When Schooling Has To Become Showing

There is a familiar point in an eventing preparation where the work in front of us changes character. At home, I can circle, repeat, rebalance, and quietly solve a problem with my horse. At a competition, the same movements have to arrive in a particular order, inside a set time, while a judge watches from the car, the warm-up fills with unfamiliar horses, and my own thoughts become much louder than they were at home.

That change requires a mental shift as much as a practical one. Training mode is generous with mistakes and curious about the answer. Test mode asks for commitment, accuracy, and the ability to keep going when one movement is less polished than planned. Learning to move between those two states has changed the way I prepare for dressage, show jumping, and the wider rhythm of a horse trial.

Training Is For Solving Problems

Training gives us permission to investigate. If my horse falls through a shoulder, loses rhythm in a transition, or offers a tense halt, I can ride the exercise again with a different balance or a clearer aid. There is time to make a small adjustment, praise the right response, and repeat it until the answer becomes familiar. That flexibility is essential because a schooling session is where the partnership develops.

A test does not offer the same luxury. The movement arrives once, or close enough to once that I have to treat it that way. If the centre line is crooked, I cannot spend the next thirty seconds repairing it as though we are still in the arena at home. I have to ride the next movement, preserve the rhythm, and avoid allowing one error to become the emotional headline of the whole performance.

This does not mean training should become rigid. It means I need to identify the purpose of each ride before I mount. A schooling session might be for improving the quality of the trot, while a test ride is for demonstrating the best work already available. Confusing those aims can leave a rider nagging at the horse during the very moment when confidence and fluency matter most.

I have found it useful to finish some home sessions with a short “performance run”. I ride a section without stopping, even if something is untidy, then return to the specific issue afterwards. That practice teaches me to keep my body soft and my attention forward. It also gives my horse a clearer message: a mistake is information, not an emergency.

Build A Reliable Pre-Test Routine

The transition begins before entering the warm-up. A reliable pre-test routine reduces the number of decisions I have to make when the event grounds are busy. I like to know when the horse will be fed, when I need to tack up, how long I want to walk, and which few exercises will help us feel connected. The routine can flex around the conditions, but its bones remain familiar.

At an event in Australia, that preparation may have to account for a great deal more than nerves. A summer competition near Sydney or Wagga Wagga can mean an early start, hard ground, flies, and a horse that feels different after standing on the float. At a winter fixture outside Melbourne, cold rain can tighten both horse and rider before the first transition. The plan needs to include water, shade where possible, rugs or rain sheets, and enough time to deal with practical interruptions.

My warm-up is most effective when it is short on ambition. I am looking for an active walk, a supple connection, a few balanced transitions, and the feeling that my horse is listening. If I attempt to recreate an entire training session in the collecting ring, I usually make both of us tired and mentally crowded. The final minutes should sharpen the partnership rather than prove every skill we have ever practised.

A small physical ritual can help signal that the mode has changed. I might adjust my reins, take one longer breath, soften my hands, and choose a simple phrase such as “forward and accurate”. These actions sound insignificant, yet repetition gives them meaning. Eventually, tacking up, entering the warm-up, and taking that breath become a bridge between preparation and performance.

Use The Course To Settle The Mind

Course walking has a similar role in eventing. A show jumping track can look manageable from the lorry park and feel entirely different once I am mounted, especially when the arena is crowded with sponsors’ boards, flower boxes, and a bright new combination. Walking gives the brain a map before the body has to execute the route. It lets me count strides, notice the terrain, and decide where the pace needs to be protected.

I have learned that walking alone can become another form of overthinking. Sharing the track with a trusted friend often makes the process more practical and less dramatic. We can discuss whether a turn is genuinely tight, where a horse might look at a filler, and which fences deserve my full attention. The simple act of saying the plan aloud helps separate useful information from imagined disaster. My reflections on this are captured in walking the course twice.

The same principle applies to a dressage test. I need to know the arena letters, the location of the judge, and the shape of each movement, but memorising the test is only part of the job. I also need a plan for the spaces between movements. Where will I rebalance? When will I prepare the next transition? What does “forward” feel like in this arena, rather than in my home arena?

Test mode becomes easier when the plan is specific but not fragile. I may decide that the first centre line will be ridden with a slightly stronger outside rein, or that I will think “straight, then halt” rather than worrying about the judge’s mark. These are useful riding instructions. A demand such as “this must be perfect” is too vague to guide the body and too heavy to carry around the arena.

Ride The Test You Have Practised

One of the hardest changes is accepting that competition day is a snapshot. The horse may feel brilliant, average, distracted, or unusually fresh. The weather may alter the footing, the warm-up may be smaller than expected, and the test may begin after a delay. The goal is not to force the exact sensation from Tuesday’s schooling session. The goal is to recognise what is available and ride that honestly.

This is especially relevant in dressage, where a rider can become preoccupied with producing a spectacular outline or a bigger movement. If I chase an appearance my horse cannot sustain, I lose the rhythm that would have earned us a steadier mark. A balanced, obedient transition is more valuable than a hurried attempt to make every step look impressive. Accuracy and calm communication give the judge something clear to reward.

A useful competition cue is to focus on the next piece of information. Before the centre line, I think about straightness. Before a medium trot, I think about the preparation and the return. After a less-than-perfect halt, I think about the first turn. This keeps my attention in the ride instead of sending it backwards to replay an error or forwards to predict the score.

The equipment supporting this process matters too. I do not want to experiment with a new girth, bit, saddle pad, or boots at a horse trial. Familiar gear removes unnecessary noise, and carefully chosen basics can make a substantial difference to comfort and confidence. I wrote about one especially meaningful example in best piece of equipment, because the right piece of kit can quietly support the work without becoming the focus of it.

Make Nerves Part Of The Routine

Competition nerves are not proof that I am unprepared. They are a normal response to caring about the result, the horse, and the people watching. Trying to eliminate every nervous feeling usually creates another task to fail at. It is more helpful to expect a little adrenaline and decide where it can go. I can use it to sit taller, ride with more intent, and pay attention to the first transition.

The rider’s breathing is often the quickest place to begin. Holding my breath makes my seat rigid and gives my horse a less inviting connection. I like to breathe out during a transition, soften my jaw, and check that my hands have not crept higher or stronger. These are tiny resets, but they can interrupt the spiral that starts with one tense moment and ends with a belief that the whole test is falling apart.

Family and the wider equestrian community can influence this mental state as well. At Australian events, there is often a familiar mix of volunteers, coaches, parents, friends, and riders helping one another with studs, numbers, plaiting, floats, and last-minute directions. That community is one of the best parts of the sport, although too many opinions close to the warm-up can make a simple plan feel crowded. I have become more selective about whose voice I need immediately before riding.

After the test, I try to resist giving myself an instant verdict. First comes practical care: cooling the horse, offering water, checking legs, and getting settled. Then I can look at the score sheet and ask useful questions. Did I ride forward? Did I prepare the movements? Did I recover when something went wrong? A test can reveal a training priority without defining the partnership or the entire day.

The mental shift from training mode to test mode is really a shift in responsibility. At home, I am responsible for finding and shaping the answer. In the arena, I am responsible for presenting the best answer my horse and I can give that day. That requires preparation, but it also requires restraint. I have to trust the miles, the repetitions, and the relationship enough to stop searching for a better version at the exact moment performance begins.

The next time I school, I will try to include both states on purpose: time to experiment, followed by a quiet, uninterrupted run. I will walk the route, choose a few clear cues, and let nerves exist without handing them the reins. Whether the venue is a local Pony Club ground, a busy EA event, or a larger horse trial near Adelaide or Brisbane, the aim remains the same: enter with a plan, ride the horse in front of me, and leave knowing we communicated as clearly as we could.