By Laura Reiman
I’ve been pushing the statute of limitations on calling myself an eventer for some time now. It’s been two years since I’ve jumped a solid jump, and some days I’m too nervous to hack my spicy horse from the barn to the arena. Do I get my eventer card revoked?
I started riding when I was 8 at a local hunter/jumper barn. I loved the hunters and spent my time hoping I was good enough to earn a jacket with the show team name on it. I competed lightly until I was 16 and other sports pulled me away. When I got to college, I tried out for the riding team and failed miserably. My school has a well-known competition team that attracted a lot of accomplished riders and I was completely out of my depth, but it crushed me and I felt like a terrible rider. I lost my spark and eventually stopped riding.
When I picked riding up again as an adult, it was because I’d impulsively signed up for a yoga and eventing retreat in Ireland and thought it might be prudent to get on a horse again before two-a-day cross-country bootcamp. I was instantly hooked and I felt like I’d found my people. Eventers are gritty. They’re rough around the edges, community-driven, and very brave. I look up to them. I want to be one of them.
Then my horse got sick. I was kicked out of the eventing barn I thought was family because the trainer didn’t understand EPM and wanted my troublemaker of a horse gone. The only place that would take me was a dressage farm. I hate dressage [Disclaimer: Yes, I’m aware that dressage inherently means proper flatwork, and yes I’m also aware that eventing includes a dressage phase]. I’m terrible at dressage. It’s hard, and there’s no way you will ever get me to a straight dressage show. Don’t even get me started about matching saddle pads and crystal browbands. That’s what I used to say.
That dressage barn was a rough place for me. It was the type of place where if your lesson was going downhill, the trainer would pull you off and fix the horse himself. This reinforced the idea that dressage was the absolute worst and that I couldn’t ride my own horse and needed to pay for lots of training rides. If 3-4 days went by without a training ride, my horse would get extremely difficult for me and I needed a tune-up. I would try to approach my trainer to ask him if he could tailor training rides to be more about making my horse rideable for me and less about teaching him more advanced dressage movements, but the response would be, “don’t you want your horse to be the best he can be?” How could I argue with that?
When I moved to a different dressage-focused barn with female instructors that empowered me and spoke in a more understandable language, my world opened up. I realized that just because I wasn’t inherently good at a discipline, didn’t mean I had to hate it. I learned to love the challenge of dressage and respect the attention to detail and body awareness/control dressage riders have. I gained an awareness and appreciation for how dressage is what gets me safely from one jump to another and keeps my horse as sound as possible. I am also the first to admit that finishing on your dressage score at an event and still getting last place can get old rather quickly, so time spent working on the flat is never wasted.
I’ve learned that my discipline doesn’t define me. I’ve taken several lessons with a natural horsemanship trainer that has helped me become more of a leader for my horse. I’ve spent time learning from biomechanics coaches, bodyworkers, and trainers with all types of background. I’ve bought the matching saddle pads and bonnets, and yes they look amazing. I have – several – blingy browbands. I want my bronze medal.
In my heart, I still call myself an eventer because I want to embody the kind, welcoming, confident riders I see out on cross-country. The reality is, I can be that type of person no matter where I’m riding and for now, that’s in the sandbox.