My first novice event: nerves, lessons and better judgement

My clearest memory of my first event is not the ribbon or the prize rug. It is the laminated dressage test sheet, clipped to my coach’s board, and the way my hands shook when I tried to hold the pencil still. I had trained, planned and packed for weeks, yet sitting beside the warm-up arena, I felt as nervous as if I were riding a championship final. Learn more about Recovering From A Disappointing Dressage Score 3535.

The first time I rode a novice event, I had no idea how much of the day would be spent managing my own thoughts. Novice is a level, not a promise of easy riding: the horse still had to complete a dressage test, jump a showcourse and cross solid country fences. For me, that combination was both exciting and intimidating. I wanted a decent result badly enough to forget that the purpose was also to learn how a horse trial actually works.

On paper, the plan looked manageable. We had entered a one-day event on the outskirts of Melbourne, with enough time between phases to walk the course, change tack and breathe. I had marked the movements in my test sheet, packed the right boots and enlisted my family to help with the horse float. What I had not allowed for was how quickly a small mistake could turn into a large imagined disaster.

I went into the event with one firm intention: finish every phase safely and leave with something useful to work on. It was a sensible target, but not one I could control completely. That distinction became the lesson I carried home from my first novice event.

Arriving at the one-day event

Our novice was a local horse trial rather than one of the major Sydney or Melbourne three-day events. Horse floats arrived from every direction, competitors checked their numbers beside the judges’ cars, and volunteers directed people towards the warm-up arenas. I had watched plenty of eventing online, yet the ordinary scale of the day was different: ponies sharing a grass waiting area, dogs under shade cloths and club members folding tables for the lunch break.

The waiting was harder than the competition. Every time another rider jumped a clear round, I imagined the fence appearing larger in front of me. My horse could hear the rails and react to my sudden grip. I reminded myself that nerves were information rather than a verdict, but the reminder did not stop my pulse racing. My coach noticed and gave me something practical to focus on: one breath before the first stride, one clear aid, then let the horse go forward.

Club volunteers kept the day moving with a barbecue, raffle tickets, sponsor sashes and prize rugs for the class winners. Their cheerful organisation made the competition feel like a community gathering rather than an examination. Between those jobs, I revisited some rider training resources and reread my plan. In hindsight, I was trying to solve a familiar problem with extra information when what I needed was a steadier routine.

The dressage test taught me to slow down

Dressage was where my neatly written plan began to crumble. The white arena markers looked wider than they had at home, and every transition seemed to arrive before I had finished the previous movement. My horse offered a willing trot, but my habit of anticipating the next test sheet made me rush the half-halt and hold the reins too tightly. The judge’s comments were kind, yet they pointed to exactly what I had felt: rushing through the corners and missing the rhythm I had practised.

When the score came out, I felt crushed. I had wanted to walk away with a number that proved all the early-morning training had worked. Instead, the score sat in the middle of what I knew I could achieve. I later unpacked that spike of disappointment in a dressage debrief, because the score was only half the story. The other half was recognising that my horse had stayed with me while my own tension travelled straight up the reins.

The useful change was small. I stopped trying to ride the entire test at once and concentrated on the movement in front of me. Canter transition, circle, halt: finish that piece before worrying about the next. My horse became softer once I stopped hurrying, and the arena suddenly felt less crowded. That lesson followed me through the rest of the day.

Show jumping exposed my impatience

The showcourse was compact, with the height written as 1.05 metres on the Australian scoreboard. Metric heights can be deceiving in photographs, but the combination of fences, fillers and tight turns required more attention than the number suggested. I had entered the class wanting to jump cleanly and perhaps pick up a placing ribbon. My competitive plan had not included the possibility of one rail down and a slow round.

The first fence came up, my horse took off, and my instinct was to pull. I caught the rail with my boot and nearly lost the rhythm. Rather than trying to recover the perfect round in my head, I shortened my plan: ride the next fence, preserve the canter and keep counting. We finished with the rail down, but the rest of the course gave me a clearer picture of where my attention had gone.

By the final combination, I stopped watching the clock and started watching the horse. That made the time slower but the jumping more rhythmic. I left the ring knowing my horse could jump the course; the unresolved issue was my willingness to let him use his balance without interference. It was also the first time I understood why riders speak so freely about the mental side of eventing.

Cross-country brought the nerves back

Cross-country began in the heat of the afternoon, which is familiar Australian eventing: fly rugs, sunscreen, ice buckets and a good hose waiting beside the start. Before entering, I had to complete the local biosecurity and gear checks, including checking the horse’s harness and tack under the state rules that vary from event to event. Those details can feel like friction before a novice round, but they are part of responsible competition and give the day its working rhythm.

The course had solid fences that looked substantial from the ground. At the start, the officer’s countdown made everything feel immediate. I had spent months preparing to jump a metre, but country fences demanded balance and trust more than height. Halfway around, a bird burst from the grass and my horse flicked his head. I shortened my rein without meaning to, and he stopped. The trouble was mine, not his.

After that stop, I remembered the simple advice from my coach: look beyond the fence, keep your legs under you and let the horse find his stride. We moved off again, jumped the remaining obstacles and cantered towards the finish with my heart hammering. I did not pretend to be unafraid. I acknowledged the fear, stayed with the horse and finished. That honest combination of nerves and responsibility felt far more useful than pretending I had conquered the cross-country in one round.

Learning to listen to my horse

The biggest change began at home, in the days after the event. I had been treating my horse’s mistakes as evidence that I had not trained hard enough. Reviewing each phase, I could see how often my tension reached him before he could respond to the question I was asking. A half-halt became a tug, a request for forward motion became a reminder to slow down, and my hurried breathing changed the rhythm of my aids.

Listening did not mean allowing him to avoid everything or pretending he owed me an effortless round. It meant noticing the difference between resistance caused by confusion and resistance caused by discomfort. It also meant accepting that partnership is built through consistent details: the same leg cue, the same release, the same quiet moment after a difficult exercise. Trust grows when the horse can predict what will happen after he tries something unfamiliar.

My family and club community helped with that perspective. They brought water, checked the float straps and listened without turning every score into a verdict. Their support mattered, but the horse still carried me through the unfamiliar combination of phases. He was patient with my nerves and tried to meet each new challenge. I began to see the event less as a series of obstacles to conquer and more as a day spent communicating with a partner.

The lessons I still use today

Looking back, the lessons were less dramatic than I expected. Walk the course slowly, because haste in one phase can follow you into the next. Write a short list before competing, then focus on what is happening rather than what might happen. Keep the rider’s breathing under control. Notice when tension is coming from the body, and give the horse clearer signals. These ideas sound simple, but applying them under pressure is the work.

I also learned to judge an event by more than the score. A clear round after a mistake can reveal progress. A lower score can contain a valuable change in the horse-and-rider picture. Comparing myself with the rider I thought I should be had wasted energy I could have used to understand my own performance. The novice event gave me a framework for reviewing competition and training, rather than using one result to define either.

That framework still shapes how I prepare. I look for the one thing I want to carry into the next round, while accepting that the horse may need a different amount of time. Eventing became less about controlling every outcome and more about preparing well, listening carefully and making sensible decisions when plans changed. My first novice event taught me that trust is not a mood; it is built through hundreds of ordinary moments, including the awkward ones.

Take those ordinary moments seriously. Set one achievable goal for your next horse trial, note what your body does when pressure rises and give your horse the clearest version of your aids you can. When you are choosing a date, pin it into the competition schedule, prepare for one phase at a time and remember why the day matters beyond the result.