Tweedy Weekends
It’s been a whirlwind weekend, and finally someone caught me out. All the chatter of making dressage more integrated and more accessible has come around and bitten me in the ass. At our September festival we thought it might be fitting to offer some prizes to reward the people who have bred horses on the island and stuck by them even when others like myself are bringing in some great big fancy-schmancy warmbloods. This resulted in me consenting to act as a judge for a potential dressage pony/horse class at the Ellan Vannin Native Pony Association Summer Show.
With the date upon me before I even knew what was happening, I had set out on a quest to replace my tweed jacket, the last one having been hastily donated for fear of having to do a show hunter class ever again. Some of you will remember the excursion to the Iverk Show on Don Rosario, my 18 3, much to everyone’s amusement. My merriment too, until I discovered there were about twenty-five horses in the class and it was going to take most of the day for the ride judge to get through them all. Luckily my horse decided against having a complete fit and bucking the judge off despite her legs barely coming past the saddle flaps.
Tweed jacket found, it only took one pleading conversation with the nicest lady at a local bridal shop to have the sleeves graciously let down so you couldn’t see my elbows. Unfortunately, not a hope existed of finding a bowler hat for my massive cranium. On the morning, I donned my beagler that had been retired for my approved riding helmet ever since common sense took over at dressage shows. All this palaver almost went to waste as grey grumbling skies and drizzly mist covered not only the mountainside but everything else in sight. The pragmatic steward resisted the urge to tell me off as I arrived driving a clapped-out 1993 Subaru. He suggested I park on the roadside rather than the sloshy field.
Despite my reservations, I had a marvelous bunch of entrants, with all ponies round and forward (although sometimes a bit too much). Showing kids are more sharp witted than I ever was. Some of them almost rode me over, doggedly determined to display their ponies leggy movement. There were super animals, and all quite well ridden. If even only one of those canny riders comes over to the darker side of dressage, it’s a job well done.
By midday the sun had won the battle for the skies and we were all thoroughly melted in our layers of rain gear and woolies. Regardless of groggy weather it was refreshing to see so many young riders confident and competent around their charges. Tiny kids hauled resplendent and uncomplaining ponies across an enormous open field without a care or a worry, then hopped on board and got to work. In dressage these days we almost seem to be developing less horse-sense. Even I find myself getting rather precious about what shows to ride at and what footing is deemed superior enough. I often overlook the days when I rode my first little Irish dressage horse Nabucco outdoors, rain, hail or shine, emboldened by tales from my trainer on how she had schooled one of her first competition horses to Prix St George on the roads and lane-ways around the village. By the end of the day I vowed to myself to get out and school in the field again and maybe even have a look at classes for the Royal Manx Agricultural Show later this summer. I don’t think show riders need worry. Rex is going well, but he’s so full of spit and vinegar that sometimes just going into the spooky corner by the door is too much, let alone having a gallop across the show ring.
Despite my reservations, I had a marvelous bunch of entrants, with all ponies round and forward (although sometimes a bit too much). Showing kids are more sharp witted than I ever was. Some of them almost rode me over, doggedly determined to display their ponies leggy movement. There were super animals, and all quite well ridden. If even only one of those canny riders comes over to the darker side of dressage, it’s a job well done.
By midday the sun had won the battle for the skies and we were all thoroughly melted in our layers of rain gear and woolies. Regardless of groggy weather it was refreshing to see so many young riders confident and competent around their charges. Tiny kids hauled resplendent and uncomplaining ponies across an enormous open field without a care or a worry, then hopped on board and got to work. In dressage these days we almost seem to be developing less horse-sense. Even I find myself getting rather precious about what shows to ride at and what footing is deemed superior enough. I often overlook the days when I rode my first little Irish dressage horse Nabucco outdoors, rain, hail or shine, emboldened by tales from my trainer on how she had schooled one of her first competition horses to Prix St George on the roads and lane-ways around the village. By the end of the day I vowed to myself to get out and school in the field again and maybe even have a look at classes for the Royal Manx Agricultural Show later this summer. I don’t think show riders need worry. Rex is going well, but he’s so full of spit and vinegar that sometimes just going into the spooky corner by the door is too much, let alone having a gallop across the show ring.
Maybe it’s just me, getting older and creaky. I am a less likely these days to run around like a loon. And it takes an age for me to recover from a boozy night. At a recent physical the doctor asked me how many units of alcohol I was having each week, and without thinking I said, “Doctor I’m trying and trying, but I can’t manage anymore than a couple of glasses of pinot before I conk out.” And in the gym I find myself in the middle of something excruciating before I realize that I’ve only started it to compete with the bloody youngsters on the gym floor, determined not to be my age and even sometimes fooling myself.
The single minded narrow approach to lifting is getting me into a bit of trouble, and a blocky lower back has me paying closer attention to what I’m doing when I’m on my own without someone to watch for habits creeping in. Rex’s physio is also making a visit this week to inspect that all is going to plan since her last stopover. I glibly mentioned how developed my back muscles were getting and I could see her eyebrow twitch with disapproval. She suggested I have a check myself. There was a fleeting moment where I thought proudly how she’d like to check out my growing latissimus, until I realized she wanted to see how much damage I’ve done in my effort to be statuesque. I bet you Michelangelo’s David spent a fortune on physical therapy.
The single minded narrow approach to lifting is getting me into a bit of trouble, and a blocky lower back has me paying closer attention to what I’m doing when I’m on my own without someone to watch for habits creeping in. Rex’s physio is also making a visit this week to inspect that all is going to plan since her last stopover. I glibly mentioned how developed my back muscles were getting and I could see her eyebrow twitch with disapproval. She suggested I have a check myself. There was a fleeting moment where I thought proudly how she’d like to check out my growing latissimus, until I realized she wanted to see how much damage I’ve done in my effort to be statuesque. I bet you Michelangelo’s David spent a fortune on physical therapy.
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