Horse shows drive me just a little bit crazy. Everyone who hasn’t been satisfied with second place knows the effect horse shows can have on the psyche, and this is a good kind of stress; it pushes us to work harder, study more, and think bigger.
But for me, horse shows also can make me doubtful. Training in the comfort of my barn, I’m generally pretty upbeat; I love my horses and I feel satisfyingly skilled. But once I get to a show, everything gets thrown into doubt: These are really nice horses, are mine that nice? Can I beat that time? Oh crap why haven’t I schooled that turn!?
In an effort to keep my Zen intact, I’m approaching this season—my rookie year as a professional—class by class. Every horse of mine is either just starting their show career or is a new ride for me, so mapping out the year has been an amusing exercise in expectations. I created a show season flow chart that can be summed up like this: Did you fall off, curse out loud, or do extensive mathematics to determine the number of jumping faults? If “No” proceed to next show, if “Yes” proceed to question life choices and weep, then get off the tack room floor and get back to work.
Since I was just a little kid, I’ve had a secret weapon in keeping the horse show doubt at bay; I tell myself I’m “a nobody” in relation to the larger horse show world. Nobodies are everywhere at horse shows. They’re the names you don’t know. They’re getting soaked at the wash rack and mucking out their own stalls. They’re riding the horse that’s just nice enough to get by. When their name appears on the top of the results board, “somebodies” wonder who they are and assume it to be an anomaly. You may wonder why I’d want to be a nobody. To understand, let me tell you how my secret weapon was born. Forgive me if what follows gets a bit silly. I want to tell the truth and the truth is, kids are ridiculous, and I was no exception.
Like most horse stories worth telling, it starts with poop. Actually, it starts with a pony, but we all know the intimate relationship between the two, so I stand by my first statement. It happened at the final show of the season. My medium pony hunter Breezy and I were neck-and-neck with another pair in the year-end standings; every point counted. We entered the ring for our final over-fences round; the theme music from Chariots of Fire may have been playing. I nodded stoically to my family and friends in the stands, gave my pony a pat, and galloped toward my destiny.
Jump after jump came up perfectly, interrupted only by lead changes smooth as flowing silk. Cantering to the last line I thought, ‘Yes, we’ve done it! We are unstoppable!’ We are…stopping? I kicked frantically, but Breezy had already determined my destiny; he came to a complete halt in the middle of a five-stride line and took a long and leisurely poop, and then cantered out over the oxer. In my 8-year-old brain, I had just brought eternal shame to myself and family.
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My mom met me at the in-gate doubled over with laughter. I was red-faced and furious.
“It is not funny! Everyone saw! STOP LAUGHING!” I wailed.
“Becky, nobody saw. Don’t worry, we’re nobodies!” Mom said through her laughter.
From a factual perspective, it was true. It was just me and my mom and a medium pony attending shows full of big barns and bigger name trainers and riders.
Being told I was a nobody should’ve made me more furious, but I actually loved it. Being a nobody made me feel immune to embarrassment and ego; I no longer had to worry about every misstep. Every time I made a big mistake or had a bad show, my friends and family would simply joke that the mistakes of nobodies went unnoticed.
It went the other way, too. Later, when my pony jumper qualified for Devon and indoors, or when my junior hunter and I earned back-to-back championships at AA shows, we’d proudly declare it was a good day to be a nobody.
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As I approach the 2015 show season, I know I have to do more to increase my visibility; I need to advertise, and network, shake hands, kiss babies (preferably baby horses) and most importantly, do well in the show ring, if I’m going to make it as a professional. In short, I need to try to become a somebody. I’ve used my nobody status as a tool to stay focused inwards, on my horses and on my own improvement, without worrying about what everybody else may be doing, or thinking of me, for that matter.
But the more I get drawn into the larger culture and network of the horse industry, the more disconnected I feel from myself and my sense of horsemanship. Think of it like this: When I am on a horse, I want my focus and feel to be 100 percent trained on that animal moment to moment. All my horses have broader training goals and lesson plans, of course, but during the ride, I don’t want any outside influences interfering with our communication. The more baggage and people that get carried into the ride with me, the less focused I am.
So, regardless whether I’m a nobody or a somebody, or a little of both, the question is the same: how do I keep my focus where it should be while still making room for the human connections and practical concerns that come with the industry? Practice is the short answer, but I think too, confidence is key. I need to have confidence that, either as a somebody or a nobody, I do belong to this horse show culture. And that even if my horse stops and poops midway down a line, other horsemen (and horsewomen) will still see my quality and the quality of my horses. In a few weeks, I’ll attend the first show of the season. It’ll be the first show ever for my 4-year-old, Deep Woods, so I’m sure there will be plenty to report back with. Get ready, horse show culture, here I come.
Rebecca Young works for Everbold Farm in Kirkland, Ill. She rides, trains, shows, and breeds primarily jumpers but does not discriminate against the occasional hunter. When not on horseback, Rebecca takes great joy in hiking, skiing, mountaineering,
