HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
Well, it's the mother-*******er of all head-*******s, this game we call Eventing. One minute I was feeling pleased with a clear XC at our first Intermediate at Aston, and just under a fortnight later, I was sitting on the floor at Tweseldown, looking up at the fence judge and asking her to tell me that my horse was ok.
Did I hear him hit it? asked my husband. Had I known it was going wrong then? No, I'd said, no, I didn't hear him hit it. I knew we were in trouble a stride before we took off, when I saw our spot, and knew it was far, far too close for the speed we were going at. So did I do? asked my husband. I ran up to the sitting room then, and came back with a book. It's called Jumping is Jumping, by Jane Wallace, and it was one of my favourites when I was a horse-obsessed teenager. I opened it on a page that showed a series of frames of Toddy crashing at Belton. Jane described perfectly how Toddy's shoulders came back, how he slipped his reins, how he gave his horse the best chance of staying on its feet. When it was clear, from the last picture, that the horse was going down, Jane explained how Toddy's defensive position meant he'd be thrown clear as the horse fell. "And you were thrown clear" said my husband, matter of factly. I looked up at him then, and I wondered. I'd thought it was chance, luck, fate, but was there more to it than that? Do I have Jane Wallace to thank for the fact that I walked away from Tweseldown that day?
So Vito was ok, I was ok and then, of course, I knew where I was going next. I knew because I've been there, because we all have, after a bad day out. I was going to The Chasm of Doom. The Chasm of Doom is a desperate place of impenetrable blackness. It's a place where your darkest nightmares slither silently into fathomless depths, where the invisible scales of a thousand horrors creep and slide slowly down your spine, a place where the tentacles of dread and fear squirm wretchedly over your scalp and a place where the sleepless demons creep unhindered from their murky hiding places and crawl, claws outstretched, reaching venomously for your flesh. So they came, my demons, they howled, they circled, they bayed for my blood and throughout their relentless cacophony, they called me to account with their one piercing question" "Can you really do this?".
And then, when I'd finished writing in a somewhat melodramatic fashion about the fundamentally first world problem of crashing my horse, I decided I'd better go and have a XC lesson.
So I dropped down to Intermediate Novice at Little Downham and I went back out. Walking the XC was something of an exercise in chaos management, involving, as it did, my parents, a pram, two collies and a couple of kids. "Dad", I'd call, "horse coming! Can you move the kids and the pram out of the way of fence 3, please!" "Are we going to get run over?" my mother would ask, looking anxiously around as her collies strained at the leash. "No," I'd say. "If in doubt, stand by something they're not jumping; a tree, or a car, or a bit of string." "But I don't know what they're jumping" she'd complain, "and anyway", she'd add, with an air of authority, "you just can't trust these horse people. Never know what they might do next." By the time I got my parents, the pram, the kids and the collies back to the car, I realised I'd paid barely any attention to the course and could remember approximately three of the fences on it. I settled down, fed the baby and grabbed the programme, turning to the course plan to refresh my memory. "Fence 1", I thought, "Ok, I can remember that one. Fence two..." My mother appeared. "Now", she said, "I've got some honey for you. It's locally produced, made by ever such a friendly chap who runs this lovely little shop just in the next village and he was telling me...." I smiled weakly, put the honey in the baby's car seat and re-opened the programme. Fence 3, yep, ok, I remembered that. Fence 4... "Viv!" called my father. "Your nearside brake light needs a new bulb. You need to unscrew this bit, then go to a garage and...." I smiled again. Re-opened the programme again. Where was I? Fence 3? 5? Ok, fence 5. Yep, ok, got it. Fence 6. I felt a warm sensation spread over my leg and, shuffling the baby over, saw a dark patch of wee creeping over my jods. I jumped up, changed his nappy and, abandoning my meagre efforts to learn the course from the programme, handed him to my dad so I could get Vito ready for the SJ. "Viv!" called my father as I was tacking up. "He's pooed all over his clothes! What shall I do?"
By the time I was actually on Vito and ready to go, the thought of having my parents, the pram, the kids and the collies anywhere near my practice jumps left me feeling faint. I asked my friend to step in. "He feels good" I said, as I jumped an oxer. "How does he look?" "Mmmmm, fabulous. Really really good - great" said my friend, staring straight past me at Andrew Nicholson. "Lou!" I admonished her. "Vito, how does he look?" I'd lost her, so I cantered into the ring.
Last time out, I'd well and truly stuffed up the SJ. Had I not also stuffed up the XC, this would have been a concern, but as it was, I barely even remembered how just wrong it had gone. I had bigger, scarier, fish to fry, so I tried to hard to keep my hands soft and still, and let Vito jump, and we had a smooth enough round for an annoying four faults.
Oli Townend was at Little Downham; he'd come to watch me fall off in the XC warm up and, as he was there anyway, I understand he also decided to do the Advanced on a new horse - something about it being a four-star ride? "Sorry", he said, once I'd got back on. "Was that my fault?" "No", I said, wryly. "Mine." "Never mind", he said comfortingly. "Whenever I do that, they jump far better on the course". "Yep," I agreed. "Just need to kick a bit". And so, having had one of our top riders not only accept the blame for, but positively condone, my fall, I kicked a bit and then went off to the start box.
So we jumped the first - was he too close? Did I imagine it? And the second. Was that ok? Too close? And the third. We wanted to be close to that, given its upright nature and position on a slope - didn't we? Or not? And four. No, too close to that. 5 was a step to brush and that was ok, I think and then 7 a/b we were close, but it was a tight-ish line, so didn't we need to be? Or not? I revved him up into the water and suddenly I couldn't see my stride to the roll-top that was in the water. Then as I saw it, Vito took off, a full stride before I'd intended to go. I lost my balance, my stirrups, and pretty much any composure I may once have had, as I struggled to stay on. This was terrible, I was all over the shop, should I pull up? No, I'd already dropped down a level, so if I pulled up 8 fences in, where did I go from here? I had to sort this, and sort it now. Ahead lay a log on a downhill slope, a bounce, a coffin and a... Yeah, a one of those. And at none of those fences did I want him taking flyers like that. I had the log-slope to fix this and that was my only chance, unless I was to end up on the floor again. I needed to ride him forward, but be in control. I put my leg on but balanced him and he stood off a bit, then I came to the bounce. Got him back and he landed flat, but went through neatly. Too close to the first part of the coffin, so I kicked for the exit fence and then there was a big brush oxer, followed by a corner. Whatever I did, I had to get this right. Kicked a bit for the oxer, got the balance and my line for the corner and jumped it perfectly - the only fence on the course that we managed to do well. Then he had a look at the next one and then I thought it was getting better, but it wasn't and we came to the water. He locked on to the roll top and I, relieved that he felt confident again, egged him on. I had to pull him round on a sharp left to get him to the jump in to the water, but he saw his fence and he went for it - and then we were home.
We came 5th, but it didn't count in my mind. Not with such a messy round as that, and there were very few in the section. It did count, maintained my husband No, ok, there weren't many in it, but Intermediate Novice horses, he said, were serious enough horses, ones that needed beating. I was subdued at the prize giving and, as I sought solace in coffee and a chocolate muffin, my mother helpfully pointed out that I had dirt all over my face. "It looks like a moustache", she said, "and you're leaking breastmilk through your top, too." "Why am I such a wreck?" I asked, sadly. But to that, I am afraid, nobody has an answer.
So as I pulled into the yard at about 9.30pm, the toddler woke up and started shouting. "Get Rosie out! Put Vito on the trailer! Want to see Vito!" The baby woke too and shrilled and screamed, but of course I got Vito off the trailer before seeing to either of the kids. Then, having no other option, I started to unload the trailer with one hand, whilst holding the frantic baby onto my boob with the other and controlling the toddler with Jedi mind skills alone.
Finally, finally, I had unhitched the trailer and was driving away from the yard. As I pulled out, I saw a line of traffic cones signalling roadworks in the middle of the road. Now, I have, as we know, many flaws. One of these is that I am a BMW driver. I'm pushy, aggressive and have scant regard for the law (that applies to my driving style, too....). A bus bore down on my right. A car sped up on my left. A traffic cone blocked my way, and I was stuck. The baby started to cry. I apologised inwardly to the traffic cone, floored the X5 and bulldozed my way back home.
Did I hear him hit it? asked my husband. Had I known it was going wrong then? No, I'd said, no, I didn't hear him hit it. I knew we were in trouble a stride before we took off, when I saw our spot, and knew it was far, far too close for the speed we were going at. So did I do? asked my husband. I ran up to the sitting room then, and came back with a book. It's called Jumping is Jumping, by Jane Wallace, and it was one of my favourites when I was a horse-obsessed teenager. I opened it on a page that showed a series of frames of Toddy crashing at Belton. Jane described perfectly how Toddy's shoulders came back, how he slipped his reins, how he gave his horse the best chance of staying on its feet. When it was clear, from the last picture, that the horse was going down, Jane explained how Toddy's defensive position meant he'd be thrown clear as the horse fell. "And you were thrown clear" said my husband, matter of factly. I looked up at him then, and I wondered. I'd thought it was chance, luck, fate, but was there more to it than that? Do I have Jane Wallace to thank for the fact that I walked away from Tweseldown that day?
So Vito was ok, I was ok and then, of course, I knew where I was going next. I knew because I've been there, because we all have, after a bad day out. I was going to The Chasm of Doom. The Chasm of Doom is a desperate place of impenetrable blackness. It's a place where your darkest nightmares slither silently into fathomless depths, where the invisible scales of a thousand horrors creep and slide slowly down your spine, a place where the tentacles of dread and fear squirm wretchedly over your scalp and a place where the sleepless demons creep unhindered from their murky hiding places and crawl, claws outstretched, reaching venomously for your flesh. So they came, my demons, they howled, they circled, they bayed for my blood and throughout their relentless cacophony, they called me to account with their one piercing question" "Can you really do this?".
And then, when I'd finished writing in a somewhat melodramatic fashion about the fundamentally first world problem of crashing my horse, I decided I'd better go and have a XC lesson.
So I dropped down to Intermediate Novice at Little Downham and I went back out. Walking the XC was something of an exercise in chaos management, involving, as it did, my parents, a pram, two collies and a couple of kids. "Dad", I'd call, "horse coming! Can you move the kids and the pram out of the way of fence 3, please!" "Are we going to get run over?" my mother would ask, looking anxiously around as her collies strained at the leash. "No," I'd say. "If in doubt, stand by something they're not jumping; a tree, or a car, or a bit of string." "But I don't know what they're jumping" she'd complain, "and anyway", she'd add, with an air of authority, "you just can't trust these horse people. Never know what they might do next." By the time I got my parents, the pram, the kids and the collies back to the car, I realised I'd paid barely any attention to the course and could remember approximately three of the fences on it. I settled down, fed the baby and grabbed the programme, turning to the course plan to refresh my memory. "Fence 1", I thought, "Ok, I can remember that one. Fence two..." My mother appeared. "Now", she said, "I've got some honey for you. It's locally produced, made by ever such a friendly chap who runs this lovely little shop just in the next village and he was telling me...." I smiled weakly, put the honey in the baby's car seat and re-opened the programme. Fence 3, yep, ok, I remembered that. Fence 4... "Viv!" called my father. "Your nearside brake light needs a new bulb. You need to unscrew this bit, then go to a garage and...." I smiled again. Re-opened the programme again. Where was I? Fence 3? 5? Ok, fence 5. Yep, ok, got it. Fence 6. I felt a warm sensation spread over my leg and, shuffling the baby over, saw a dark patch of wee creeping over my jods. I jumped up, changed his nappy and, abandoning my meagre efforts to learn the course from the programme, handed him to my dad so I could get Vito ready for the SJ. "Viv!" called my father as I was tacking up. "He's pooed all over his clothes! What shall I do?"
By the time I was actually on Vito and ready to go, the thought of having my parents, the pram, the kids and the collies anywhere near my practice jumps left me feeling faint. I asked my friend to step in. "He feels good" I said, as I jumped an oxer. "How does he look?" "Mmmmm, fabulous. Really really good - great" said my friend, staring straight past me at Andrew Nicholson. "Lou!" I admonished her. "Vito, how does he look?" I'd lost her, so I cantered into the ring.
Last time out, I'd well and truly stuffed up the SJ. Had I not also stuffed up the XC, this would have been a concern, but as it was, I barely even remembered how just wrong it had gone. I had bigger, scarier, fish to fry, so I tried to hard to keep my hands soft and still, and let Vito jump, and we had a smooth enough round for an annoying four faults.
Oli Townend was at Little Downham; he'd come to watch me fall off in the XC warm up and, as he was there anyway, I understand he also decided to do the Advanced on a new horse - something about it being a four-star ride? "Sorry", he said, once I'd got back on. "Was that my fault?" "No", I said, wryly. "Mine." "Never mind", he said comfortingly. "Whenever I do that, they jump far better on the course". "Yep," I agreed. "Just need to kick a bit". And so, having had one of our top riders not only accept the blame for, but positively condone, my fall, I kicked a bit and then went off to the start box.
So we jumped the first - was he too close? Did I imagine it? And the second. Was that ok? Too close? And the third. We wanted to be close to that, given its upright nature and position on a slope - didn't we? Or not? And four. No, too close to that. 5 was a step to brush and that was ok, I think and then 7 a/b we were close, but it was a tight-ish line, so didn't we need to be? Or not? I revved him up into the water and suddenly I couldn't see my stride to the roll-top that was in the water. Then as I saw it, Vito took off, a full stride before I'd intended to go. I lost my balance, my stirrups, and pretty much any composure I may once have had, as I struggled to stay on. This was terrible, I was all over the shop, should I pull up? No, I'd already dropped down a level, so if I pulled up 8 fences in, where did I go from here? I had to sort this, and sort it now. Ahead lay a log on a downhill slope, a bounce, a coffin and a... Yeah, a one of those. And at none of those fences did I want him taking flyers like that. I had the log-slope to fix this and that was my only chance, unless I was to end up on the floor again. I needed to ride him forward, but be in control. I put my leg on but balanced him and he stood off a bit, then I came to the bounce. Got him back and he landed flat, but went through neatly. Too close to the first part of the coffin, so I kicked for the exit fence and then there was a big brush oxer, followed by a corner. Whatever I did, I had to get this right. Kicked a bit for the oxer, got the balance and my line for the corner and jumped it perfectly - the only fence on the course that we managed to do well. Then he had a look at the next one and then I thought it was getting better, but it wasn't and we came to the water. He locked on to the roll top and I, relieved that he felt confident again, egged him on. I had to pull him round on a sharp left to get him to the jump in to the water, but he saw his fence and he went for it - and then we were home.
We came 5th, but it didn't count in my mind. Not with such a messy round as that, and there were very few in the section. It did count, maintained my husband No, ok, there weren't many in it, but Intermediate Novice horses, he said, were serious enough horses, ones that needed beating. I was subdued at the prize giving and, as I sought solace in coffee and a chocolate muffin, my mother helpfully pointed out that I had dirt all over my face. "It looks like a moustache", she said, "and you're leaking breastmilk through your top, too." "Why am I such a wreck?" I asked, sadly. But to that, I am afraid, nobody has an answer.
So as I pulled into the yard at about 9.30pm, the toddler woke up and started shouting. "Get Rosie out! Put Vito on the trailer! Want to see Vito!" The baby woke too and shrilled and screamed, but of course I got Vito off the trailer before seeing to either of the kids. Then, having no other option, I started to unload the trailer with one hand, whilst holding the frantic baby onto my boob with the other and controlling the toddler with Jedi mind skills alone.
Finally, finally, I had unhitched the trailer and was driving away from the yard. As I pulled out, I saw a line of traffic cones signalling roadworks in the middle of the road. Now, I have, as we know, many flaws. One of these is that I am a BMW driver. I'm pushy, aggressive and have scant regard for the law (that applies to my driving style, too....). A bus bore down on my right. A car sped up on my left. A traffic cone blocked my way, and I was stuck. The baby started to cry. I apologised inwardly to the traffic cone, floored the X5 and bulldozed my way back home.
.
