It’s one thing when my horses are idiots; it’s another when I’m to blame.

The plan was to school Midge during the lunch break, so I’d be out of everyone’s way. I cleared it with Those In The Know, tacked him up, and off I went. But a schedule change was made, and someone had a lesson during the “lunch break,” so I was asked to just ride around the arena.

A smarter person than I would have gotten off and ridden him after the clinic was over—I was staying overnight anyway, and frankly it was cooler at 7 p.m. than it was at noon. But I am not, as it turns out, a smarter person.

So instead, I attempted to organize Midge on long, straight lines around the arena, and on a 15 meter-or-so circle above the A end of the ring. This was, to use the vernacular, really stupid.

Midge started very civilized, but to really loosen up he needs to move sideways, something I didn’t really have at my disposal. And when, in the process of trying my piaffe-to-pirouette exercise, he just built and built and built, I didn’t have anywhere to let him down. And then I realized that half of the 2008 Olympic Team was watching me, and oh bollucks, I’d better get it together, and eventually I ended up just taking him out for a hack and fuming at my own idiocy.

Note—when I’m pissed, I cry. When I’m frustrated, I cry. Yes, Virginia, I am a stupid softy girlie girl at heart, in spite of the fact that I throw hay bales with ease and wrangle big strong horses. And so when Michael Barisone very kindly pulled me aside and said, “Hey, kid, that wasn’t the best of plans,” I cried. Like a sissy-mary.

He graciously took my patheticness in stride, and he gave me some fabulous advice and the best pep talk I’ve ever gotten in my life. Good horses are idiots at 8 years old, he said. It’s a huge pain, and they want to suck you into their web of stupid, and you need to learn to put it aside and ride the basics until they say yes, ma’am, because then at 12 when the stupid goes away you can sit up there and make it look like grace embodied. Until then, DON’T GET SUCKED INTO HIS CRAP. You know how to ride, he said. Do it.

Ugh. I KNOW BETTER. Ugh.

Ella, fortunately, did make me look like I have at least half a clue, although Debbie immediately identified that I suffer from Right Rein of Death syndrome, and that perhaps instead of pulling on it constantly I should, you know, use a few of my other body parts. Psh.

Debbie’s never taught me before, nor has she ever seen Ella go, so it was a getting-to-know-you kind of lesson, which was fine. She asked, “What do you want to work on?” And I said, “Well, I think it all sucks equally.”

So we did a tour of Grand Prix movements, with her kicking my butt about my right rein-itis and encouraging me to do a lot of the things I already do, which made me feel great—it means I’m on the right plan.

She actually made a few suggestions that I’ve been dealing with in opposition at home. She told me to ride the piaffe and passage more forward, and since I’ve been really working to make them little and rideable and under, being told to go more forward means I’ve done my homework, and can move on. Hoorah. Ditto the left side—I’ve been after the right hind leg, and now it’s caught up to the point where I need to work the left a little. Always new problems, and that’s a good thing, instead of dwelling on the same mistake over and over.

Best part of the day: Ella was TOTALLY cool in the big arena, no stress, no spookiness, no mouthy crap. She was up, but in a nice way, a fun, rideable energy. GOOD news for next month.

So this morning I’m going to just bop around on her in the cool, take her up and down the big hill that goes from warm-up to competition ring until it’s not scary anymore, and then hopefully by then traffic between here and Lendon’s will have decompressed enough for me to hit the road. I did take advantage of the quiet of last night to take some photos around Hamilton Farm—enjoy!

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