Lauren Sprieser

We had a clinic with Scott yesterday, and it was great, and you'll hear all about it tomorrow. Today, though, I present a harrowing tale of intrepid adventurers, fell beasts, and a soggy end. Let it never be said, dear readers, that dressage riders are not hard-core.

Saddle fitting is one part art, one part science and one part magic. And like anything artistic or scientific, there's an element of practice involved; the more horses you see, the more saddles you see, the better trained your eye becomes.

It is crucial that an educated and experienced professional be involved in the fitting of a saddle to a horse and rider, and by that I do not mean someone who simply reps one brand of saddle for one company.

It was boys' weekend this weekend at a little dressage show at Foxcroft, a local girls' school with a big, big equestrian facility. Indy came to show first level with my mom, and I took Midge and Tres to do fourth level.

Midge came, saw, and rocked out! 

Our exhibition was between the last Young Rider test and their award ceremony. When Brian O’Connor, the announcer, said they were running a little early, I figured I'd hop on 5 minutes ahead of my plan so that they wouldn't be kept waiting. So imagine my surprise when, about 10 minutes later, after only stretchy walk-trot-canter and a little shoulder-in, they're telling me to go, go, go. Yikes!

1. Holy snap, Midge grew up.

I don't think he's been anywhere by himself since he was about 4. He's been calm, professional and mature all weekend. No, he's not ill—I took his temperature myself. Twice. I think he's just actually turning into an adult.

Whoa!

I have spent many a blog entry waxing philosophical on what a magical place Gladstone is, so today I won't bore you with more of that. But seriously: There's no place like it. It's hallowed ground.

Sometimes, I wish I'd been an accountant.

The highs, the lows. Putting your happiness in the hooves of 1400 pounds of prey animal with the reasoning capacity of a toddler. It makes for a volatile life!

Thank goodness for summer vacations. People leave the Mid-Atlantic en masse at the end of July and the beginning of August for their summer homes, or for pre-school-year vacations to cooler climes. And it's only days after they go that temperatures here plummet to reasonable levels.

So: Thank you, travelers, for making the weather better in your absence!

After our adventure with the ratchet straps in packing for this weekend’s horse show, I was unhappy, although not altogether surprised, when, lumbering down the highway, I watch a bale of hay and four bags of shavings come a’tumbling off my trailer roof and into traffic.

This is going to be a hellofa day.

It's T-minus two weeks to Gladstone, and I am a big ball of stress.

I'm pretty predictable: Once I'm on the grounds, I'm cool as a cucumber. But until then, I'm not sleeping well, I'm unfocused, I'm eating anything that will hold still long enough. I'm a red-hot mess.

With a "normal" show this ridiculous period of psychosis only lasts a day, tops, if not a mere few hours. But Gladstone is A Big Deal, and accordingly, I'm fried well in advance.