Why I Walk Every Course Twice Before Deciding

Before a horse trial, I can usually tell myself that I am being sensible. I am checking the map, studying the fences, thinking through the time, and trying to make a plan that will keep both horse and rider confident. Then I arrive at the course, look at the first combination, and realise that the real work has only just started.

Walking a track once gives me an impression. Walking it twice lets me test that impression. The first lap is about seeing the fences as a sequence. The second is where I notice the slope after the hedge, the patch of churned-up ground beside the water, or the fact that the turn to the final line is tighter than it looked on paper.

This matters especially in Australian eventing, where a competition can mean a long float trip, changing ground, and a course that feels very different from the neat diagram in the programme. A damp morning at Werribee, a hard summer surface near Scone, or a windy day on the outskirts of Perth can change the questions a track asks.

I do not walk twice because I want to make the course feel frightening. I do it because I want to decide with clear eyes. By the time I leave the second inspection, I want a practical plan, a realistic rhythm, and enough flexibility to listen to my horse rather than cling to an idea made beside the lorry park.

The First Walk Is About The Big Picture

My first course walk is deliberately broad. I start by finding the numbered flags and following the track without trying to solve every fence. I want to understand where the course opens up, where the turns begin to compress, and which parts will ask my horse to change gear.

The overall shape tells me a great deal about how I should ride. A flowing beginning may invite a forward rhythm, while a technical middle section might need a quieter approach and sharper preparation. I look for the places where a horse could lose balance, not just the fences that look impressive in the photographs.

This first look is also when I judge the terrain. A downhill approach can make a straightforward oxer feel much bigger, while an uphill turn may take more time than expected. On a large Australian property, the distance between fences can be deceptive. A long gallop across open grass can leave a horse carrying plenty of speed into a technical question that appears almost immediately afterwards.

The Second Walk Finds The Details

The second walk is slower and much more specific. I stand at each fence and look back towards the approach, then turn around to study the landing and the next decision. I count strides where it helps, but I also pay attention to the quality of the ground and the room available for an ordinary, honest jump.

This is often when I notice the details that influence my line. Is the take-off area slightly deeper on the left? Does the right-hand flag sit close to a hedge, making the natural line narrower? Is there a distraction beyond the fence, such as parked vehicles, a tent, or spectators gathered near the water complex?

I also walk the alternatives, even when I expect to take the direct route. Seeing the long route in person gives me a useful comparison. Sometimes the direct option is genuinely simple. Sometimes it only looks efficient until I stand at the turn and realise how much accuracy it demands after a tiring stretch of galloping.

It Helps Me Match The Plan To My Horse

Course walking is never separate from the horse underneath me. The same track can be a confident, flowing ride for one horse and a careful, technical test for another. My horse’s balance, experience, confidence, and current fitness all affect how I interpret what I see.

If my horse is green around water, I need to allow room for a proper look without throwing away the line. If he tends to flatten when excited, I need to think about where I will rebalance before a related distance. If he is tired after a long journey, a forward plan still needs to include moments where I can quietly check that I have him with me.

That is why I resist copying another rider’s strategy. A professional may make a direct line look effortless, but I need to build a ride that suits my partnership. My job is to give clear instructions, keep the rhythm dependable, and leave enough mental space to respond when the horse gives me new information.

Australian Courses Reward Practical Thinking

There is a particular practicality to eventing in Australia. Competitors often travel several hours with a float, arrive before sunrise, and work around weather that can move from crisp to hot in a few hours. The course walk has to account for the conditions that may exist when I ride, not only what I see at breakfast.

At a Victorian event in winter, the ground can change noticeably between the first walk and cross-country. In a Queensland summer, heat and humidity can affect how quickly a horse settles and how much energy he has left. Around Sydney and the Southern Highlands, a wide course can include firm patches, soft turns, and slopes that deserve more respect than their photographs suggest.

There is also the practical reality of the Australian eventing calendar. Entries, fuel, accommodation, and float maintenance all add up, particularly when a local event means a full weekend away. When I have invested that time and money, I want to ride thoughtfully rather than let nerves or haste make decisions for me.

Walking Twice Settles My Rider Nerves

The first time I walk a technical course, I can feel my mind rushing ahead. I imagine missed lines, awkward approaches, and all the ways a good round might unravel. That nervous energy is familiar to many riders. It does not mean I am unprepared; it means the result matters to me.

A second walk turns vague worry into separate jobs. Instead of thinking, “That whole section looks difficult,” I can say, “I will establish the canter before the turn, keep my eyes on the next flag, and ride the centre of the combination.” Specific instructions are much easier to carry into the start box.

I use the second lap to rehearse my language as well. I decide where I will say “steady,” where I will allow the horse to travel, and where I need to keep my body quiet. That mental rehearsal gives me something useful to do when adrenaline arrives. A simple plan is steadier than trying to feel brave.

The Walk Includes The Parts Between Fences

It is tempting to focus only on the jumps, but the spaces between them often determine how successful the round will be. I study the turns, the available landing area, and the places where I can make a small adjustment without creating drama.

I pay attention to where I can let my horse stretch into the bridle and where I need to bring him back. I mark the locations that might become slippery after rain, as well as the open stretches where the wind could affect a lighter horse. If there is a water complex, I look at the approach, the entry, the exit, and the next fence rather than treating the water as one isolated question.

Equipment and presentation can support that practical preparation, too. I like having reliable, uncomplicated gear for long competition days, and I have found useful riding essentials when checking what needs to be packed before leaving home. The less time I spend searching for a missing item at the float, the more attention I can give to the course and my horse.

The Final Decision Happens At The Fence

By the end of the second walk, I am not trying to create a perfect script. I am deciding which line best balances ambition and responsibility. That might mean choosing the direct route because it suits my horse’s rhythm, or taking an alternative because it gives us a better chance of staying confident and clear.

I also decide where I will allow a little flexibility. A horse can have a look, lose a stride, or land slightly differently from the picture in my head. If I have walked the options, I am more likely to make a calm adjustment instead of forcing the original plan.

The final decision includes the time allowed, but speed is not the only measure of a good ride. A clean, balanced round that leaves my horse feeling positive is worth far more to me than chasing seconds at the expense of trust. Eventing is a partnership sport, and the course walk should protect that partnership.

A Good Plan Still Leaves Room To Listen

The best course walk does not remove uncertainty. It gives uncertainty a place to live. I know where I want to be, but I also know that the horse will tell me if the canter is changing, if the ground feels different, or if a question needs another stride of preparation.

That attitude has grown through plenty of ordinary competition days: the rushed walk, the fence that looked smaller from the ground, the turn that arrived sooner than expected, and the round that improved when I stopped trying to control every detail. Experience has taught me that preparation is valuable because it allows me to be adaptable.

The people around a horse trial help with that process. A coach may notice a line I have missed, a friend may remind me to breathe, and another rider may share a quiet word while we stand near the start. The barn community lessons I have collected over the years are part of how I prepare, even when the final decision belongs to me in the saddle.

Walking a course twice has become less of a ritual and more of a conversation with the track. The first lap tells me what the designer has built. The second tells me what my horse and I need to do with it. Somewhere between those two walks, the noise settles, the choices become clearer, and I can step forward with a plan that feels both brave and sensible.

Make your next course walk count by taking the first lap for the shape, the second for the details, and a quiet moment before mounting to match the plan to your horse. Follow Mania in the Middle for honest reflections on eventing, training, nerves, and the life built around horses.