No Pictures, No Ribbons, No Nothing — But a Really Good Round

We didn’t jump on Tuesday, and we didn’t jump on Saturday, and I woke up on Sunday wondering, Do I remember how to jump?

I ride often, but I haven’t been riding for very long, and so stuff like that gets into my head. In the beginning, even up until my second year, time taken off was a source of anxiety upon return because, you know, maybe I forgot everything in a week?

I didn’t have enough experience to draw upon; showing up on Sunday, especially when I felt like I wasn’t going to remember what to do, is helping build up my reference library.

Things to Do

So, I can’t post video here, but I have it up on FB, and — and I put it on my phone, too…

I’ve got a list:
> Toes in
> Contact!
> Sit back
> Elbows in, too
> Look up!

I’m sure there’s more, but I swear, if I look at that thing one more time, I will never get anything else done!

I did a circle in the beginning, before I approached the first fence, and when I first watched the video I was like Sue, what are you doing? I mean, he was on the correct lead! But then I saw that I had picked up the contact, which was good, because the reins had been flappin’ like a washing line. Okay, I get that.

>Hands down a bit, as well, I think.

Oh, geez, okay, hang on, going to — yeah, wow, get those toes in. And the weight in the outside stirrup. Okay.

The thing is! I am now at the stage where I can actually think about things. Before, it was all about just getting over the fence, now I can finesse my position, the approach, everything. All the… grown up stuff. I’m not a pony girl anymore…

Speaking of approaches: I went alllll the way into the K corner on the way to H, I am so delighted with that.

Fan-feckin’-tastic.

3,4 … [9, 10, 8, 7] [?]

I woke up and thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to just lie here and daydream about going double clear over the 80s on Connell?

This is the thing that makes people not do what they say they’re going to do: it is nice to just lounge around and make up the story, the perfect story, about the thing you want to do, because it always works out, er, perfectly. As a writer, I find this to be the hardest part about getting anything of length produced. I have these really excellent scenes, right, bits and pieces that do have a sequence and a narrative drive, but it’s the linking bits, the other bits and pieces that threaten to make the thing never happen, because, well, they are the nuts and bolts.

You gotta be handy with the nuts and bolts, or the whole thing collapses.

I got up anyway, and commenced conjuring up positive images in my mind. On Tuesday, Connell and I jumped really, really well, and on Saturday, whilst the fences were teeny, we had to jump a grid and then a twenty metre circle over to jump at X, and then another circle to jump at M, and we managed it better every time we did it, so I was feeling pretty good.

Also: nervous. I mean, 80s*. If I hadn’t gotten Con over more than four fences without incident in the past, well, that had demon had been exorcised — but only over 70s.

But I could do it. I was pretty sure. Yeah. Okay.

Every Little Bit Helps…

Look at this!

I might ask to borrow this for Sunday, when I jump the 80s on Con.

I am going to jump the 80s on Con. I have decided. Mostly.

I would like some boots to match!

At This Rate, I Will Need to Buy a Car*

*Because horse people hang their rosettes from their rear-view mirrors.

MY SECOND ROSETTE

We found out on Saturday that there was going to be more showjumping starting on Sunday. Not a league, we didn’t think, it was only for a month, but ah, sure, why not go along and have another go?

I thought, I’ll jump the 70s with Connell, and the 80s with Delilah. I said this at least three times between finding out there was jumping and the drive to the bus — or maybe only once, out loud. I did say it at least once, and A-M said I’d keep wondering what to do until I got up there.

Sunday morning, and I feel pretty okay. I can see myself going clear. I imagine going clear twice, on two different horses, and I laugh out loud.

When we get to the yard, I discover that you don’t just pay your €12 and jump the livelong day — it’s €12 per round, which is grand, except I don’t have the other €12 for the 80s, and now — now what? Do I do the 70s on Connell, who I have never gotten over more than four fences without incident? Do I just do the 80s on Delilah? I kind of thought I’d like to give Con a go, because since I got my first rosette, the pressure is off, and now I can go ahead and take a risk, I can risk not going clear, because I have gone clear, and — I don’t know, it seems like any thing that happens now is perfectly fine, it’s experience, and I am happy to push myself.

But jumping Delilah over the 80s is a risk, too, considering that I don’t even ride her consistently anymore —

I look up, and one of the grooms is heading out of the barn. There he is, followed by reins in his hand, followed by Connell.

I stand there, like that scene in Lawrence of Arabia, like, I’m watching this thing from the distance coming closer and closer, and I’m transfixed, I can’t move, and I’m still thinking, Will I do the 80s with Delilah or will I do the 70s with Connell…

The groom hands me the reins. I guess I am doing the 70s with Connell. I laugh. I give A-M the money to pay for my round, it’s all crushed up in my pocket, like a child’s lunch money. I go in, mount. I think that I — that we — can do this.

Four or five pony girls come in, and we all start to warm up. I start bossing them around, or depending on your point-of-view, teaching them proper pre-showjumping behaviour, telling them to call out ‘Jumping!’ when they are heading for the practice fence. They all do this, and then I say, ‘Let’s change rein,’ and we do. Connell is loose and into it, and I loosen up and get into it, cantering him over the crosspoles. He hesitates just before he goes over one approach on the right rein, and I am like, No way, dude, we can do this — and we do, and then I go again, right away, and we’ve both got more energy.

We all go down to have a look at the course. I see it and I laugh, don’t even ask me what the order is, I can’t remember, but I do know that I have never jumped a course in which there are four fences at the corners, F/K/H/M, angled in to X. Well, that’ll be interesting, I think, which is a positive adjustment of my first thought, which was: Crap.

The pony girls and I walk the course on horseback, and we all convene in the middle to talk each other through it. They are all numbered, most of them twice, because there are only six fences but there will be eight jumps for the first round, and then six more for if you go clear. Number 4 is a double, one stride, and that’s going to be the one that you do, and think you’ve done 4 and 5, and where’s 6, and then you’ve gotten lost and it’s all gone pear-shaped.

Paul comes into the arena, and says we’re going to begin, and we all head for the gate, and he asks, ‘Who’s going to go first?’ There’s a heartbeat  — I wait for one for the kids to say Me! and I realise, Crap, I’m the grown up, I have to go first. I can’t make one these little girls go first! Dammit. I say I’ll go, and I trot Connell into a canter.

I realise that I’m on the wrong rein to take the first fence at X. Yeah, okay, no big deal, I change rein and begin.

And the thing happens again, I don’t remember much, although I do remember thinking Crap, where is 4 — oh, there, okay, and I shouted ‘Am I clear?’ as I went over 7, and then did 8, and I think I didn’t even stop, I went right into the second round, and then I remember thinking This is the last fence — and then I was double clear again!

Connell was good as gold, and I think it’s because when I am doing this showjumping thing, I am only doing my job — directing the horse, and controlling rhythm and pace — and letting him do his job, which is the actual jumping. I am not trying to read his mind. I am not worrying about what he’s doing. He was gorgeous, and I mostly got all the lead changes correct. It was like… it was just fun and perfect and the experience of it is like bottling endorphins. I am buzzing all over again as I write.

These rosettes aren’t the really fancy ones, like you get at Boswell or wherever, and they don’t have a thing, a loop by which one hangs it from the rear-view mirror, but if I did have a car, I would of course jury-rig it up — or else I do not deserve to be called by the surname of Conley.

I can only do next Sunday, as my last two Sundays in May are booked, but I think — I think I will do the 80s on Connell? Because I think we can do it. Yeah. Okay. Well, that’s the plan for now…

It Must Be True

I don’t know what we were talking about — I mean, we were talking about horses, but I’m not sure how we got to talking about names. You know, about what the show name, or certificate name, or however you call it, what that name is, which is normally quite different from the barn name, or yard name [whatever that is called] of the horse. I think we had starting talking about one thing, and then about another, and somehow that lead us to talking about good names for horses.

This is the way that horsey conversations go. You say one thing, and then you rethink it, and talk about the converse, and then you rethink that, and you basically just talk all the way around the topic, coming back to the beginning, like a twenty-metre circle, and then you change the conversational rein again, just because, well. You do have to make sure you’ve covered every contingency.

I suppose we all think up names for horses — well, ‘we’, you know who I mean — and anyway, I think I was saying my usual thing about not naming a horse so that it embodies the name, like, ahem, ‘Rebel’ for instance… And we agreed on that, and thought about nice names for horses, and blah, blah, blah, and AM said, ‘… or you could call it Daisy.’ And I shrieked, ‘Daisy is the name of my dream horse!‘

So it must be true, that there is a horse named Daisy somewhere out there for me. Although: a mare? Really? For my first horse? Eh, not so sure about that. Unless she was mature, like. But not too mature. Not so old that we’d only get a couple of years together. I mean, my ideal is like 7 or 8. Or 9 years old. But 10 or 11 would be okay, too. Although, I was hanging around the yard — I know right, what are the odds?— and this lady was stabling her horse there for the horse show, and she said her mare was like 23 or something and still jumping, still going strong. So I guess it’s down to bloodlines? I don’t know anything about that, I mean, seriously. Also, ‘my’ Daisy is a Palomino, but I don’t think they get big enough? I’d like a big-ish horse. Not massive, like Tango — but if the horse was big like that and amenable, that would probably be okay. And I don’t know, actually I do think a gelding might be better, for a first horse, but I’d never call the poor guy after a flower. But again, it wouldn’t be anything too macho, or he’d be completely unmanageable. I’d call a gelding Will maybe, short for ‘Willing’, or Abe, short for Reliable. Which isn’t really a great nickname, now that I think about it. Oh, I do like the name Daisy, though, I don’t know why, so maybe a mare wouldn’t be terrible, I mean, after all, I won my rosette on Delilah…

The First Time I Showjumped…

… I was also on Delilah, and I know I was conscious of this experience going up last Sunday — only the second time I’ve showjumped a whole entire course in front of people! But here’s why I was so worried about remembering where fence no. 5 was.

Four years later… sure, it doesn’t seem like that much time has passed. Huh. How ’bout that?

My First Rosette

MY FIRST ROSETTE!

So. The showjumping league has been going on for ages, and yesterday was the last one until summer. I talked myself out of it the first week, and after that, there wasn’t even a voice in my head to ignore. I was doing okay on Connell, but every fence felt like a 50/50 proposition, and I just wasn’t feeling sufficiently confident.

On Saturday, one of my lesson mates basically talked me into going, and since AM was going as well, I figured, Ah, sure, feck it.

And then I was unexpectedly out Saturday night, home at 12ish, how’d that happen? and when I woke up, I thought, Ah, no, sure, I’ll sleep in and forget it… but then somehow, I suddenly found myself up, and washing my face, and having coffee, and checking the bus times, and walking out the door.

Weird, how that happens. How the mind goes lalalalalala and the body decides to ignore it.

At some stage on the bus, it occurred to me that just because I’ve been riding Connell, it didn’t mean I had to jump him. Hmmm. Since Rebel is no longer around {I can’t — I’ll write about that at some stage but not now, not here} I thought, Maybe I’ll take Delilah? I mean, she’s stiff and she’s getting up in years, but I watched her jump fences for a very indifferent rider recently and thought, Well, she’s bockity, but she’ll get me over the fences.

Connell or Delilah? Delilah or Connell? went my brain, getting me back for ignoring its chatter about having a lie-in instead of a showjump. I got into the car, barely said hello to AM. ‘I might take Delilah,’ I said, and pros and cons were weighed.

When I went to pay, Paul said, ‘And you’ll want Connell,’ and I said, ‘Can I have Delilah?’ and he said, ‘Either one!’ and so I went and got Delilah. Oooh, the warm up: I had forgotten just exactly how bockity she was, and it was a bit of a struggle to sit back in the canter. She refused one practice fence. Feck! I thought, and was thisclose to putting her back and getting Con… but I went at the fence again, we went over — okay. Off we went, me and D, to go jump a course of 70s.

I… I don’t really remember it? It was eight fences, and then if you went clear, you did the first six over again. Right. There was one at F, and then a related distance at X, then over to E, then back around to F for the line in to a double at X, then eeeeeeeeeeeeee H around to M, then the first fence became the 7th, and the 4th became the 8th.

I remember Delilah shaking her bum and trying to take off as we trotted large around the arena; I remember thinking Hmm, well, if she’s hot, she’ll be strong and get us over the fences, and then thinking, No, I want to control this, and sitting back and not letting her get out of hand; I remember being worried that I would forget which was the 5th fence; I remember thinking, Oh, God, I am bouncing around like a sack of potatoes and then sitting in more fully; I remember coming around the turn at H, heading for fence 6 and hearing another of my lesson pals call encouragement; I remember going over 6 and looking and thinking Oh, there’s 7! and feeling surprised by it.

When I cleared 8, I heard Paul call ‘Clear round!’ and I thought — I don’t think I thought? I don’t know, I just kept going, and went straight to 1; I remember coming around to 4 and feeling myself losing my left stirrup, and then putting more weight in the right stirrup and keeping the left; and I remember, as I came around again to 6, I thought Holy shit, I think— and I remember thinking as we sailed over it, thinking Ah! and then we landed and everyone cheered! and I felt like my whole body was my heart, beating and beating and laughing and full of pure, unadulterated joy.

I thought, Maybe I’ll do the 80s?, but I brought Delilah back up, and AM handed me her phone so I could video her round, and I commenced taking photos of me and my ribbon and texting them to myself. I remember, because I feel it now, the surge of absolute delight, the absolute and clear and incontrovertible sheer joy of having gone around clear. Of having been in the moment and only the moment, of only thinking as far as the next fence and of the… the ‘nowness’ of it, of one thing coming naturally after the next and doing just what was in front of me. Of urging Delilah on and forward and over and around: clear, clear, clear.

I’ve just remembered that I didn’t untack Delilah, oh shoot, but I was completely satisfied with my round of 70s and figured, Ah, I’ll do the 80s next time, and I forgot to go back, and oh, dammit, oh well.

I’ll never forgot whispering to AM, Do you think I get a rosette, and we weren’t sure since I hadn’t been in the league before now — and I’ll never forget the shock of delightful surprise when names were called to come forward for the ribbons and mine was one of them, and me lurking around like Gulliver, waiting for all wee girls to get their rosettes, and for the league winners to get their plaques. {Plaques?!? Hmmm!}

I tucked the rosette carefully into my pocket, and whenever anyone said the word ‘rosette’, I’d touch my pocket. There it is, I’d assure myself. There’s mine.

My First Gate

Having been happy enough to go for an easygoing plod on Saturday, even though the weather here continues extraordinary, I really wanted to not ride out last night. Being in the lower arena would be perfect, another perfect thing in a series of perfect things: perfect sky, perfect temperature, perfectly lengthening day. We ambled down through the car park, ready to go, until we got to the gate, which was closed.

Flat Out on the Flat

Sometimes, I just wanna sweat.