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.

I thought for a minute, Ah, sure, Sue, just do the 70s, but then I decided: No. I’m over my fear of heights {ha, ha: over, geddit?} It had actually dawned on me, after Saturday’s lesson, a lesson in which we worked really hard on the precise stuff — flexion, bending, not cutting corners — that I didn’t need to fling Connell at the practice fences so much as to get him listening to me. If he’s listening to me, then I can forget about the fences to the correct degree. Meaning, well, it is his job to physically jump — I need to make sure that we get us there as cleanly as possible. To me, that means that I need to be as clear as I can be as to where I mean for us to go.

Someone else rode him to a rosette in the round of 70s. He was up for it, and in fact gave two big bucks before the rider began. Better before than during, I say, but I’d never seen him do that before. I took him back up to the indoor to get his vibe, and oo-ee, it was buzzy. Which is great! I did some transitions with him, to work on that ‘listening to me thing’ and then… eh, there was the fence, I had to jump him a couple of times, didn’t I?

I found I hadn’t forgotten anything. So that little revelation goes in the files.

We walked the course and I could feel him just raring to go, so I volunteered to go first. 1 was at X-ish, and I picked up the canter at A. Off we went, nice and smooth, no messing with the canter lead, over the crosspole, he switched leads {!} and —

I think what happened here was that he switched leads without me having to ‘make’ him, and I got a little flummoxed, and dropped my attention for a second. Consequently, he lost impulsion, and as we came around to 2 on the dogleg at F I went, in my head, ‘Nope’, and sure enough, over we went, a little late, and he knocked a pole. Four faults.*

I heard the clatter — I am pretty sure, somewhere in my consciousness, I registered the impact from his hoof, up his leg, through his body, into my arse — and I started to look back — and then I stopped, and looked forward to 3, and then did the rest of the round.

We did the rest of the round smoothly, cleanly, clearly, with the absolutely correct amount of speed and energy. The fences were effortless, the turns precise, the pace spot on. I felt utterly in tune with Connell, and it was like — it was like singing? I find jumping to be like singing. I sang in choirs for a good bit of my life, and there is this thing where the conductor will say, I can’t even remember, bar 35, and he raises his hand, and we breathe in, and he gives the downbeat, and everyone comes in at the exactly correct place, doing their own part.

Yesterday’s jumping felt like that. Like I was doing my part at the exactly correct time, and Connell was doing his. I didn’t need to worry or fuss, which just produces more instances of worrying and fussing, because the horse is reacting to your reacting, and then you end up reacting to the horse’s reacting, ad nauseaum. There was one point going around to 5 where I was standing in the stirrups a bit, but I realised it, and I sat back. I was also looking down at the fence, over 5 and 7, and just the fact that I realise that is like… I don’t even know, it is so great.

Also? That split second in my mind, of thinking ‘Nope’ at 2 was the difference between that pole staying up or going down. Attitude, attitude, attitude. Maybe next time I’ll think ‘Okay’, as in ‘Okay, not a great approach, can I do anything to help this?’

So, no rosette, but a really good round. ‘Perspective’ is the latest in the life lesson-y things I am learning from the horses. The pole went down, I didn’t look back, I didn’t pull up and quit because it wasn’t going to be ‘perfect’, I kept going, and actually rode as well, if not the best I’ve ever ridden that horse to the fences. What’s even best-er about it? I know it, and knowing it makes it conscious, and making it conscious means I know I can keep doing it.

There are rosettes, and then there are rosettes…

*I don’t know why it is four precisely, for every mishap at an actual fence {it’s three if the horse runs out}. I need to look this up.

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.

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.

We walked the course as it was being set up, and unwisely, as it transpires, rolled our eyes a bit. It certainly didn’t look as tricky as the one from last week. That dogleg at B looked a bit funky, and geez, there was so much time between the first fence at F and the second at H. What was that about?

We watched some of the riders, and something funny seemed to be happening, in that no one was going clear. Well, one girl did, the one who went first, but after that it seemed like about halfway through, or just at the very end, it all fell apart.

Enough of that! Off to find Con, who had been in the lesson previous to the first round of jumping, which was either a good thing or a bad thing. He wasn’t in his own stable, and when I found him, he was halfway through what was most likely someone else’s lunch. Hmm. He wasn’t going to thank me for that.

Into the indoor to warm up, and there were way more people than there was last week, and I got a taste of what it must be like to jump at Kill or in the RDS: horses and riders all over the gaff, jumping off either rein, and standing around chatting and cutting off your approach. I started to get a little bit psyched out. I took a few terrible goes, he wasn’t giving me the right canter depart, and the left wasn’t much better. I allowed myself to get annoyed about the traffic; I knew this was just a cover for the nerves that were starting to twitch.

Now, last week, the course changed for the 80s: not in configuration of the whole, and not only in the height of the fences, but as regarded individual fences, and the sequence of the fences jumped if one went clear the first time round. I walked in on Connell and got a look at the number 6 fence. Oh, crap I thought.

‘Did you just say “Oh, crap,” Sue?’ someone called from the ground.

I guess I had said it aloud. Number 6 was a cross. Not a crosspole, but an X, made out of four wings and two poles, and if you hit it correctly, it wasn’t really that big a deal, because the point where the poles cross is nothing much. I flashed back to the only other time I jumped Connell over a fence like this, the time he jumped and then STOPPED so that he straddled the thing, and I hit the dirt.

Crap.

We all started to chant the run of the second round to ourselves: 3, 4, 9, 10, 8, 7. AM said she was going to go third, and I said I’d go after her.

First two jumped double clear, and quite handily. 3, 4, 9, 10, 8, 7. A rider and William went, and missed 7 the first time round. AM went and Prince was a bit behind, and knocked the poles at 2.

My turn.

Ooh, sticky, I thought as I struggled to get Con to strike off correctly. At least I am getting better at feeling it. The fences seemed — well, they were high, but they didn’t seem unmanageable. We took 1 — he had bucked and squealed as we headed for it, there was a bit of hesitation as we took it, so I used all that time between 1 and 2 to get our rhythm to improve.

Then around to 3:

… which was grand, it felt a bit late, but it looks okay here, and then ideally three strides to 4:

… which was a honking yellow monstrosity of an oxer. We got four strides, but over we went, and given Con’s usual dislike of spreads, I was as delighted as I am able to feel when I am focused on a course.

The green-and-whites are a double, one stride between, and this went really well, we got the stride perfectly. I almost psyched myself out here, because the fences looked higher than 80 to me**, and I had adjusted my brain to 80, so if that looked like 85, then I could conceivably misjudge it or whatever — but that is not my job, my job is to direct properly and sustain the rhythm. Anyway, it takes less time for us to jump that double than it does for me to tangle up my thinking, so whatever.

Hey, look at me, looking where I am going!

That scary auld cross-thingie at 6? La la la, easy peasy lemon squeezy — and then I almost missed 7 because the the little sign was down, over to 8, and holy crap! Clear first round!

Connell wouldn’t pull up. I couldn’t get him on the correct lead. We went all the way down the arena, then I got him going, then he changed leads on me — thanks, dude — then I got it back, then we came around, he hesitated before 3, Shite, I thought, then he bucked halfway to 4, I tapped him up, and over we went — but he knocked the poles, argh! and then I headed to 5 — and then when I landed I was like Wait a minute —

And then I was eliminated. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing after 4, and then when I landed after 5, I was like Hmm, okay, that wasn’t right.

Well, that was a little bummer, but not a massive one. The first round, that went mainly really well. I got him round even though he didn’t really want to go, and I got loads of great feedback from everyone about that, because Con does have a bit of a rep for not wanting to go, and for being slow. That first round, I am proud of it.

I learned the following:
> I can jump 80s on Connell!
> I know when he is being sticky.
> Don’t rush into the second round! I can take my time! I can ask what I have to do before I attempt it! [And if Paul won't say, one of my pals will shout it from the sidelines.]

That last one is the most important. I was so focused on trying to get him to do the immediate thing, I didn’t think ahead. In fact, as shown, I clearly wasn’t even thinking about where I was going, just on getting him going. Hmm. That’s good. Okay.

What I meant last week came good: that it wouldn’t matter now if I didn’t get a rosette every single time. I’m into the nuts and bolts now, into riding more independently than I have yet, and now I see that while the height is an issue, it’s only one of many that need to be managed. It’s not only about how high you jump, but also about how smoothly, about how you remember where you are going, how you work with the horse to do all of this whilst minding yourself as well, which means keeping a good contact, keeping the leg on, keeping the weight in the outside stirrup, folding, going with the horse over the fence…

Can’t wait ’til next week!

*80cms = 2′ 8″
**They are absolutely not higher, I can see it from the picture. Sheesh. But: amazing what the mind will do when allowed to start making up stories…

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!

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…

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…

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

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.

Options: wait ’til the instructor gets there; hope that the rider in the arena, who will have to leave because the lesson is about to begin, will hop down and open it for us; one of us hops down and opens it for us.

Or, you edge the horse up to the gate and reach down and open it.

Now, I knew how to do this in theory, and I’ve watched others in practice, and I don’t know, I guess I was all giddy from all the vitamin D, but I thought, I can open that gate, and Connell’s not so high, I can totally bend down from the saddle and open that gate, so I nudged him forward.

I shimmied him up parallel-wise, and there was a bit of a scuffle to keep him in place — no more than a second, but it made me go whoa, not to him, but to myself. I leaned down and I worked the thingie out of the yoke, sat up, turned Con around, and swung open the gate.

I am grinning like an eejit, sitting here writing this. It’s the little feckin’ things, I’ll tell ya. Disproportionately delighted with myself, maybe, but even still, that was pretty good.

Not that I don’t sweat, when I jump, because I do. But sometimes, sometimes I just want to go around and around without stopping. Sometimes, a lesson on the flat is the best thing ever.

It was blowy and a bit spitty last night, but the indoor was a wreck, and the lower arena is actually quite sheltered from wind and various sorts of rain. Down we went, and it was a relief. God, how I used to hate being outside! But now, how I hate to be inside! I used to feel safe, with the roof and the walls, those solid, appreciable boundaries. I used to feel much more in control in the indoor. Now, I suppose I am in control — rather than just pretending I was, or depending on something else to make that so — and so prefer the outdoor ring. It’s bigger, for one thing, and it… it just feels really good out there.

It felt good to be on Connell. Rebel is really broken, he’s been turned out and holy God, the state of him when he gets back, I don’t even want to go there. Connell felt good, I felt good, we were lead file, I kept my leg on and he kept going, stopping short only once, so that was excellent.

At some stage, maybe about the middle of the lesson, in which we went around and around without stopping, I thought, I really feel like I’m riding, like I am working. I could feel Connell settling into a nice springy stride beneath me, I felt like I didn’t have to break a rib to keep him going at the head of the ride [he is very much a follower], and I felt like… I felt like things were going well, and that I was doing things correctly, without having to try too hard.

Then we had to canter in circles.

Now, in the first few lessons in which I rode Connell, we tried to do this cantering-in-circles thing. It was not a success. Granted, it was in the indoor, and I may have mentally minimised the chances for that success by thinking, Oh, crap, we’re in the indoor and there’s not enough room for this! Whatever, it was basically a nightmare. He wouldn’t turn, he got really strong, and he pulled me, at speed, to the back of the queue, even going so far as to charge in between the queue and the wall. I couldn’t get him to do it, and I began to dread the notion of ever having to do it again.

One Saturday lesson, several months ago, we began to canter in circles, as a ride. The potential for mayhem? Off the charts. But somehow, I managed Con’s exuberance — it was just like pelting around the fields! — and got a feel for how to do the cantering-in-circles-thing-with-Connell properly.

And then we had to do it last night. Not even from, like, C to X-ish, but in the H corner. So: smaller. Off we went, and I didn’t even think about it, I didn’t make any excuses in my mind, I just used my body the way I would use it on Reb, or Delilah, and ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum, there we were, cantering in circles. Without losing stride, even on the right rein.

I think it goes back to that thought: I really feel like I’m riding, like I am working. I was, and from that centred place, I was able to do a thing I wasn’t able to do about eight months ago*. Mainly because I had done it correctly, and I didn’t have to work out, in my mind, how to make it happen. And I felt better and better every stride we rode, cantering in those circles, and I know that state-of-being communicates itself to Connell.

It was great. I was covered in sweat. Connell had a nice balanced froth on the bit. My legs were wrecked. I felt like a rider. I felt like I’d worked well. As much as I love to jump, flat lessons are very good for the control — and if this is not too paradoxical, also good for the soul.

*Only eight months on Connell? Is that true? Hang on… UH NO SUSAN: I’ve been riding Connell since mid-December 2010, for crying out loud. FFSL.