Sometimes, things click
I had the shortest lesson ever this week. And one of the best in a long time.
It didn’t start out so great. Things were running late, so I was warming up a bit on my own–and warm up in winter = two point. Two point for a couple minutes so the horse’s back can warm up? Not my favorite thing, but worth doing. Two point for twenty minutes? Oy!
Once the lesson started, we were doing some work with bending and quarter lines and turns–and I was in that “I sort of get it but I’m not entirely sure I get it” place that I seem to be in so much lately. So my instructor had me leg yield from the rail to the center line and then ride into the halt.
And it clicked.
The feeling, I mean. It’s so much easier to stay centered during a leg yield if the horse is on all the aids. It’s so much easier to do a leg yield when the horse is really moving forward. And the feeling when a horse is really reaching underneath himself on the cross steps is incredible.
But the halt. Oh the halt. It’s the halt we’ve been waiting for all summer. It was a truly different thing than the park-horse halts I’ve been struggling with. It was the sort of halt where the horse is so round and underneath himself that you know he’s ready to step off into any movement you want to ask of him, and he’ll step off already on the aids. A beautiful, beautiful thing.
My instructor would have continued on with the lesson, but I was close to being done anyway. It was the perfect place to stop, and it’s a great feeling to be carrying through the week.
In which I ride a school horse and feel like an idiot
I rode the Schoolmeister this week. I always feel like I’m going to break him, which is ridiculous. The horse not only has my number, he also has my address, banking information, and email passwords. The only one about to be broken in this situation is me. Fortunately, it’s only my pride we’re talking about.
Case in point: the very simple instruction to “turn left.” I couldn’t do it.
The problem is that he’s a school master, through and through. Very well trained–so he does exactly what you ask for. Exactly. What’s. Asked. Not what I want, even though I’m sure he knew I didn’t really want to do a quarter spin, reining-horse style. Or a turn on the haunches. Or a turn on the forehand.
Good grief. Turning is one of the things you learn in your first lesson, right after the instructor says, “Here is the horse. These are his ears; this is his hind end” and right before she says, “I did tell you that he would jump over that oxer if you didn’t turn. Now, would you like to get up out of the dust, hop back on, and turn this time?”
Eventually, we did turn. Fortunately. I don’t think my ego could have handled it if we hadn’t. It’s bad enough that I can’t get him to halt properly. Stop, yes. But he parks out behind like an Arab halter horse. Which would be fine, if he were an Arab halter horse. But he’s a dressage school master, and he snickered all the way back to his stall. My goat, the cows, the chickens… heck, the whole farm. He’s got it all.
He’s just a very different ride than the two horses I normally ride. They’re greener, so we can muddle through things together. If my aids are a little fuzzy, it’s ok–because their responses are a little imprecise. The Schoolmeister? Exactly what’s asked. As soon as it’s asked.
It means I know immediately if my aids are wrong–and I know immediately if they are right. Instant feedback is a good thing. It also helps that he is so clear about what is right and wrong; there is no middle ground. It’ll make a difference when I go back to the other two horses. One would hope, anyway. I also realized my seat and legs are definitely better than they were last time I rode him–even on my once-a-week schedule, there IS progress.
Progress is always good. Maybe next time I’ll even be able to halt.