The Cost of Expectations

I could not find a BCET photo from back in the day,
so here is Suki this summer
Photo by Lisa Ambrose Cook (used with permission)

Back in the day, I was one of the founding members of Boston College's IHSA team.  I absolutely loved being able to hop on a horse, with no chance to evaluate how a horse went beyond watching them warmed up by the hosting team or during other rounds, and jump a course with them.  I learned that you didn't always place by having the best round, but sometimes by having a better round than the last person who rode the same horse.  I remember one competition where a horse clearly needed a pair of spurs, he came with them; but, the rules stated riders at my level couldn't have spurs.  So, I rode the heck out of him without the spurs, and while it wasn't the prettiest equitation round, it was efficient and I placed.  Riding not-my-horse without a second though was amazing and I wasn't half bad at it.  It was fun, because as long as I tried something different that had a chance of being more successful than the last rider, I had a chance to do well.

Flash forward to a conversation Denny and I had a few weeks ago where he asserted that sometimes, we (universal) ride horses that aren't ours better than our own.  And it's true.  

This weekend, I helped Kristyn, a good friend of mine, video a few green horses she has for sale.  She taped me riding one of her horses and my project horse, Salt.  And, in a way only a friend do, pointed out that I ride the calmest, most laid back horse I ride all week like I'm on eggshells (video here, post kick in the pants).  I ride hot Morgans at work, green beans I hardly know for her, and my own atomic made, but the one I ride most carefully is this big, gas when appropriate, very good brakes, gentle soul of a green giant.  And I don't know why, beyond, he's still mine, he's really nice, and I don't want to go too fast with a good horse (and maybe I've been procrastinating selling him too long for some subliminal, financially irresponsible reasons).

Then, I hopped on the atomic mare and jump her, and while she was good to most things, we got a touch aggressive to an over-and it is we: our mutual hunger for the hang time resulting in a gnarly last three strides.  Again, my horse is harder to ride than the green six year old (for sale: London Lullaby) I had jumped hours before, only because of the expectations I have for us in the long term bled into "the now."  However, I found a that day: a friend around that brought out a little of the kid in me that said "screw it" and tried jumping the course with reins bridged in one hand, and broke the cycle with situation for which I had no expectations because it wasn't how I ride my horse.  And it worked.