I had a lesson with John today. For a change, I was actually well organised and well warmed up by the time of the lesson, so we could get straight on. He watched us walk and trot on both reins and then do a walk to canter transition on each rein. He didn't actually say very much, which is usually quite a good sign! He seemed pretty impressed with how she's improved, particularly on the right rein.
He did notice that in our canter transitions, she tends to fall to the inside, sort of jumping inwards into canter, rather than pushing out into the outside rein. To work on this, he got me to work in trot and come down the three-quarter line, leg-yielding towards the track. When I got to about half way between the 3/4 line and the track, I had to ask for canter, while still leg-yielding to the wall. It didn't sound that hard - I've often leg yielded in trot to the wall and then cantered on the track - how hard could it be? Very hard! I was so mal-coordinated! It's one thing being able to use the wall to help, but asking for canter while still leg-yielding was really really difficult! I also realised that it is probably me that makes her throw her weight to the inside in the transitions, as when I was asking for them in the leg-yield, that was exactly what I was doing with my body - it was more exaggerated as she was moving sideways. When I actually sat up and asked for the canter transition up from my inside seatbone and held it in the outside rein, it was lovely!
What I then found difficult, particularly on the right rein, was maintaining the sideways movement in the canter. The first step was nice, then she would fall right again. It took all my powers of coordination to really keep my inside leg on to keep her travelling sideways. He definitely knows how to get me using my little brain. However, the really good bit was the trot after I had done this exercise. Because I had actually used my inside leg and my outside rein properly through the movement, I had this lovely, powerful, swinging trot and I just wanted to hang on to it for dear life!!
Then the even better bit was what John said at the end. For quite a while, my goal has been to start taking Echo to some dressage shows in the Spring. Today, at the end of my lesson, John said that we are ready to do our first test now. I was so chuffed - having got to know him a little over the last year of having lessons with him, I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't say that lightly. It feels like when we get it right, we can really get it right and it's so much fun! I came out of the lesson beaming. I don't yet have a show to go to - in fact, there's an awful lot of preparation work to do first, as she hasn't ever been ridden away from home. However - that little comment just gave me the confidence and boost to the self-esteem that I really needed. I can't wait!!!
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Blast from the past
The lady that I bought Echo from came to see her earlier this week. I have difficulty explaining who she is, as she didn't exactly breed her - at least, not on purpose! She bought her horse, Pebble, a lovely coloured cob-type mare, then found out several months later that she was in foal. Echo was born a month or so later and I bought her as a yearling. The last time she had seen Echo, it was as a rather scared little yearling climbing anxiously onto a trailer. She has of course seen photos and been kept up to date with our progress, but I knew that it would be very different for her to actually see her in person.
It was quite emotional actually - she seemed very happy with how Echo has turned out and was struck by how similar she is to her mother. Her mother has more white on her face, but other than that, their heads are almost identical. Pebble is a little lighter in her colour and very slightly heavier in her build, but the likeness is uncanny - part of the reason why she named her Echo in the first place, I think!
I rode her for a little while at first; the indoor was being used, so I had to go in the woodchip arena, which is not very easy to ride in, being on a slope. She had gone so beautifully the day before, but then seemed to have forgotten it all again when I got on that day. It's so annoying when that happens! She went quite nicely - she wasn't bending as well to the right as she has been the last couple of times, and she was a little sharp as she always is in that arena, but she didn't put a foot wrong really (I'm just a perfectionist!!).
Sue then rode her, which was so lovely to see - I genuinely don't think I've ever seen someone so thrilled to be on a horse before! Echo went really nicely and I was extra proud of her, as she has only ever had one other person sit on her once before. She dealt with it very well and trotted around beautifully - very clever pony.
I'm having a lesson with John on Sunday, so I will report back soon! I might have a little jump tomorrow - I haven't jumped since my last lesson and I feel like a change - it's so nice to be able to mix things up like this now!
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Ouch!
I worked myself super hard today. And Echo, come to think of it! It was such a beautiful day and I really wanted to go for a hack, but there was no one around to hack out with, so I went in the indoor school. I decided to mostly focus on myself for a change, making sure that my position was right and that I was sitting straight. I get slack with these things, having lessons so infrequently.
I even rode around with my whip behind my back, threaded through my elbows, like the picture of Pippa Funnell on her book about flatwork! It was good actually - I had Echo on the right rein, to try to get maximum benefit for her out of the exercises too. After warming her up, I took my stirrups away and rode the rest of the session without them - It really makes me think about the flexibility in my hips abd lower back, riding without stirrups - it's so good for you!! She felt amazing: she was bending really well to the right, although I was having to really work with my legs and my seat to hold that bend. My right leg tends to come forward so that when I ride her to the right, she then hangs on my right side, as it is so stiff. As soon as I started to loosen my right hip, she found it much easier to bend to the right.
I then practised some walk to canter transitions - also on the right rein. We kept getting the wrong lead, but by really concentrating on my position and how much leg I was using and in what places, I was able to get some good ones in the end. Not having stirrups meant that I was able to get her really 'through' in the canter, and she felt like her whole neck came up by about 6 inches. When I get it right, she feels like she has so much potential - I think I should try to get it right a little more often!
We were both exhausted at the end, so rather than walk her in the school, I thought I'd go for a little walk out on the heath. It was the first time I'd been out since getting scared a couple of weeks ago, so I'm really glad I did it. Because I had been riding her so strongly forward from my leg in the school, I continued to use my legs a lot out in the open too, so she was a lot more relaxed. I've found that this is the case recently; I need to ride her in the school for a bit, in order for me to really ride her. When we go straight out on a hack, I find that I tend to sit there like a lemon, which means that she takes charge more and ignores me - as you'd expect - with a lemon for a rider!
Got back to the yard and went to get off and realised that I might have overdone the whole sitting trot with no stirrups thing - my back feels like I've been doing back flips. It's a good feeling though, when you ache after something has gone well - rubbish when you ache and haven't even achieved anything!
I even rode around with my whip behind my back, threaded through my elbows, like the picture of Pippa Funnell on her book about flatwork! It was good actually - I had Echo on the right rein, to try to get maximum benefit for her out of the exercises too. After warming her up, I took my stirrups away and rode the rest of the session without them - It really makes me think about the flexibility in my hips abd lower back, riding without stirrups - it's so good for you!! She felt amazing: she was bending really well to the right, although I was having to really work with my legs and my seat to hold that bend. My right leg tends to come forward so that when I ride her to the right, she then hangs on my right side, as it is so stiff. As soon as I started to loosen my right hip, she found it much easier to bend to the right.
I then practised some walk to canter transitions - also on the right rein. We kept getting the wrong lead, but by really concentrating on my position and how much leg I was using and in what places, I was able to get some good ones in the end. Not having stirrups meant that I was able to get her really 'through' in the canter, and she felt like her whole neck came up by about 6 inches. When I get it right, she feels like she has so much potential - I think I should try to get it right a little more often!
We were both exhausted at the end, so rather than walk her in the school, I thought I'd go for a little walk out on the heath. It was the first time I'd been out since getting scared a couple of weeks ago, so I'm really glad I did it. Because I had been riding her so strongly forward from my leg in the school, I continued to use my legs a lot out in the open too, so she was a lot more relaxed. I've found that this is the case recently; I need to ride her in the school for a bit, in order for me to really ride her. When we go straight out on a hack, I find that I tend to sit there like a lemon, which means that she takes charge more and ignores me - as you'd expect - with a lemon for a rider!
Got back to the yard and went to get off and realised that I might have overdone the whole sitting trot with no stirrups thing - my back feels like I've been doing back flips. It's a good feeling though, when you ache after something has gone well - rubbish when you ache and haven't even achieved anything!
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Fear
I was never a particularly fearful child. I loved exciting rides at the fair, I loved my dad driving fast, the feeling of nearly being out of control was exhilarating and liberating. When I got into riding, I loved to go fast. In fact, the memory that prevails of my riding experience is the time that I went on a beach ride with my riding school. It was an evening ride and there seemed to be loads of us. We travelled down to Littlehampton to ride along the beach and my mount was to be a little dark bay mare called Cadbury, who I had never even sat on. It didn't bother me; I have never forgotten the wild, intense joy that felt as if my chest would burst, as I thundered across the open sand. There was no fear of not stopping - the ponies would tire long before the end of the beach and I can honestly say, no feeling has ever come close to rivalling that adrenaline rush.
Summer days were spent working endlessly at a local riding school, loving the ponies as if they were my own, riding bareback to the field, boasting of heroic acts of horsemanship required to stay on the 'ginormous' buck that a particular pony had put in; I used to jump without stirrups, without reins, holding a cup of water in each hand and with my eyes shut; I would vault on a pony while it was cantering and leap from my mount in order to win a race of some sort. I have nothing but fond memories from this time.
I can tell you the exact day that this changed. I had never had a pony of my own and had instead relied on free rides provided in return for long hours as a helper at a local riding school. However, when I was about fourteen, my parents had a little more money; they were certainly not rich, but had a little more than when I was a small child. To this day, I don't know how I managed it, but I eventually persuaded my dad that he should buy me a horse and that I had found a horse that I liked. I think by actually saying HERE is a horse I want to buy rather than the hypothetical 'can I have a horse?' was what worked. Essentially, I put him on the spot. I tried this horse out a few times and was adamant that I wanted her. Within a few weeks, she was mine.
I don't think I could have picked a more unsuitable partner if I had tried. I was a confident rider, but I rode Fell ponies and Section Ds, not six year old flighty thoroughbreds. I should have bought myself a sturdy pony with a leg in each corner, but I ended up with a mare with serious and dangerous psychological problems. I bought her from a dealer that my friend worked for, thinking that it would be OK, because I sort of knew him. It wasn't. The first time I rode my beloved new horse, she planted herself solidly in the arena and refused to move. It was the strangest experience - she actually didn't seem able to move. Here I was, proudly mounted on my brand new horse, the envy of all the helpers at the yard, and she was planted - rooted to the spot. We tried everything - I coaxed, I kicked, I got someone to lead her, I got her fieldmate out to lead her in front, but nothing worked. She wasn't going anywhere. Getting upset by this point, I kicked again and smacked her a few times. The rest is a bit of a blur. I remember her running backwards, I sort of remember her rearing and I remember hitting the floor, with my horse falling on top of me.
I won't go into the rest of the details, as the 'Hattie experience' could fill a whole post of its own, but it was on that day that I realised that, no matter how good a rider you are, no matter how well you can stay on to 'ginormous' bucks, the horse can always win. The horse is always stronger and if he really wants to, he will get you off. This was a devastating revelation; my first moment of understanding that I was not invincible and that riding was a dangerous game. The next time I rode her, with the dealer there who had sold her to me, sealed my fears. I was so tense that I must have clamped up the moment I got on. Hattie proceeded to gallop flat out around the school, feeling very much as though she were going to jump the fence at the end and take off down the road. I had no idea what this crazy animal would do and that has ingrained in me a deep-rooted feeling that I can never know what these animals will do.
When I worked for David for two years, you would think that riding every day as my job would cure me of my fears; in fact, I think it ingrained them even deeper. I was desperate to be fearless, but every time something scary happened, I felt this wash of terror and it was totally irrational. When I became a better rider, I started to get offered the ride on some of David's better horses, but I couldn't do it. I rode one of them once - one that David has since competed to advanced level. It would have been a fantastic opportunity, but I was utterly rigid; the moment I got on him and couldn't do anything. My body went into meltdown and I was terrified. I couldn't even have told you what I was scared of happening. For me, my fear is not that easy to pinpoint - it's more of an instinct that I can't control.
David found it funny. I was labelled a 'wimp' and he just let me get on with it. His wife, Serena, took a slightly more philosophical approach and told me not to be ashamed of it, and that I should just do what I'm comfortable with. If I don't like riding hot horses, then I shouldn't ride hot horses - simple as that. But there was a part of me that still couldn't help feeling embarrassed by my inability to conquer my nerves.
When I bought Echo, I had really mixed feelings. I had been given a coloured cob to train by David and Serena, and we had done very well. When I am confident, I am capable of riding reasonably effectively. I bought Echo because I had loved this cob so much and thought that she was the type of horse I could train myself. Interestingly, I had never been too worried about backing the young horses at David's. This could be because I only ever had to do the initial work - the backing and first riding. There was very little expected of me, other than to do what I was told. I also found that horses, when started correctly, are usually very obliging in the first few rides. If they are going to act up, it is usually when they have worked out what is going on and I rarely kept the horse for that long.
When it came to teaching Echo to be lunged at David's, I was really nervous. She was my responsibility. The future of my riding career rested on what I taught her then and that thought terrified me. David saw me with her on the first day there and said, 'You'll never ride that horse.' This had a strange effect on me: on the one hand, I was crushed - perhaps he was right... But on the other, I was incensed. I WOULD prove him wrong - no matter what!
Again, the first few times riding Echo I was fine - I knew the processes, I had someone helping me and I felt safe. What terrified me was the next stage - the riding free - the combating of any problems I was faced with. Was I up to it? What would happen if I mucked it up? This was my horse - I would have to deal with it. None of these were gripping fears, but were certainly concerns at the back of my mind.
So this post is about fear. About my fear that engulfs me at certain moments when I am on a horse. Ever since Hattie I have been nervous of hacking; nothing specifically happened with her out hacking, but it goes back to that feeling that ultimately, no person can ever be totally in control of a horse. It all seems more real and worrying when out in the open countryside. I am a self-confessed control freak and I don't always know what my horse will do.
Last week, I took Echo out for a wander around the cross country course to cool down after a particularly intense schooling session. She had not gone well and I was feeling angry - not at her, but at myself. We got into the woods at the end of the main route in and Echo was striding out nicely. Starting to relax, I began to enjoy myself and forget the irritation of the schooling. We had just turned a corner, when I felt Echo go rigid and shoot forwards from under me. I took a stronger contact instinctively, and tensed up myself. I turned round to see what it was and realised that a big German Shepherd (belonging to the yard owner) was wandering around in the trees. I relaxed; of course this would scare her. However, she didn't relax - she got even more tense, feeling like a coiled spring beneath me. I turned her, so that she could look and see the dog, but she obviously couldn't - she could only hear him rustling.
It's at moments like these that I realise that my horse doesn't totally trust me. All those lovely idealistic perfect horsemanship books say that the horse turns to you to be the leader at these moments, but nothing I could do would get through to her. When I turned her back to the track to walk on, she had wound herself up so tightly that she felt as if she was going to explode. This is when the wall comes down. I freeze - I don't know what I'm scared of - it's probably a combination of things, but my vision goes blurry and my heart races. I become utterly focused on what the rigid quivering horse underneath me is thinking and I can't make myself ride through it. So I jumped off.
The moment my feet touched the floor, I was deeply ashamed of myself and thoroughly angry and my complete ineptitude. Furious, I tried to lead her forward, but she was now even more wound up than before. Believing that I had been wrong to admit defeat, I went about trying to mount again, but she was now spinning round in circles, probably trying to get away from this crazy woman clinging to her side! I had just got into the saddle, when I realised that in front of us was a big group of people cross-country schooling, going fast up a hill and over a jump. By this point I couldn't cope. Anticipating her reaction, I jumped off again and led her back the way we had come. She pranced at my side like a stallion (although I couldn't help but admire the elevation in her hock action!!) and I raged silently to myself. Why was I so stupid? Normal people wouldn't have got scared. I am such an idiot.
By the time I got back on, halfway back to the yard, I was in despair. Perhaps I didn't deserve a horse like Echo if I couldn't even stay on her when I got tense. How will I ever take her to a show if I can't ride the moment she gets upset? Theses were the thoughts running through my head as I returned to her stable.
It was interesting, then, to listen to John talking to one of his students about fear at the weekend. He claims that he is not naturally the bravest rider, though he has competed in major 4* events. I asked him how he managed it and he said by working at it. He said something that I have been thinking about ever since: a brave rider is not one that doesn't see the danger. I can't remember the exact wording of the second half of the sentence, but it was something along the lines of 'it is somebody that works to get around that danger'. He said that it isn't wrong to be scared. He also said that I shouldn't be angry with myself if I have to get off - if that is what I need to do in that situation.
I really don't know. I look back with such fondness at the time when I was a gutsy kid, up for anything, but when this fear hits me, it is as if a cloud has descended and I lose control of my limbs and my breathing. It doesn't happen often, but fear is a funny thing and I wonder whether there really is any way of combating it, or whether I will be haunted by it for life.
Summer days were spent working endlessly at a local riding school, loving the ponies as if they were my own, riding bareback to the field, boasting of heroic acts of horsemanship required to stay on the 'ginormous' buck that a particular pony had put in; I used to jump without stirrups, without reins, holding a cup of water in each hand and with my eyes shut; I would vault on a pony while it was cantering and leap from my mount in order to win a race of some sort. I have nothing but fond memories from this time.
I can tell you the exact day that this changed. I had never had a pony of my own and had instead relied on free rides provided in return for long hours as a helper at a local riding school. However, when I was about fourteen, my parents had a little more money; they were certainly not rich, but had a little more than when I was a small child. To this day, I don't know how I managed it, but I eventually persuaded my dad that he should buy me a horse and that I had found a horse that I liked. I think by actually saying HERE is a horse I want to buy rather than the hypothetical 'can I have a horse?' was what worked. Essentially, I put him on the spot. I tried this horse out a few times and was adamant that I wanted her. Within a few weeks, she was mine.
I don't think I could have picked a more unsuitable partner if I had tried. I was a confident rider, but I rode Fell ponies and Section Ds, not six year old flighty thoroughbreds. I should have bought myself a sturdy pony with a leg in each corner, but I ended up with a mare with serious and dangerous psychological problems. I bought her from a dealer that my friend worked for, thinking that it would be OK, because I sort of knew him. It wasn't. The first time I rode my beloved new horse, she planted herself solidly in the arena and refused to move. It was the strangest experience - she actually didn't seem able to move. Here I was, proudly mounted on my brand new horse, the envy of all the helpers at the yard, and she was planted - rooted to the spot. We tried everything - I coaxed, I kicked, I got someone to lead her, I got her fieldmate out to lead her in front, but nothing worked. She wasn't going anywhere. Getting upset by this point, I kicked again and smacked her a few times. The rest is a bit of a blur. I remember her running backwards, I sort of remember her rearing and I remember hitting the floor, with my horse falling on top of me.
I won't go into the rest of the details, as the 'Hattie experience' could fill a whole post of its own, but it was on that day that I realised that, no matter how good a rider you are, no matter how well you can stay on to 'ginormous' bucks, the horse can always win. The horse is always stronger and if he really wants to, he will get you off. This was a devastating revelation; my first moment of understanding that I was not invincible and that riding was a dangerous game. The next time I rode her, with the dealer there who had sold her to me, sealed my fears. I was so tense that I must have clamped up the moment I got on. Hattie proceeded to gallop flat out around the school, feeling very much as though she were going to jump the fence at the end and take off down the road. I had no idea what this crazy animal would do and that has ingrained in me a deep-rooted feeling that I can never know what these animals will do.
When I worked for David for two years, you would think that riding every day as my job would cure me of my fears; in fact, I think it ingrained them even deeper. I was desperate to be fearless, but every time something scary happened, I felt this wash of terror and it was totally irrational. When I became a better rider, I started to get offered the ride on some of David's better horses, but I couldn't do it. I rode one of them once - one that David has since competed to advanced level. It would have been a fantastic opportunity, but I was utterly rigid; the moment I got on him and couldn't do anything. My body went into meltdown and I was terrified. I couldn't even have told you what I was scared of happening. For me, my fear is not that easy to pinpoint - it's more of an instinct that I can't control.
David found it funny. I was labelled a 'wimp' and he just let me get on with it. His wife, Serena, took a slightly more philosophical approach and told me not to be ashamed of it, and that I should just do what I'm comfortable with. If I don't like riding hot horses, then I shouldn't ride hot horses - simple as that. But there was a part of me that still couldn't help feeling embarrassed by my inability to conquer my nerves.
When I bought Echo, I had really mixed feelings. I had been given a coloured cob to train by David and Serena, and we had done very well. When I am confident, I am capable of riding reasonably effectively. I bought Echo because I had loved this cob so much and thought that she was the type of horse I could train myself. Interestingly, I had never been too worried about backing the young horses at David's. This could be because I only ever had to do the initial work - the backing and first riding. There was very little expected of me, other than to do what I was told. I also found that horses, when started correctly, are usually very obliging in the first few rides. If they are going to act up, it is usually when they have worked out what is going on and I rarely kept the horse for that long.
When it came to teaching Echo to be lunged at David's, I was really nervous. She was my responsibility. The future of my riding career rested on what I taught her then and that thought terrified me. David saw me with her on the first day there and said, 'You'll never ride that horse.' This had a strange effect on me: on the one hand, I was crushed - perhaps he was right... But on the other, I was incensed. I WOULD prove him wrong - no matter what!
Again, the first few times riding Echo I was fine - I knew the processes, I had someone helping me and I felt safe. What terrified me was the next stage - the riding free - the combating of any problems I was faced with. Was I up to it? What would happen if I mucked it up? This was my horse - I would have to deal with it. None of these were gripping fears, but were certainly concerns at the back of my mind.
So this post is about fear. About my fear that engulfs me at certain moments when I am on a horse. Ever since Hattie I have been nervous of hacking; nothing specifically happened with her out hacking, but it goes back to that feeling that ultimately, no person can ever be totally in control of a horse. It all seems more real and worrying when out in the open countryside. I am a self-confessed control freak and I don't always know what my horse will do.
Last week, I took Echo out for a wander around the cross country course to cool down after a particularly intense schooling session. She had not gone well and I was feeling angry - not at her, but at myself. We got into the woods at the end of the main route in and Echo was striding out nicely. Starting to relax, I began to enjoy myself and forget the irritation of the schooling. We had just turned a corner, when I felt Echo go rigid and shoot forwards from under me. I took a stronger contact instinctively, and tensed up myself. I turned round to see what it was and realised that a big German Shepherd (belonging to the yard owner) was wandering around in the trees. I relaxed; of course this would scare her. However, she didn't relax - she got even more tense, feeling like a coiled spring beneath me. I turned her, so that she could look and see the dog, but she obviously couldn't - she could only hear him rustling.
It's at moments like these that I realise that my horse doesn't totally trust me. All those lovely idealistic perfect horsemanship books say that the horse turns to you to be the leader at these moments, but nothing I could do would get through to her. When I turned her back to the track to walk on, she had wound herself up so tightly that she felt as if she was going to explode. This is when the wall comes down. I freeze - I don't know what I'm scared of - it's probably a combination of things, but my vision goes blurry and my heart races. I become utterly focused on what the rigid quivering horse underneath me is thinking and I can't make myself ride through it. So I jumped off.
The moment my feet touched the floor, I was deeply ashamed of myself and thoroughly angry and my complete ineptitude. Furious, I tried to lead her forward, but she was now even more wound up than before. Believing that I had been wrong to admit defeat, I went about trying to mount again, but she was now spinning round in circles, probably trying to get away from this crazy woman clinging to her side! I had just got into the saddle, when I realised that in front of us was a big group of people cross-country schooling, going fast up a hill and over a jump. By this point I couldn't cope. Anticipating her reaction, I jumped off again and led her back the way we had come. She pranced at my side like a stallion (although I couldn't help but admire the elevation in her hock action!!) and I raged silently to myself. Why was I so stupid? Normal people wouldn't have got scared. I am such an idiot.
By the time I got back on, halfway back to the yard, I was in despair. Perhaps I didn't deserve a horse like Echo if I couldn't even stay on her when I got tense. How will I ever take her to a show if I can't ride the moment she gets upset? Theses were the thoughts running through my head as I returned to her stable.
It was interesting, then, to listen to John talking to one of his students about fear at the weekend. He claims that he is not naturally the bravest rider, though he has competed in major 4* events. I asked him how he managed it and he said by working at it. He said something that I have been thinking about ever since: a brave rider is not one that doesn't see the danger. I can't remember the exact wording of the second half of the sentence, but it was something along the lines of 'it is somebody that works to get around that danger'. He said that it isn't wrong to be scared. He also said that I shouldn't be angry with myself if I have to get off - if that is what I need to do in that situation.
I really don't know. I look back with such fondness at the time when I was a gutsy kid, up for anything, but when this fear hits me, it is as if a cloud has descended and I lose control of my limbs and my breathing. It doesn't happen often, but fear is a funny thing and I wonder whether there really is any way of combating it, or whether I will be haunted by it for life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)