Why I count strides between cross-country fences

There is usually a number going through my head as we approach a cross-country fence. Sometimes it is five, sometimes six, and on a line I have not ridden before it can change twice before I commit. I am counting canter strides, not individual hoofbeats. The distinction matters because a cross-country gallop has a four-beat rhythm, and one canter stride gives me a practical unit of distance and time.

That count is not a claim that horses are metronomes. A mare may shorten when the ground is firm, lengthen when she is unsure, or change rhythm because she has spotted something beyond the fence. Counting helps me organise my own response to what she is doing. On paper, course notes might describe two fences as a related distance, meaning that the rider should cover the same number of canter strides between them.

Counting also gives my nerves somewhere useful to go. Without it, my brain tends to catalogue every detail: the angle of my shoulders, the weather, a worrying line from the previous fence, and whether I am already running out of time mentally. A simple count turns an overwhelming course into a sequence I can manage. This is why I count strides between cross-country fences: it is less about controlling the horse and more about meeting the course with order and attention.

Over time, the habit has become more flexible. I still count when a distance is unfamiliar or my pulse is racing, but I no longer treat every number as a command. Sometimes I count all the way to the fence. Sometimes I count three strides, look up, and trust the horse to carry me onwards. The useful part is not the arithmetic. It is the connection between rhythm, balance and a clear line.

A number that changes everything

The first thing a count changes is my approach. If the course walk suggested six canter strides to a log and I realise we are travelling in five, I have information. I can sit back, allow the horse to gather, or accept that the fence will need a more direct approach. The count does not tell me what will happen, but it tells me when to prepare for the next movement.

It also prevents me from saving everything for the last possible instant. On a familiar related distance, I can prepare early and let the horse maintain momentum. On a blind fence, I can organise my breathing and balance before the hedge disappears from view. The count gives my body a sequence to follow while my eyes stay focused on the line.

That distinction between canter strides and hoofbeats is essential. “Six” does not mean I should jump after the sixth individual footfall. It means the horse should be travelling at a particular point in the sixth canter cycle. I use the rhythm to judge where we are, not to create a mechanical jumping pattern. A horse is allowed to adjust, and the count must adjust with her.

Walking the course is half the answer

Most of my useful counting happens before the flags are out. During the course walk, I note the likely number of canter strides between fences, the shape of the gallops and the places where the direct line may disappear. I try to walk the same route I intend to ride, including the tempting line that saves time on paper but asks for a sharper decision.

Related distances deserve particular attention. If one fence requires seven strides and the next is also meant to be ridden in seven, the second fence can feel surprisingly different. The horse may arrive balanced but tiring, or she may have used more energy than expected over the first obstacle. Knowing the intended rhythm helps me compare the course notes with what actually happens at speed.

Flags can alter the arithmetic as well. A fence judge and the course designer may use them to make a jump wider or to offer an optional route. On a course with several related distances, those small changes ripple through the rest of the ride. The number I wrote down while walking may no longer be the number I need, which is precisely why I keep checking rather than repeating yesterday’s plan like a mantra.

Counting can steal the moment

Counting can also become another way of overthinking. If I am obsessed with hitting every number, I can lose the horse in the process. Instead of feeling her hindquarters beneath me and responding to the ground, I am running a private arithmetic test. That is not communication, even if the count started as a useful tool.

I learned this the hard way on a horse who reminded me that balance comes before bravery. In my cross-country saddle post, I described the difference between simply sitting on a cross-country saddle and finding a secure, independent position. The same principle applies to counting. It should support balance, not make the rider rigid.

When a horse drifts, shortens or changes her canter, I now try to ask what she is telling me before forcing the original number to continue. I might restart the count, allow an extra stride, or stop counting altogether and follow the rhythm already established. If the fence is still several strides away, there is time to listen.

The safest reset often comes at a walk. After a difficult fence, I breathe, loosen my fingers and check in with the horse before organising the next sequence. That small pause keeps a useful habit from turning into a rigid rule.

Australian ground does not keep the same beat

Australian courses change quickly, and the ground has a strong influence on stride length. A frosty morning can produce a hard, fast surface before a hot afternoon makes the going surprisingly soft. Rain around regional Victoria or country New South Wales can leave deep footprints on the cross-country track, while Queensland heat can make the fences dry and the ground stubborn.

For that reason, I think of my count as an estimate rather than a promise. Firm ground may encourage a shorter stride, and the rider might need to adjust the timing to the fence. Wet going can make the horse pick her way more cautiously. Studs, boots and shoeing discussions with the farrier all affect how confidently she travels across the country.

Course distances are given in metres, but metres do not account for every change in the surface. A supposedly straightforward gallop can be transformed by a patch of greasy footing beside the take-off. The course is also judged by its fences and penalties, not by my private number system, so the count must remain flexible enough to serve the actual ground.

An Australian event day has its own rhythm. We travel between courses in horse floats and utes, often leaving before dawn for an early start or waiting for the temperature to settle. At country trials around places such as Bundaberg, regional New South Wales and northern Victoria, volunteers manage parking, the horse arena and the canteen while the raffle runs in the background. Near the truck, a cheerful “no worries, all sorted” can mean the lorry is muddy, the paperwork is complete and the coffee is still hot.

The horse is more than a metronome

The counting works because it reflects a partnership rather than replacing one. I count to stay organised, but I still need to know whether the horse is with me. Ears, eyes, the softness of her mouth and the quality of her canter all carry information. A correct number cannot compensate for a horse who has lost confidence.

That is why I want the count to remain a conversation. I make an adjustment, wait for her answer and then decide whether the rhythm is improving. Sometimes she gives me exactly the strides I hoped for. Sometimes she gives me six instead of seven and a clearer look at the obstacle, which is information I can use rather than a failure to be corrected.

The responsibility sits with me as the rider. If I have prepared badly, changed my aids at the last moment or arrived at a fence without enough impulsion, I cannot blame the horse for interrupting my count. A disciplined partnership includes owning those moments and making the next decision cleaner than the last one.

Care beyond the finish line matters just as much. I was reminded of that broader view through Chum and Acraju, which places horses and the people who care for them within a context larger than a single competition result. Competitive performance is only one part of the life we share with our horses.

Carry the rhythm forward

When I think about improving my counting, I do not want to make it more complicated. I practise it at the walk, on familiar gallops and over poles at home. The aim is to make the useful part automatic: recognise the canter rhythm, organise the approach and notice a change early enough to respond. It is a practical skill, much like maintaining impulsion in dressage or a stable rhythm in show jumping.

I also like to debrief one fence at a time rather than trying to solve the whole round while still sitting on a horse. After the finish, the course, the ground and the distractions fade, and I can remember where my count helped or where it took over. Sometimes that means keeping it. Sometimes it means leaving it at home until the next time.

Counting gives me a way to turn fear into attention and uncertainty into a clear next action. It does not remove the nerves; it gives them somewhere useful to land. Follow Mania in the Middle for more candid eventing stories, and share the stride count that steadies your ride in the comments.