and volunteer, because I don't get to volunteer much on other occasions.  I learnt far more than I had bargained for.

The judge I was pencilling for was judging grade 4 HRCAV - my own level.  I didn't get to see much of the dressage tests.  I found I really didn't need to see much to understand the comments.  Keeping up with the writing wasn't too bad, and I got better at the shorthand towards the end.  We were judging for supposedly 4 hours.  When I first heard this I groaned - at home, where no one could hear.  But the time just flew!

We were given a delicious morning tea, and a top up of coffee.  And as a additional bonus, the judge I was pencilling for was very funny. 

Here are the most important lessons I've learnt.

The Dressage Judge is not out to get you.  Really?!  OMG, I thought she was.  Most of the time when your pony is misbehaving she is there barracking for you!

The Dressage Judge knows about horses.  No way?  Who would have thought?  She knows that they are flighty animals, and that sometimes you are doing a sensational job just executing the movements.  She just wishes you would take a breath and relax.  Because then the horse will travel better.

Consistency.  Most of us lack consistency.  We need to be there, balancing our horse between hand and leg every single stride, for the entire duration of the test.  Do I need to repeat that in capitals?  Medium walk is not an opportunity to have a rest.  And the horse needs more balancing in the corners.

Forward.  The horse must be going forward - but not on the forehand.  It cannot feel like it's about to fall out of the canter back into trot.  It cannot feel like it would rather walk than trot.  The rider must create forward.  Even at the walk.  Even at the long rein walk.

Precision.  Your test must be precise.  So if it says transition from canter to trot between B and M that means somewhere about 6m after B, but before M.  It does not mean you can fall out of the canter at B.

Readiness.  If your horse is clearly not ready to compete, due to lack of experience, then think carefully whether you need to bother the judge with your horse seriously going sideways down the centerline and doing unscripted pirouttes.  It is very difficult to judge (and pencil for) such a test.  Wouldn't it be better for you, for the horse, and for your wallet to come to the competition, warm up, and ride quietly in the arena during breaks?  Without actually taking part of the competition?

And finally - do some pencilling.  You'll actually start understanding what the judge was really talking about in all those comments on your last test.

The 30 day challenge

I have been challenged to ride without stirrups for 30 days.  And you know me and these sort of challenges.  I love them.  So I have taken it up.  At least with Dingo, and in dressage.

So, I have duly detached said stirrups from the saddle.  It feels weird to be sitting in a saddle without any stirrups.  But, you can't sit around looking at the view forever, so off we went at a walk.  Then the trot.  Whoa!  This little pony thinks that if he goes fast enough he will just bounce me out altogether.  And this is where the whole seat and half halt thing came in.  I sat in the saddle, and half halted until I was blue in the face, but eventually we got a lovely trot, that I could comfortably (OMG! Really?) sit to.  And I had a totally lose rein!

Since the trot was now so good, we tried the canter.  This was an amazing experience.  It made me realise just how flat Dingo normally is.  This canter was just amazing.  It was as light and fluffy as drifting along on a cloud.  This is what riding is all about!

Now I am absolutely hooked on riding "sans stirrups".  So much so, that now Lil is on a mission plan to ride without stirrups within about 4 weeks.

What I don't understand is this.  Three years ago, I went to a riding instructor and said "there is a problem with my seat and I want to fix it".  Which part did she not understand?  There was a problem with my seat, and riding without stirrups has fixed it.

Bad riding days

Everyone has them.  At least, I think everyone has them.  Bad riding days.  Not necessarily catastrophic riding days.  Not the sort of days where it's all a tragedy.  No.  Just bad riding days.  When you ride badly for no good reason.

You can feel them descending upon you.  You brush and saddle your horse, all fine.  But something niggles at you.  The world is not quite right.  Then as you put your foot in the stirrup to mount, you feel it.  You feel that you're going to ride badly.  That it's just not going to work.  That you need a different mental attitude.

So stop!  Take that foot out of the stirrup, stand next to your horse, and examine the time space continuum.  Watch the view.  Listen to the birds.  Count the bees.  But of course ... you don't.  If you did, it wouldn't be a bad riding day any more.  Much against your own better judgement, you mount up.  Because that's what you always do.  (Victim of habit).

Then sure enough, things don't all go well.  You're not happy with how your horse is travelling.  It's not responsive enough, it's too flighty, it won't do this and that.  It's hanging on the bit, it doesn't have enough impulsion.  It's falling in.  Or falling out.  Or ending up in the middle of the haying paddock (as happened in my case).

Sometimes ... sometimes you can set it right.  Sometimes ... if you're having a lesson ... the coach can set it right.  (In fact, perfect situation in which to have a lesson).  But most of the time, it's just a bad riding day, with neither you, or your horse enjoying the ride.

I hate those days!

Oh, if I could only go back to that moment where I put my foot in the stirrup.  I would take it out again, rather than mount up.  Just give myself more time to think "why do I feel like this?".  Give my horse time to stand there and just park.  Important skill "park".  Mark Jones, my trainer, and Andrew McLean both agree on this one.  Two fine horsemen can't be wrong.

But, you cannot go back in time.  You can only take with you what you've learnt, and go forwards.  And that's why we have the bad riding days.  If we pay enough attention, they teach us more than 6 months of riding.  More than 6 months of lessons.  Think about it.  Economically speaking, it's worth having a bad riding day.

(Perhaps, if I had paid "enough" attention, I would have taken my foot out of the stirrup, and stood there and still learnt the same lesson, and avoided the bad riding day.  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.)

Naughty or uncomfortable?

The saddle fitting experience has highlighted something to me.  Before the saddle fitting, Lil was very girthy, putting her ears back and baring her teeth at me.  Of course, she wouldn't bite me, so instead, she used to sink her teeth into the hitching rail.  After the saddle fitting, this all stopped.  Now when I do up the girth she looks around, sniffs my elbow, and then gazes off into the distance.  Massive difference.  From this I conclude that when she is comfortable, Lil is relaxed and happy.

Now onto riding.  Firstly, when I try to get on, Lil tries to walk off.  Is this just a bad habit?  Or is she uncomfortable about being ridden?  (I will add here that I do not use a mounting block.)  Then when I ask her to trot, she sometimes throws her head up.  Especially on the left rein, which is her stiffer side.  Is this a sign of discomfort?  Or is she just being naughty?  Or, is she confused?  Not sure whether to go forward from the legs, or to slow down from the reins?

It is important to remember that, according to Dr McLean, horses are sometimes victims of their own habits.  That is, once they have acquired a habit, they just do things out of habit.  It takes a human (or some other factor) to actually come along, and train the habit out of them.

Walking off while I am mounting may well be a habit.  However, I don't think throwing her head in the air when being asked for trot is a habit.  It escalates when she has been ridden several days in a row.

The problem here is that I am asking her to trot on her stiffer side.  So of course, she is stiff.  Yes, that is uncomfortable.  But I need to trot her, in order to build up the muscle strength on that side.  Yet, every time she throws that head up into the air, she is building up a habit of head tossing.  The result is that in two months time, she might have the muscle strength to trot, and she may no longer be stiff and uncomfortable, but she will still be tossing her head!

Ahh, the fun and games of training horses.

So what's the answer?  Ask for trot, and don't allow the head toss.

Luckily, Lil is very keen to work with me.  So every time she tosses her head in disagreement, I ask her to lower her head (with a firm, short, sharp downward tug on one rein, followed immediately by a firm downward tug on the other rein, followed immediately by a slight loosening of both reins).  This makes her lower her head, carry herself, and relax.

Of course, I haven't really tackled the confusion theory so far.  Lilly may well be confused.  However, the two tugs followed by a slight release should also deal with the confusion issue.

Confidence

I have been wanting to write about confidence for a while now, because in riding a horse, confidence is everything. You can be doing the right thing, but if you are not doing it with confidence and conviction, then you will not get the results you want or expect. At the same time, finding a good example of confidence is hard, but I think I've got one.

I brought Lilly in for training, and while brushing her noticed that she has a small cut (about the size of my thumb nail) on her left hock. The hock also looked more swollen than the other hock. It would be a shame not to work her at all, so I decided to start slowly, and just see if the hock was a problem or not.

As a starting point, I lounged Lilly, first at the walk, then at the trot, to check if she is lame. She wasn't. Then I started riding. I rode her the way I normally do, sticking to the same routine, but the back of my mind was still thinking about that hock. Was she really ok? Was she in pain? Was she maybe unable to do some things?

While my mind was wondering, Lilly started playing up. Nothing serious, just a bit of falling out, minor rushing off, bit of getting prancy.

I thought about that hock one more time, and then I decided that if she is well enough to ride, then she is well enough to be ridden with confidence. And so I rode on. With conviction. And all of Lilly's problems vanished.

Approach and retreat

I took Gally out for a trail ride. I felt nice and relaxed, and just wanted both of us to enjoy something other than 20m circles in the arena.

We had the odd stop and look along the way, but overall Gally was walking out nicely. Until we got to the dam. The pool of water is nicely shaded, and looks dark and cold and mysterious. Gally stopped dead at the sight of it. He eyed off the bush to the right, but I quickly checked him with the left rein. So he backed up ten steps.

Normally, this would have sent me kicking him forward. But like I said, today I felt nice and relaxed. So when he backed up, I sat and waited. After what seemed like an "appropriate" amount of time, I kicked him forward. We got to the same spot, he looked at the water in the dam, and backed up again. Again, I waited calmly before asking him to go forwards again.

This game of approach and retreat repeated itself about three or four times. And then Gally went forward cautiously and walked past the dam like a pro. He was still nervous, but he was willing to trust me. I on the other hand did my job of staying relaxed and not working myself into a crazy frenzy.

I am convinced that as a result, we got past the dam faster than we would have if I had got all uptight about the situation. This is an approach that might not work with all horses, but it certainly works with Gally.

Sit still

Gally is now back in work, and today he highlighted to me the importance of sitting still.

I like to get my horses doing lots of turn on the forehand and turn on the hind quarters. It doesn't have to be perfect, the idea is to get the horse moving off my leg. When I was doing the turn on the forehand Gally was ok, but not super responsive. But when I tried a turn on the hind quarters, I brought my leg a smigin forward of the girth and boy did I get an instant reaction. That was fabulous.

I took my leg off and relaxed. Reward for the horse, thinking time for me. Why is Gally not that reactive behind the girth? Because my leg sits there the whole time, and I dig my spur in sometimes intentionally, sometimes in frustration, sometimes because it just dangles.

So I went back to my walk and trot work, paying exceptional attention to keep my leg and my hands very still. Hey presto. Magic. I got much better quality work. Oddly enough I got a better, more active trot, using less spur.

Now I will be the first to admit that coaches have told me this before - plenty of times. It took a horse to show me just how important it really is.

Forward III

Still struggling with "forward"? You're not alone. Here is why.

Logical thinking is a "left brain" activity. "Forward" is a "right brain" activity. If you do some research about left brain versus right brain you will realise that us humans are rewarded for using the left brain. We are rewarded for using logical thinking. We are rewarded for taking a slow and steady approach in life. We are rewarded for "building things", step by step. We are rewarded for being rational and analytical. The more we have evolved, the more we are rewarded for being "left brained".

Before children start school, they don't have that much of a preference for the left brain. But the majority of what they are taught at school, rewards left brain activity.

A lot of various arguments could stem from here, so back to the point. "Forward" is a "right brain" activity. "Forward" also seems to be very important to being a good horse rider. So if you're going to progress in your riding, you need to learn to use your "right brain" more. It's just like writing with your non-writing hand - you can do it, and it will take practice to get it smooth.

Forward II

Trying to explain the concept of "forward" is quite a challenge. Recently, a friend of mine competed in horse trials, and I thought that her summary of the ride over the cross country course gave a pretty good "feel" of what "forward" is all about.

Here is her write-up of her own ride:

'In showjumping I realised I wasn’t going forward enough and that in grade 4 you can get away with it because the jumps are quite small but in grade 3 you can’t do that. You have to ride forward or it will all go wrong. So I made sure I rode forward on the cross country!!

The second jump was HUGE so I just rode at it and it was fine. Then jump number 5 was interesting - an apex next to a tree and getting to it was tricky!! The line was terrible and the ground was boggy. So took a very very long way to get there then lost my stirrup so circled to get it back and then flew over it!!

Jump number 6 was a drop, one stride to back up the other side and then one stride to a log. I rode it terribly and way too slow and we fell through it but got there.

After that I had a good chat to myself and the next jump was quite big but I had jumped it before so I just rode at it and it was awesome and I decided I just had to let her go and trust her to jump them.

So I did jump 1-8 in 4 mins and 8-15 in 2.5 mins!!!!!! It was the most amazing feeling going at the jumps with that much speed and then flying over them!!'

The interesting thing to note here is the amount of detail she provides about the first few jumps. That's logical planning. Then, all she says about the last few jumps is that she trusted the horse and flew over them. That ... is "forward". Get it?

Forward I

When it comes to horse riding, I seem to have a problem with "forward". That is, I am not "forward" enough. Coaches see it when my horse does a little pigroot. "You need more forward!", they scream at me. Great! Fantastic advice. Except that it usually ends there.

But what, exactly, is forward? How do I achieve forward? I mean, after all, I am a forward thinking kind of person. "Let's do this jump, then let's do the next jump". That's forward, isn't it? "Let's do this competition, then one in two weeks, then one in two weeks after that". That's forward, right?

Hmm ...

Let me backtrack a bit. Most coaches actually scream "your horse is not forward enough". Well that's plain old up the wrong alley. A horse's job is to "survive"; that means eat, seek shelter, run away from predators if required, and breed. All the horses I have ever met have plenty of "forward" when it comes to their survival.

When it comes to being ridden, the forwardness of a horse is simply a product of their rider. So it is actually me that's not "forward" enough. The problem with us humans, is that we've become too logical. And we think that logical planning is equivalent to "forward".

I seem to think that "let's do this jump, then let's do the next jump" is "forward". Well it's not. Logical planning it may be, but it's not "forward".

Training with rewards

I come up to Mark's to have a lesson on Gally. Mark puts me on a 20m circle. 10 circles in walk. 10 circles in trot. 10 circles in canter. Change rein. Repeat the exercise. Then, halt, and park in the middle.

"Has your horse walked, trotted and cantered well?", Mark asks.

"Yes".

"So now you halt. This is his reward."

Then Mark goes on to have a laugh about something or other. As usual with Mark's lessons, there is something much greater going on, than he lets on. I don't know, maybe he does't even realise it. The halt is not just a reward for the horse. It's a reward for the rider too. It's time to relax, to reflect and to hang out with your horse.

In a minute or two the lesson resumes. We do turns on the forehand. Heaps of them. One step at a time first. Then 180 degrees at a time. In between each turn we halt. We relax. This is the reward for the horse. This is the reward for the rider.

The next stage of the lesson covers turns on the hindquarters. And again we halt in between each turn. The reward.

Finally, we put the turn on the forehand together with the turn on the hindquarters, and get a side pass to the left, and side pass to the right. Then, halt. Relax. Reward.

The "Let Go" philosophy

When Mark told me about his "tug, tug and let go" concept, I tried it out as soon as I possibly could on Crownie.

Wow. It was like riding a totally different horse. I thought I had "let go" after reading the "on the bit" chapter. Of course I had let go then. But, now I had let go even more. And my horse started gliding along, and seemed keen to come up to the bit.

Every time I would go "tug, tug and let go" I would not just let go with the bit, but also let go of the tension in my shoulders. It felt really really nice. And horse training became this really pleasant relaxing activity, that horse riding should be.

The other thing I discovered, is how hard it is to actually let go after just two tugs. Yes. After just two tugs, the horse doesn't necessarily come onto the bit. And the mind is screaming, and the shoulders tensing, that you should keep tugging until the horse comes onto the aids. But surprisingly enough, if you can just convince yourself to let go, the horse is much more likely to come onto the bit, than if you sit there tugging in frustration. Funny that.

This might all sound counter intuitive. So think of it from this perspective. The only reason you tug is because the horse is not travelling on the aids. So you tug to say "this will profit you not". After a couple of tugs any horse will come onto the aids, even if for just a split second. You may not be able to feel or see that response. But by letting go, you give the horse the benefit of the doubt that the response was there, and you are saying "this will profit you". You are rewarding the horse for the smallest "try".

The other thing that happens, is by doing a tug on one side, then on the other, you are fiddling around with the bit. And why doesn't your horse come onto the bit by itself in the first place? Think about it. It's scared. Your horse is scared of the bit, and what it can do to him, the discomfort, the pain. By doing a tug, you move the bit, but it's for such a short period of time, that the horse doesn't really have time to get worried about it. The next time the bit moves it's "old hat". And when things become "old hat" the horse is no longer worried about them.

Tug, tug, and let go

About 10 days ago I had my first lesson on Gally with Mark. It was just after I had read the "on the bit" chapter. Having read that chapter, I then rode Crownie, driving her up to the bit.

When I met up with Mark, I was brutally honest that I may well have been somewhat heavy handed with my horses. Mark is great in the sense that he listens to what you say, then he converts it into his own understanding of horses, and goes from there.

When I hopped on Gally, Mark immediately asked me to tug on the left rein, tug on the right rein and let go. The horse's head went down, and he relaxed. I relaxed. And here is the key. Tug once, tug a second time, then let go. Let go of the bit, let go of all tension, let go of your breath. The minute you start riding like this, you will feel riding take on another dimension.

Of course, the minute you have let go, you may need to start the next "tug, tug and let go" sequence. But the key is to let go after two tugs. I highly recommend trying this exercise, if only just for size. And if you're out competing, and are feeling nervous, this exercise can work wonders in settling your nerves.

Up to the bit

Most riders, once they have mastered walk, trot and canter, get curious about how to get the horse to go "on the bit".

I am currently reading Tom Roberts' other book, "Horse control and the rider", and his chapter on "on the bit" fascinates me. I think I read it twice to really get the concept, and I definitely have never had it properly explained to me in a lesson. The one person who came pretty close was Greg Smith, my showjumping instructor.

Anyway. The conept is this. The bit is like a bar hanging in space. And the horse has to be ridden up to this bar. Further more, the horse has to take the bar in its mouth, and ride up to it just that little bit closer, and hold it in space. In the right space.

Your hands just need to hold the bar in space. That's it, they do nothing more.

And your seat and leg have to ride the horse up to that bar. And quite often you may need to use a bit of sideways movement to get there.

Ah! it's so simple ... once it's explained the right way.

Tuck your seat in

A while ago I came up with the concept of tucking your seat in, and I have stuck to this dilligently in 3 point position. And it has improved my riding.

Today I take Crownie for a ride in the state forest. It's an amazing morning (see the photos below), and I am glad to be wearing my winter coat. On the way back we gallop up a track. I really let Crownie take it away, and since she's had extra feed yesterday, she pulls out some speed.

As I am sitting there in two point, feeling the powerful galloping strides, holding my legs still, I think "and what is my seat doing?"

"OMG!!! It's somewhere up in the air, dangling around like a two bun target! Tuck your seat in!", I scream at myself.

I tuck my seat in. Wow! If I have ever had any problems in cross country, or in jumping, this is where they were. My seat dangling uncontrollably out behind me, unbalancing me on take-off and landing.