HotToTrot
Well-Known Member
Eventing without one.
A combination of manky weather and awful times meant that my husband chose to stay home with the kids, rather than come with me to Borde Hill. By about midday, though, we were both sceptical that the "divide and conquer" approach had really worked. Husband was ensconced in a corner of Pizza Express, quaffing a large beer and fending off husband-seeking mozzarella missiles, and I was dealing with a seriously leaky boob. The left one, the faulty one, has an overflow system, a bit like the hole at the top of the bath that lets out the water when you've over-filled it. The rain at Borde Hill was coming down by the bucket load, so I figured that a little breast milk would likely not be noticed amidst the general mud, grime and water, and I was happy enough for it to leak. The right one, though, is made of much sterner stuff. The right one was not letting go of any of its hard-fought milk. It just produced more. It grew. It swelled. It was seriously uncomfortable. I tapped at the steering wheel, stuck on the A12 on my way back into London. The traffic wasn't moving. I wouldn't be home for ages. My boob hurt. There was only one obvious solution.
As we all know, horses entail a certain amount of general disarray, particularly when it comes to our cars. We find hay underneath the gear stick. Shavings in the footwell. We probably have some bailer twine nestling in the boot. It's one of many reasons why I won't hear of an upgrade to my mould old Chelsea tractor; I don't feel guilty about popping feed buckets on the passenger seat, or about throwing grooming kit in the glove compartment. And now, sitting in traffic, nowhere near home and with a seriously painful boob, I only felt a little bit bad about just unearthing the wretched boob from underneath my cross-country top, about undoing my seatbelt and, ducking beneath the steering wheel so as not to blind the oncoming motorists, about just having a massive great squeeze. Yeah, I vaguely aimed for the footwell, but it really went everywhere, going forces cheerfully with the baby-vom, wee and other assortment of bodily fluids to which my aged car is regularly subjected.
So for all who've had a bad weekend out competing, just ask yourselves this question: Were you, whilst sitting covered in mud in stationary traffic on the outskirts of London, forced to squirt the entire interior of your car with gallons of unwanted breastmilk? No? Well then go home and don't come back until you're prepared just to put a bit more effort in.
This was not the Chelsea Tractor's only moment of glory that day. No. When I was about 16, my dad pulled a blinding manoeuvre at some horse trials or other, and it's one I've been trying to emulate ever since. We share a fairly "get on with it" attitude, my dad and I, and as the lorries queued to be towed up the muddy hill to the top of the lorry park, we exchanged a look. I jumped out, unloaded my mare, put the ramp back up and our Range Rover, with a lightened load and its diff-lock engaged, sped straight up the hill, under its own steam, overtaking all the marooned lorries and parked happily at the top of the lorry park whilst I trotted along behind with my horse.
Now, at Borde Hill, here was my chance. I'd loaded up P(C)parrot, turned up the hill to the exit, and the car stopped. I revved a bit. No go. Wasn't moving in the mud. Triumphantly, I leapt out, unloaded my horse, marched him over to the parking steward and asked if she could hold him whilst I drove the car and trailer up to the firmer ground. She stared at me blankly. Well, this was ok, it does sometimes take a little while for people to appreciate my sheer genius. Smugly, I explained my plan. I needed her to hold the horse, because my car couldn't get up the muddy hill with the horse on board. Once at the top, I'd come back for the horse and reload him. Still she stared at me. Patiently, I explained again. This time, I thought, she'd understand and, flabbergasted by my utter brilliance, she'd spring into action, full of admiration for my cunning and resourcefulness. I waited eagerly for her awed reaction. Still she stared. Then she said "where are you trying to go?" Clearly, I thought, she'd been so stunned by my total mastery of mud-and-car tactics that she was just too thunderstruck to really understand what I was saying. Finally, she said "Well, the exit's behind you - er, down the hill." Crestfallen, my master plan in tatters and my navigational ability (as always) sorely lacking, I reloaded P(C)parrot, turned glumly round and slunk dejectedly back down the hill.
Next up was Aston and, once again, I went kid-free. This time, though, I had a plan. Not a very dignified plan, but a plan nevertheless. Those of you who've also sat, semi-naked, in a horse trailer and squeezed milk out your boob into a bottle before the showjumping phase will likely sympathise when I say that directional control over the milk can be a little lacking - but that it's perfectly do-able and infinitely preferable to squirting the stuff over the car whilst parked on the A12.
At Borde Hill, I had discovered that when P(C)arrot's advert had said he could be tricky in the dressage... dear Lord... At Aston, I took him by surprise. Off trailer, walk to dressage, into arena. It was all going reasonably well, in that he was in roughly the right pace, doing faintly the right movements, but I knew that the walk could well be my undoing. Excited beyond belief at Borde Hill, he'd jogged through the walk and exploded into canter when I'd asked for an upwards trot transition. And in canter he had stayed, mainly on the wrong leg, but sometimes not, for the rest of the test. We came to walk. He went to tank off. I dropped my reins. He stayed in walk. We came to H. I thought trot, just thought it, did nothing but lighten my seat and he exploded into trot. I dropped the contact again. He stayed in trot. And that, for us, was a huge improvement.
As I got him ready for the showjumping, I noticed a kind of a presence hanging around. I carried on for a bit, but I realised it was a demon, and it clearly wanted something from me. Better, I thought, to deal with it now, rather than deal with it as I cantered into the ring. I broke off from booting up and went round to the front of the car. "So,", I said, gesturing to the demon to pull up a pew, "what can I do for you?". The demon shovelled itself into the driver's seat next to me and, gazing idly at the dried breast milk that splattered the dashboard, it said, "well, that's an Intermediate Novice track out there. 1.15m. You've only ever done that height on Vito. And it took you over a year to work up to it. Yet you've had this horse for about a month! I think you only did it because Vito was such a good horse. I don't think you can do it on anything else. And this horse has been ridden by a four-star rider. What on earth makes you think he'll jump for you? What if you miss? You'll crash!" "Ok," I said, with a sigh. "You make some good points. Vito was amazing. But if my three years with Vito mean anything at all, then let it be that he taught me well. Make absolutely no mistake" I continued, very firmly, "I can showjump. In my own right, independently of Vito, I can showjump. And no, I am not remotely in the same league as this horse's previous rider, of course not, but I'm good enough. I'm good enough to ride this horse round that track and that, for now, is all I need to be." The demon opened the door and scuttled off away from the breast milk and into the rain, but its visit had unsettled me, and I needed to do more. I thought back to my last lesson and picked out two points, something to give me some structure when I crossed the start line. Keep the revs up, I thought, and keep the inside bend round turns. So I went out, I revved up the canter and P(C)parrot jumped a smashing round for clear.
The first half of the XC was great but then, of course the directional misjudgement came into play and I rode rather aimlessly round a couple of extraneous fields before finally stumbling across a fence with a yellow flag on it, which I thought I'd better jump. P(C)parrot, quite clearly dubious about my navigational ability and probably fed up with his identity crisis as to whether he was a Parrot, a Carrot, a transvestite gelding with a girl's name or just in need of an apostrophe, called on his alter-ego, The Tank, and carted me home before I could say "shoulda switched the snaffle to a gag for this phase."
A combination of manky weather and awful times meant that my husband chose to stay home with the kids, rather than come with me to Borde Hill. By about midday, though, we were both sceptical that the "divide and conquer" approach had really worked. Husband was ensconced in a corner of Pizza Express, quaffing a large beer and fending off husband-seeking mozzarella missiles, and I was dealing with a seriously leaky boob. The left one, the faulty one, has an overflow system, a bit like the hole at the top of the bath that lets out the water when you've over-filled it. The rain at Borde Hill was coming down by the bucket load, so I figured that a little breast milk would likely not be noticed amidst the general mud, grime and water, and I was happy enough for it to leak. The right one, though, is made of much sterner stuff. The right one was not letting go of any of its hard-fought milk. It just produced more. It grew. It swelled. It was seriously uncomfortable. I tapped at the steering wheel, stuck on the A12 on my way back into London. The traffic wasn't moving. I wouldn't be home for ages. My boob hurt. There was only one obvious solution.
As we all know, horses entail a certain amount of general disarray, particularly when it comes to our cars. We find hay underneath the gear stick. Shavings in the footwell. We probably have some bailer twine nestling in the boot. It's one of many reasons why I won't hear of an upgrade to my mould old Chelsea tractor; I don't feel guilty about popping feed buckets on the passenger seat, or about throwing grooming kit in the glove compartment. And now, sitting in traffic, nowhere near home and with a seriously painful boob, I only felt a little bit bad about just unearthing the wretched boob from underneath my cross-country top, about undoing my seatbelt and, ducking beneath the steering wheel so as not to blind the oncoming motorists, about just having a massive great squeeze. Yeah, I vaguely aimed for the footwell, but it really went everywhere, going forces cheerfully with the baby-vom, wee and other assortment of bodily fluids to which my aged car is regularly subjected.
So for all who've had a bad weekend out competing, just ask yourselves this question: Were you, whilst sitting covered in mud in stationary traffic on the outskirts of London, forced to squirt the entire interior of your car with gallons of unwanted breastmilk? No? Well then go home and don't come back until you're prepared just to put a bit more effort in.
This was not the Chelsea Tractor's only moment of glory that day. No. When I was about 16, my dad pulled a blinding manoeuvre at some horse trials or other, and it's one I've been trying to emulate ever since. We share a fairly "get on with it" attitude, my dad and I, and as the lorries queued to be towed up the muddy hill to the top of the lorry park, we exchanged a look. I jumped out, unloaded my mare, put the ramp back up and our Range Rover, with a lightened load and its diff-lock engaged, sped straight up the hill, under its own steam, overtaking all the marooned lorries and parked happily at the top of the lorry park whilst I trotted along behind with my horse.
Now, at Borde Hill, here was my chance. I'd loaded up P(C)parrot, turned up the hill to the exit, and the car stopped. I revved a bit. No go. Wasn't moving in the mud. Triumphantly, I leapt out, unloaded my horse, marched him over to the parking steward and asked if she could hold him whilst I drove the car and trailer up to the firmer ground. She stared at me blankly. Well, this was ok, it does sometimes take a little while for people to appreciate my sheer genius. Smugly, I explained my plan. I needed her to hold the horse, because my car couldn't get up the muddy hill with the horse on board. Once at the top, I'd come back for the horse and reload him. Still she stared at me. Patiently, I explained again. This time, I thought, she'd understand and, flabbergasted by my utter brilliance, she'd spring into action, full of admiration for my cunning and resourcefulness. I waited eagerly for her awed reaction. Still she stared. Then she said "where are you trying to go?" Clearly, I thought, she'd been so stunned by my total mastery of mud-and-car tactics that she was just too thunderstruck to really understand what I was saying. Finally, she said "Well, the exit's behind you - er, down the hill." Crestfallen, my master plan in tatters and my navigational ability (as always) sorely lacking, I reloaded P(C)parrot, turned glumly round and slunk dejectedly back down the hill.
Next up was Aston and, once again, I went kid-free. This time, though, I had a plan. Not a very dignified plan, but a plan nevertheless. Those of you who've also sat, semi-naked, in a horse trailer and squeezed milk out your boob into a bottle before the showjumping phase will likely sympathise when I say that directional control over the milk can be a little lacking - but that it's perfectly do-able and infinitely preferable to squirting the stuff over the car whilst parked on the A12.
At Borde Hill, I had discovered that when P(C)arrot's advert had said he could be tricky in the dressage... dear Lord... At Aston, I took him by surprise. Off trailer, walk to dressage, into arena. It was all going reasonably well, in that he was in roughly the right pace, doing faintly the right movements, but I knew that the walk could well be my undoing. Excited beyond belief at Borde Hill, he'd jogged through the walk and exploded into canter when I'd asked for an upwards trot transition. And in canter he had stayed, mainly on the wrong leg, but sometimes not, for the rest of the test. We came to walk. He went to tank off. I dropped my reins. He stayed in walk. We came to H. I thought trot, just thought it, did nothing but lighten my seat and he exploded into trot. I dropped the contact again. He stayed in trot. And that, for us, was a huge improvement.
As I got him ready for the showjumping, I noticed a kind of a presence hanging around. I carried on for a bit, but I realised it was a demon, and it clearly wanted something from me. Better, I thought, to deal with it now, rather than deal with it as I cantered into the ring. I broke off from booting up and went round to the front of the car. "So,", I said, gesturing to the demon to pull up a pew, "what can I do for you?". The demon shovelled itself into the driver's seat next to me and, gazing idly at the dried breast milk that splattered the dashboard, it said, "well, that's an Intermediate Novice track out there. 1.15m. You've only ever done that height on Vito. And it took you over a year to work up to it. Yet you've had this horse for about a month! I think you only did it because Vito was such a good horse. I don't think you can do it on anything else. And this horse has been ridden by a four-star rider. What on earth makes you think he'll jump for you? What if you miss? You'll crash!" "Ok," I said, with a sigh. "You make some good points. Vito was amazing. But if my three years with Vito mean anything at all, then let it be that he taught me well. Make absolutely no mistake" I continued, very firmly, "I can showjump. In my own right, independently of Vito, I can showjump. And no, I am not remotely in the same league as this horse's previous rider, of course not, but I'm good enough. I'm good enough to ride this horse round that track and that, for now, is all I need to be." The demon opened the door and scuttled off away from the breast milk and into the rain, but its visit had unsettled me, and I needed to do more. I thought back to my last lesson and picked out two points, something to give me some structure when I crossed the start line. Keep the revs up, I thought, and keep the inside bend round turns. So I went out, I revved up the canter and P(C)parrot jumped a smashing round for clear.
The first half of the XC was great but then, of course the directional misjudgement came into play and I rode rather aimlessly round a couple of extraneous fields before finally stumbling across a fence with a yellow flag on it, which I thought I'd better jump. P(C)parrot, quite clearly dubious about my navigational ability and probably fed up with his identity crisis as to whether he was a Parrot, a Carrot, a transvestite gelding with a girl's name or just in need of an apostrophe, called on his alter-ego, The Tank, and carted me home before I could say "shoulda switched the snaffle to a gag for this phase."
Well done on the clear in the SJing 
