What my first three-day event taught me about pacing

Before my first three-day event, I thought pacing meant deciding how quickly to ride cross-country. I pictured a stopwatch, a minute marker and a sensible speed that would keep my horse inside the time. I did not yet understand that pacing begins days before the first dressage salute, in the way a horse is travelled, warmed up, fed, rested and asked to concentrate.

A three-day event asks for a different kind of patience from a standard horse trial. Dressage requires accuracy without draining the horse’s attention, show jumping demands a fresh back and a careful eye, and cross-country brings the largest physical and mental test. The rider has to manage nerves, weather, gear, food, sleep and the temptation to spend tomorrow’s energy today.

My first experience also changed the way I look at preparation in Australia. A competition near Melbourne can bring cold rain and heavy ground, while an event outside Sydney or Brisbane may feel warm and dry enough to alter the plan before breakfast. Travel distances, float logistics, limited overnight stabling and the cost of keeping a horse in work all make efficient preparation part of the sport.

Before the first bell

The first pacing lesson arrived before we even left home. I had focused on the obvious jobs: plaiting, packing boots, checking the bridle and making sure the dressage test was secure in my memory. I had treated the trip as a single departure rather than the beginning of several demanding days.

Our float journey took more out of my horse than I expected. He arrived alert but tight through his neck and back, with the slightly watchful expression horses often wear when they are processing a new yard. I wanted to get him settled quickly, but rushing through arrival checks would have added pressure. Instead, I hand-walked him, offered water in small amounts, allowed him time to look around and kept the first ridden session short.

That approach sounds ordinary, yet it matters in the Australian competition setting. Many riders travel several hours to an event, sometimes leaving before dawn because suitable horse trials are not close to home. A horse that arrives after a long float trip from regional Victoria or the outskirts of Sydney may need more recovery time than the timetable seems to allow. The schedule is fixed; the horse’s readiness is not.

I also learned to pace my own preparation. I had packed too many “just in case” items and still managed to waste energy looking for things. A clear gear list, labelled bags and a simple routine would have left more attention for the horse. Organisation is a quiet form of stamina.

Dressage taught me to conserve

On the first morning, I wanted the dressage test to prove that we belonged there. That desire made every movement feel significant. I rode with too much intention, trying to manufacture polish instead of allowing the work we had practised to appear. My horse became tense, I became busy, and the test lost some of its softness.

The better choice would have been to spend less emotional energy in the warm-up. A three-day event is not the place to chase a perfect shoulder-in at the expense of the next two days. The goal is to produce a calm, accurate test while leaving the horse mentally available. A few good transitions, a balanced rhythm and a confident entrance may serve the whole competition better than an exhausting final schooling session.

I had to accept that pacing can look like restraint. Riders often feel pressure to make every phase count because entry fees, lessons, transport and accommodation are expensive. The local equestrian market reflects that pressure: a new saddle, a professional schooling ride or a full set of competition rugs can cost serious money, so it is easy to believe every start must deliver a breakthrough. Sometimes the most valuable result is a horse finishing the first phase relaxed and willing.

After my test, I resisted the urge to replay every mark. I changed out of competition clothes, cooled the horse properly and gave myself a defined period to think about the ride. Once that time was over, I moved on to the next job. Pacing included knowing when analysis stopped being useful.

The long middle day

The middle of a three-day event carries a strange kind of pressure. Nothing dramatic may happen, yet the event is still moving forward. There are horse inspections, stable checks, gear changes, course walks and conversations with other riders. Every small task competes for attention, and fatigue can arrive before the main jumping day begins.

I had imagined the rest day as a chance to switch off. In practice, it required careful maintenance. My horse needed enough movement to stay comfortable, though not so much that he became tired. He needed regular water, appropriate feed and time to stand quietly. I needed food that would keep me steady, a proper drink and a break away from the stable area.

This is where practical conditions matter. At some Australian venues, the weather can turn from bright sun to cold wind within hours, and a wet forecast can make rugs, spare boots and dry clothing essential. At others, shade is limited and the heat builds across the yards. I had to stop treating the weather as background scenery and include it in the energy budget for both of us.

The middle day also revealed how much a horse reads from its rider. If I hurried between jobs, he became more alert. If I stood beside him, breathed slowly and kept my movements predictable, he settled. The partnership is affected by the pace of the entire day, not just the seconds spent inside an arena.

Cross-country is a rhythm

Cross-country was the phase I had been waiting for, and that created its own danger. I was excited, nervous and determined to ride every fence with purpose. During the course walk, the jumps looked manageable as individual questions. The real challenge was linking them while preserving enough energy for the final kilometres.

My plan was simple: establish a useful gallop, check the rhythm before combinations and avoid wasting speed through indecision. I had learned that “fast” and “forward” are not interchangeable. A horse can cover the ground with a settled stride, or he can rush because the rider is anxious. Only the first version gives the pair a chance of finishing well.

The opening section went better than expected because I allowed the rhythm to develop. I did not attack every fence. I sat up for the questions that needed balance, then let the horse lengthen where the track allowed it. At one point, I noticed that I was holding my breath. Relaxing my shoulders helped him stretch into the contact and made the next few fences feel more organised.

The weather added another layer of judgement. Rain can change footing, visibility and confidence, and a cross-country course that felt straightforward during the walk may ride differently once the surface is slick. I have written before about rain-soaked event focus, and that experience reinforced the same lesson: attention must stay with the horse, the ground and the next question rather than the whole frightening picture at once.

We finished with enough in reserve to care for him properly, which felt more important than any single time comparison. I had spent too long believing that good cross-country riding meant constantly asking for more. My first three-day event showed me that the better question is whether the horse can answer the next question in balance.

What fatigue revealed

The most useful information came after cross-country. Once the adrenaline faded, I saw the small signs that I had previously ignored: a slower response to my voice, a little stiffness while walking out and a less enthusiastic expression at feed time. None of these signs meant disaster, but together they required respect.

I became more disciplined about post-round care. Cooling down was not a rushed lap around the venue. I walked until his breathing settled, offered water, checked legs and feet, and paid attention to how he moved on a straight line and a turn. The details were reassuring, but the process taught me to assess rather than assume.

The same applied to my own body. My lower back was tired, my hands were sore and my concentration felt thin. I had been so focused on the horse that I had forgotten the rider is part of the equipment. Eating a proper meal and sleeping well were performance decisions, not rewards for finishing the exciting part.

At home, the cost of recovery became visible. A horse’s feed, farrier work, veterinary support, lessons and agistment continue whether the competition result is excellent or ordinary. The Australian market makes this especially clear when hay prices rise, transport costs climb and quality facilities fill quickly. Pacing training and competition helps protect the horse’s soundness and the budget that supports the partnership.

A pacing plan I still use

I now divide an event into manageable jobs rather than treating it as one huge test. Before travelling, I prepare the horse for the journey and make a realistic arrival plan. On dressage day, I aim for relaxation and accuracy instead of spending every reserve trying to improve one mark. Between phases, I protect quiet time. On cross-country, I ride the rhythm and adjust to the ground.

I also use a simple energy check. Is my horse attentive, comfortable and recovering normally? Am I making clear decisions or reacting to nerves? Has the weather changed the footing or the amount of effort required? These questions keep me connected to what is happening rather than what I expected to happen.

Pacing has changed my training at home as well. A schooling session does not need to contain every exercise. Some days are for quality transitions, some for strength, some for a short jump school and some for a hack that restores confidence. Building a horse’s fitness is a gradual process, and a tired horse cannot learn as well as a fresh one.

The biggest shift has been accepting that a successful event may look quiet. It may involve a steady dressage test, a sensible rest day, a cross-country round without heroic moments and a horse that comes home feeling positive. That kind of progress can be easy to overlook when results sheets and time penalties dominate the conversation, yet it is the foundation of a longer partnership.

My first three-day event taught me that pacing is less about holding back than spending effort with purpose. It is the discipline to leave something in reserve, the judgement to change a plan and the humility to listen when the horse offers information. Those lessons have stayed with me through wet events, long drives, nervous warm-ups and ordinary training days.

Take that approach into the next horse trial: prepare the whole weekend, protect the horse’s energy and give each phase the attention it deserves. Share your own eventing lessons with the riders around you, because the best pacing advice often comes from someone who has already made the mistake and learned how to ride the next day better.