HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
It happens to even the very best riders. It happened to Mary King, after all. I think it may have happened to Aoife Clarke. Quite possibly Oli Townened, though I am not sure about that. And those are just the ones we know about - the ones who are sufficiently high profile to command media attention, and/or who get given red cards at FEI events (the cards may not be red, that could well be football, but I've never shown much of a flair for attention to detail and a bit of sport-mixing never did any one any harm). Being "spoken to". Having concerns expressed. Concerns about safety, about lack of control. So, yes, I know that plenty of better riders than I have received a ticking off in this regard.
What I am less certain of, though, is whether it has ever happened to anyone IN THE BLOODY DRESSAGE PHASE. I wasn't riding too fast to a fence, I didn't jump anything from a standstill, I quite simply trotted in at A and proceeded to demonstrate a frankly impressive display of Parrot-wrestling as I manhandled my horse round FEI CIC** Test A.
Is he always like this, the judge asked, and I nodded in assent. Would I be safe to jump, she queried, and I smiled and said I certainly hoped so. I'd have to be watched, she continued, and I smiled again, and thought that she could watch away, for all the difference it made. She was concerned, she said, she thought I didn't have enough control.
Although I maintained a level of nonchalance, her words cup me deeper than perhaps she intended, and I didn't contradict her, for what could I say? How could I begin to explain to her that I don't exist in this world, not really. That CIC**s and polished dressage tests are not my norm, that to me the dressage score is meaningless; it's a number that must be ascribed to me before I am allowed to jump. How could I tell her that last year, my cheeks still wet from the tears I'd shed for my beautiful Vito, I'd gone out, and I'd bought a horse. I bought not a horse with whom I harboured aspirations of greatness, not a horse on whom I'd hoped for placings and rosettes, but a horse who gives pony rides to my 18-month old son. A horse who makes my three year old daughter squeal in delight as he gently snuffles carrots from eager little hands. A horse who I will ride down to the very biggest of fences; a horse who will move heaven and earth to bring me home safely through the finish flags. That's the horse I bought. And I'd buy him again in a heartbeat.
My husband was furious. How dare she put negative thoughts into my head, he'd roared. I should tell her to look up his record. Tell her that his scores were just as bad with a four-star pro. Tell her that he'd jumped round Advanced tracks and that to him, two-star was a walk in the park. So I spoke to the TD, I found out what exactly "being watched" would involve and I also found out the name of the dressage judge.
So, to everyone on here who has very kindly told me that I can't possibly be as bad as I think I am, that I'm actually quite competent, that I do myself a disservice; ladies and gentlemen, here I present you conclusive, empirical evidence of why none of what you say is true. Because here I was, standing in the middle of a field in Somerset, being told just exactly how bad I was, by none other than Jane Holderness-Roddam. Jane Holderness Roddam, as funny coincidences go, used to work with my father. It will remain a source of frustration to me that I missed the chance to shout, triumphantly, "DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS?" but then, given that I didn't in fact recognise who she was until the secretary told me, the answer would probably have been "no".
To cheer ourselves up, we proceeded to discover a flat tyre on the buggy and carry a writhing, fidgety baby round the XC course. As you may well understand, I was looking forward to leaving the event for the night, to getting some sleep, and to coming back to do a bit better the following day. Which was inconvenient, in light of the fact that the Chelsea Tractor, alerted in all likelihood by Jane Holderness-Roddam to my ineptitude and inability to control or steer when moving at speed, took its survival into its own hands and refused to start. Undeterred, I flagged down an unsuspecting 4x4, proffered my jump leads expectantly and politely invited them to help me to jump start my car. Sadly, though, the Chelsea Tractor was not to be fooled as easily as all that. Still it refused to start and so we turned instead to a hovering Competent-Looking Type, who was armed to the teeth with a Van and all manner of Useful-Looking Things. And, as I gaily brandished live jump leads surging with power from the Cheslea Tractor's 12-volt battery, I couldn't help but think that, should Jane Holderness Roddam have taken it upon herself to appear at that very moment and worriedly voice her concerns for my safety, then frankly, I'd have been forced to agree with her.
We walk on a narrow path, we event riders. Some paths are narrower, some are wider, but underneath all of our paths, lies the same thing. The Chasm of Doom. The demons. And here's the annoying thing about the Chasm of Doom; it's real. Nobody falls into the Chasm of Doom when they win. Nobody falls in as a result of a clear round. We fall into the Chasm of Doom because our path crumbles, because we meet insurmountable obstacles and because something has gone wrong. To get out of the Chasm of Doom and stay out of it, we need to repair the path. Remove the obstacles. As I drove back to Nunney the following day, I saw my path crumbling. I quietly told my husband that I wanted to go home, I didn't want to jump. I didn't want the pressure of being watched by the ground jury and found wanting. Maybe there was, after all, something wrong with Parrot. Maybe he was sore, had a bad back. And if the showjumping did all go wrong, what then? Would I be publicly hung from the trakhener with my own jump leads by Jane Holderness-Roddam?
My husband was silent for a bit. Then he said: "Ok. There's no point in doing it if you don't think it's the right thing. But remember that you don't have to do it all at once. Just tack up, then get on. See how he feels, see how you feel. You can't do any harm by warming up. If that feels ok, then have a practice jump. If he feels good, then you can do your round and see how that goes. If you feel fine, then you can go XC. Just decide one step at a time." Although I was calmly abseiling down into the Chasm of Doom, I agreed with him. I'd just get on. If I didn't like what I felt, then I could stop. As I rode to the warm up, I tried to think it all through. I'd been given an unequivocal vote of no-confidence from one of the most prominent eventing judges know to man and Parrot-kind, and if she didn't think I could do it, then maybe she was right. In entering that arena, I would be nailing my colours to the mast and saying that I knew better than she did. And that, let me tell you, is a punchy call to make. I started at the beginning. What concerns her? My lack of control. Why is that a problem? Because I might loose him to a fence and get hurt. *To a fence.* And there I had it. her comments were based on my performance on the flat. Not over a fence. She doesn't know that I can hold this horse to a fence. So I had to get out there, get in the ring, and show her that I damn well could.
What I am less certain of, though, is whether it has ever happened to anyone IN THE BLOODY DRESSAGE PHASE. I wasn't riding too fast to a fence, I didn't jump anything from a standstill, I quite simply trotted in at A and proceeded to demonstrate a frankly impressive display of Parrot-wrestling as I manhandled my horse round FEI CIC** Test A.
Is he always like this, the judge asked, and I nodded in assent. Would I be safe to jump, she queried, and I smiled and said I certainly hoped so. I'd have to be watched, she continued, and I smiled again, and thought that she could watch away, for all the difference it made. She was concerned, she said, she thought I didn't have enough control.
Although I maintained a level of nonchalance, her words cup me deeper than perhaps she intended, and I didn't contradict her, for what could I say? How could I begin to explain to her that I don't exist in this world, not really. That CIC**s and polished dressage tests are not my norm, that to me the dressage score is meaningless; it's a number that must be ascribed to me before I am allowed to jump. How could I tell her that last year, my cheeks still wet from the tears I'd shed for my beautiful Vito, I'd gone out, and I'd bought a horse. I bought not a horse with whom I harboured aspirations of greatness, not a horse on whom I'd hoped for placings and rosettes, but a horse who gives pony rides to my 18-month old son. A horse who makes my three year old daughter squeal in delight as he gently snuffles carrots from eager little hands. A horse who I will ride down to the very biggest of fences; a horse who will move heaven and earth to bring me home safely through the finish flags. That's the horse I bought. And I'd buy him again in a heartbeat.
My husband was furious. How dare she put negative thoughts into my head, he'd roared. I should tell her to look up his record. Tell her that his scores were just as bad with a four-star pro. Tell her that he'd jumped round Advanced tracks and that to him, two-star was a walk in the park. So I spoke to the TD, I found out what exactly "being watched" would involve and I also found out the name of the dressage judge.
So, to everyone on here who has very kindly told me that I can't possibly be as bad as I think I am, that I'm actually quite competent, that I do myself a disservice; ladies and gentlemen, here I present you conclusive, empirical evidence of why none of what you say is true. Because here I was, standing in the middle of a field in Somerset, being told just exactly how bad I was, by none other than Jane Holderness-Roddam. Jane Holderness Roddam, as funny coincidences go, used to work with my father. It will remain a source of frustration to me that I missed the chance to shout, triumphantly, "DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS?" but then, given that I didn't in fact recognise who she was until the secretary told me, the answer would probably have been "no".
To cheer ourselves up, we proceeded to discover a flat tyre on the buggy and carry a writhing, fidgety baby round the XC course. As you may well understand, I was looking forward to leaving the event for the night, to getting some sleep, and to coming back to do a bit better the following day. Which was inconvenient, in light of the fact that the Chelsea Tractor, alerted in all likelihood by Jane Holderness-Roddam to my ineptitude and inability to control or steer when moving at speed, took its survival into its own hands and refused to start. Undeterred, I flagged down an unsuspecting 4x4, proffered my jump leads expectantly and politely invited them to help me to jump start my car. Sadly, though, the Chelsea Tractor was not to be fooled as easily as all that. Still it refused to start and so we turned instead to a hovering Competent-Looking Type, who was armed to the teeth with a Van and all manner of Useful-Looking Things. And, as I gaily brandished live jump leads surging with power from the Cheslea Tractor's 12-volt battery, I couldn't help but think that, should Jane Holderness Roddam have taken it upon herself to appear at that very moment and worriedly voice her concerns for my safety, then frankly, I'd have been forced to agree with her.
We walk on a narrow path, we event riders. Some paths are narrower, some are wider, but underneath all of our paths, lies the same thing. The Chasm of Doom. The demons. And here's the annoying thing about the Chasm of Doom; it's real. Nobody falls into the Chasm of Doom when they win. Nobody falls in as a result of a clear round. We fall into the Chasm of Doom because our path crumbles, because we meet insurmountable obstacles and because something has gone wrong. To get out of the Chasm of Doom and stay out of it, we need to repair the path. Remove the obstacles. As I drove back to Nunney the following day, I saw my path crumbling. I quietly told my husband that I wanted to go home, I didn't want to jump. I didn't want the pressure of being watched by the ground jury and found wanting. Maybe there was, after all, something wrong with Parrot. Maybe he was sore, had a bad back. And if the showjumping did all go wrong, what then? Would I be publicly hung from the trakhener with my own jump leads by Jane Holderness-Roddam?
My husband was silent for a bit. Then he said: "Ok. There's no point in doing it if you don't think it's the right thing. But remember that you don't have to do it all at once. Just tack up, then get on. See how he feels, see how you feel. You can't do any harm by warming up. If that feels ok, then have a practice jump. If he feels good, then you can do your round and see how that goes. If you feel fine, then you can go XC. Just decide one step at a time." Although I was calmly abseiling down into the Chasm of Doom, I agreed with him. I'd just get on. If I didn't like what I felt, then I could stop. As I rode to the warm up, I tried to think it all through. I'd been given an unequivocal vote of no-confidence from one of the most prominent eventing judges know to man and Parrot-kind, and if she didn't think I could do it, then maybe she was right. In entering that arena, I would be nailing my colours to the mast and saying that I knew better than she did. And that, let me tell you, is a punchy call to make. I started at the beginning. What concerns her? My lack of control. Why is that a problem? Because I might loose him to a fence and get hurt. *To a fence.* And there I had it. her comments were based on my performance on the flat. Not over a fence. She doesn't know that I can hold this horse to a fence. So I had to get out there, get in the ring, and show her that I damn well could.
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, I think you should be applauded for getting back on and knowing you could do it regardless of the wobble of confidence! 
