My Report from the Judge's Booth

Remember how I was deliberating on what to wear to judge that big horse show at the country club this past weekend? Well, as it turned out, I wore a simple little khaki twill skirt and a peach-colored peasant blouse with some beading on it. It was a pretty summer outfit.

Unfortunately, I misjudged the climate in San Diego County. Where it was dry and in the low 90's at my house, at the horse show it was overcast and never got warmer than about 75. Since I was seated in a raised judge's booth, I was buffeted by a cool marine breeze much of the time, which literally left me shivering. The horse show secretary took pity on me and brought me a big parka out of her car. A big, plaid, flannel, quilted parka. Then the judge in the other arena (who happened to be wearing a pant suit, complete with a vest and blazer) tossed me a red wool lap throw she'd been using as a seat cushion. I draped that over my bare legs. So by noontime I was really stylin'. So much for my summery wardrobe. Instead I was cloaked in garments that made me look like I was hanging out at a college football stadium.

While ultimately I had a great time, it was a very loooooong day. I started judging at a few minutes past 9:00 a.m. The contract that the show managers had with the club stated that we had to finish all of the classes by 6:00 p.m. Guess what? I pinned the ribbons in my last class-- the Green Rider Medal-- at 5:50. So I made it by 10 minutes! In order to accomplish that, the backgate guy was shuttling in the next rider on course as soon as the previous rider had landed after the final jump. Needless to say, that didn't give me much time to deliberate on the scoring of each round. It was more like, "Okay, that was worthy of something in the mid-70's. Hmmm... Did I like her more than the girl on the gray pony, who got a 72? Oh darn... Here comes the next horse!"

But perhaps the most stressful part was having to hold 6 open cards for the short stirrup and long stirrup classes. For those of you who aren't familiar with this concept, I'll quickly explain.

"Short stirrup" classes are for the little kids who are just starting to jump courses. "Long stirrup" classes are just a play-on-words: they're the older riders who are at the same level as the younger short stirrup riders. They all jump the same courses. Typically there are two hunter rounds and an equitation over fences round within both the short stirrup division and the long stirrup division.

To keep things rolling along at a big show, management wants the judge to hold open cards. That means that the judge-- in this case ME-- has a clipboard with all of the short stirrup and long stirrup class scorecards in front of her. Next to that are the courses, because each class has its own course. Then, the riders can come in whenever they're ready and compete in pretty much any order. So I might conceivably see a short stirrup rider's first hunter round, then another short stirrup rider's first hunter round, then a long stirrup rider's equitation round, then a short stirrup rider's equitation round, then a long stirrup rider's second hunter round... I'm sure you're getting dizzy imagining the possibilities.

It kind of makes my head spin, too.

Ideally the announcer is supposed to make it very, very, VERY clear to the judge which round the rider is doing as they come through the in-gate. 99 out of 100 times that happens. Once in a while, it doesn't, and then the score can end up on the wrong score card. Then, when the mistake is discovered, that score has to be transferred onto the correct scorecard and the ribbon placings re-shuffled to accomodate the change. So both the judge and the announcer have to really work as a team to make sure that paperwork nightmare doesn't occur. But even when the procedure works properly, the judge (that would be me) has to rifle through 6 pages of scorecards to find the correct one with each rider and then glance back over the corresponding jumping course, all in a matter of seconds.

You can understand now how stressful it can be!

But then there are some funny moments that break up the tenseness of the whole situation. For example, in the 11 & Under Maiden Equitation class, I watched intently as a couple of kids on big horses barely squeezed between the jumps and the rail while they were cantering. (Jumps are left in the arena during the flat classes). I thought to myself, "Wow, that one big gray almost went over that jump!"

Next time around, guess what? The big gray's ears locked onto the jump and the kid did next to nothing to avert the horse's attention. The horse leapt over the jump, taking it in stride, then landed and continued cantering around the arena as if that was what it was supposed to do.

Naturally, I couldn't give her a ribbon, because let's face it: One of the basic tenets of horsemanship is the ability to guide and control one's horse. Yet as she rode into the center of the arena for the line-up, I did say to her nicely, "Well, that was quite spectacular!"

She laughed, although with a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

All in all, it was a long day. But it was memorable!

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Deep in the Heart of Dad

My dad always had a soft spot for animals, especially dogs and horses. Over the last couple of decades he's had a succession of crazy, loopy Labrador retrievers that think nothing of sleeping half the day away on my parents' couch. Right now my dad has a daffy Labradoodle. That's a cross between a Lab and a Standard Poodle. Just think about that visual image for a second. And yes, that's my parents' barn dog.

When it comes to horses, my father likes pretty much any breed of horse, as long as it has a decent mind and doesn't wantonly destroy property. I mean, a dad will fix a broken stall door only so many times before he says, "Enough already. Put a danged cribbing strap on the son-of-a-gun!"

However, my father has expressed an abiding affection for a good old fashioned Quarter horse. He's had a couple of his own that he rode on the trails. One was a bay gelding named Rich Boy ("Ricky"). Since Ricky was off the track, he had perfected the ability to sprint reallyreallyreally fast for short periods of time at a moment's notice. More than once Ricky surprised my father by treating him to a simulated three-furlong horse race. The other Quarter horse my father had was Pokey, a small sorrel mare that came straight off a cattle ranch. As her name implied, Pokey was in no hurry to get anywhere... unless food was at the end of the trail. My father rode Pokey until advanced arthritis caused him to give up riding altogether, which was a sad day indeed.

Nonetheless, my father continued to support my sister and me in our riding. Though he didn't attend a lot of horse shows, he was our "go-to guy" whenever we needed something built, fixed or hefted around the barn. If it involved power tools or electrical wiring, our dad was at the ready. If the horse trailer was making a hinky noise or the tires seemed soft, guess who we called? Our dad.

Since Sunday is Father's Day, it seems only fair that all of us think of how our dads supported our horse habit. Maybe they weren't as emotionally involved as our moms (let's face it, the term "Horse Show Mom" was invented for a reason), but most of us had dads who understood how much we loved our horses. Click on this link to read about Horse Dads:
Give Your Dad His Due

Then leave your comments there. Like previous installments of "HI SPY" some of the responses may appear in an upcoming issue of Horse Illustrated magazine.

Oh. And to any dads who might be reading this: Happy Father's Day!

The Thigh Master

Lately I've been earning a few extra dollars by going over to my ex-coach's place once a week and riding a couple of horses for her. Sue has so many young horses in training (including several recently off-the-track Thoroughbreds) that she and her assistant could use a little extra help. Of course, I was happy to take Sue up on her offer, though from the outset it was agreed that with my arm and neck being prone to pain and injury I wouldn't be riding any super-green greenies.

I've gotten to know the string of horses on "my list of rides" quite well. Most of them are veteran show horses that just need a weekly schooling so they're tuned up for their owners' lessons. Ryan, Oliver and Rainey are the most solid packers. They are tall, lanky, big-moving geldings with lofty trots and lumbering gallops. Each one is a teenager, and they're very much the point-and-pray type of horse. All I have to do is pick up my 12-foot canter stride, aim for the jump, push my hands into the crest, assume my two-point position and sit still. When we approach the corner, I do a little half-halt, think, "Hmmm... I believe we need a lead change here," and voila! It happens. And just think: I'm getting paid to ride these horses!

The last few weeks Sue has added Charming's name to the list of horses she'd like me to ride. Disposition-wise, Charming is a doll. Even though he's only been off the track for less than a year, he's settled right into a leisurely lifestyle. That's probably because he doesn't have the heart of a race horse. Seriously, I could outrun him. Charming would much rather doop-tee-doop-tee-doo around the arena on a soft rein. Even though he still has a tendency to canter on an ever-increasing length of stride (we're starting to work on collection and adjustability), he never gets going very fast. Breaking a sweat is not on Charming's list of Things To Do.

Besides an amicable disposition, Charming is also rather pleasant to look at. He's a solid bay, sort of a nut brown color, and he has a genuinely sweet face with a kind eye. Perhaps I shouldn't mention that he has a set of ears that would make Eeyore jealous, but then, some of my best show hunters had lop ears, so I find that physical trait endearing. But the one aspect of Charming's conformation that troubles me most is his narrow frame. Truly, I'll bet he stands about 16.3, but he's still got the typical off-the-track appearance of a giant Greyhound. Over time he'll gain weight through his mid-section. Plus, he's only 4 so he'll also beef up as he matures. In the meantime, however, I refer to him as The Thigh Master. Why? Because in order to get "in the tack" when I'm riding him I have to really close my legs around his willowy frame. When I dismount, I can feel the burn. Literally. But I guess that's another benefit of riding horses that aren't over-stuffed baked potatoes like Wally: my thighs get a work-out. And all the better for wearing shorts during the summertime!

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No Sure Things in Horse Racing

I really wasn't expecting Big Brown to win the Belmont, and thus become a Triple Crown champion. But I wasn't expecting him to finish dead last, either.

Call me a skeptic, but it just seemed like Big Brown's gallop into horse racing history was setting up too easily. The rival horses in the Belmont weren't a magnificent bunch. And then his trainer was gratingly over-confident. He had been quoted (way too many times) for saying that a Belmont victory, which would give the huge bay colt the Triple Crown, was "a foregone conclusion." Yet ultimately Big Brown was so out of gas at the head of the homestretch that his jockey pulled him up and cantered to the finish line.

At least he didn't start whacking the horse with his whip in a futile effort to make up an impossible amount of ground.

Speaking as a writer who's always looking for the fairy tale, somehow the magic just wasn't there. Big Brown wasn't surrounded by a funky posse of quirky characters. There weren't any poignant backstories about elderly owners looking for one last chance at horse racing fame. He wasn't the favorite colt of some blue-blooded Kentucky horsewoman. I didn't feel for him the way I did about Smarty Jones, Real Quiet or Funny Cide. I never had the thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be grand if Big Brown won the Triple Crown!"

When it came to wearing the horse shoes of a Made in Hollywood hero, Big Brown wasn't even in the same class as Secretariat, Affirmed or Seattle Slew.

Horses being horses, I'm not certain that we'll ever know why Big Brown went kaput in the Belmont. I've often believed that sometimes race horses just wake up and think, "Ya' know, today I'm just not in the racing mode." Maybe they have a headache. Maybe the grooms one aisle over kept the radio on too loud the night before. Maybe on the way to the post the lead pony gave off bad vibes. Whatever the reason, race horses are a fragile bunch, and that's not just in reference to their spindly legs. Some little thing can throw off their mojo, giving another horse-- a longshot who just happened to wake up feeling particularly zesty-- the opportunity to be King for a Day.

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Where Have all the Trails Gone?

I'm sure that many riders live in parts of the country that boast wide open trails all the way to the horizon. At least I figure it must be that way someplace, in a sort of Shangri La for horse lovers. But out here on the West Coast, trails are being gobbled up by freeway expansions and housing developments.

What trails remain are often very crowded on any given weekend. That makes sense, doesn't? More people who are desperate to ride, hike or bike along trails are forced to comingle on a shrinking selection of maintained pathways. At least there's a movement afoot (ahoof?) to make people more aware of the importance of maintaining our trails... and establishing new ones when possible. National Trails Day is this weekend, and it celebrates all that's good about keeping our connection to the outdoors. If you belong to a riding club or trails association, you might already have planned an activity for this weekend. If not, how about next year? You can read about National Trails Day on Horse Channel by clicking this link:
Know Your Trails... Before They're Gone

Granted, my love of trail riding doesn't go to the extreme of horse camping. When Marriott offers overnight stabling for my horse, then we can talk. Nor do I relish the thought of doing something really rugged, like scaling the Grand Tetons on horseback. But I am quite fond of recreational riding. I always have been, even when I was competing on the show circuit. In fact, I can think back to when we first moved to this area in 1980. My mother, sister and I could saddle up our horses, ride out the front gate and be lost in the hills-- sometimes literally-- for hours. Then slowly things changed. A hamlet of houses on a knoll behind our family's place was torn down and replaced by a major thoroughfare. Dynamite blasting signaled the development of the hillsides; country estate ranch homes were built. A golf course plopped itself down in the middle of a meadow where a seasonal stream once ran. The final blow came when a massive interstate freeway was carved through the center of town. The days of riding to the little vegetable stand that sold homegrown strawberries and corn on the cob were unceremoniously over.

I'm almost apologetic about admitting that we've adjusted to riding on manicured trails that wind through the neighborhoods. And I've accepted that if I want to ride along trails that are unencumbered by street signs and cement curbs I have to hitch up my trailer and haul Wally out of town. I guess that's the result of "progress."

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"Lie very, very still... DON'T MOVE!"

That's what my doctor said to me yesterday afternoon while I was lying flat on my stomach. I was garbed in a green gown, positioned on the table in the procedure room of his office. My doctor is a pain management specialist, and yesterday he performed a nerve block-- a "supra scapular something-or-other-blah-blah-blah"-- to see if I'm a candidate for another surgery. If temporarily numbing the branch of the spinal nerve that courses through the area of my scapula gives me some relief, my doctor will then implant another lead to that area. Then I'll have some electrical stimulation/impulse there constantly, which-- if all goes as planned-- will reduce my pain.

Those of you who've been following my blog and who were readers of my Horse Illustrated column, "Life with Horses," know that I had a really bad riding accident about 3 years ago. Let's not go there again and revisit it. At least not for a while.

My doctor is a really neat guy, especially for someone who spends his working hours dealing with people in various stages of desperation due to uncontrolled pain. He's a big guy, a giant teddy bear, with a personality like everyone's favorite uncle. Because he's Middle Eastern, he speaks with an accent that at times makes it difficult for me to understand him, especially when I'm already not in the best frame of mind. (See reference, above, to uncontrolled pain).

So yesterday, there I am, lying prone on this sterile table in this hospital-like setting, trying very hard not to look at the tray next to me that held the long spinal needles and syringes. My doctor tried to reassure me by telling me how tough I am, how good I am about lying still and not moving. Apparently that's an occupational hazard for pain management specialists wielding long needles: their patients have a tendency to go, "OH MY GOD!" and jerk away before the local anesthetic kicks in.

But I was very still. Yes, it hurt, especially when he worked the needle underneath my shoulder blade so he could inject the cortisone and numbing agent in the correct space.

"You're being so good," he said. "You're not moving."

I told him the truth. "I'm thinking about riding my horse."

And I was. My eyes might've been fixated on the glass canister of cotton swabs on the table in front of me, but my mind was elsewhere. I wasn't on that exam table, but on Wally. We were riding across the river, and with each hoof fall Wally splashed water around me. The sun captured the curve of each droplet, so that I felt myself showered with diamonds.

"I know you like to ride your horse," my doctor said in his soothing voice. "That's good that you think of that. Everyone should have something in their life they love like that."

Yes, then perhaps they'd lie still for him. Works for me.

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"What we have here is a palomino Trakehner"

My sincere apologies to all the talented equine photographers out there, but this is the best shot I could get of Cowboy, now that he's a month old and living with him mom in a very large paddock. Plus, he's very friendly, which means that whenever I tried to take a snapshot of him I ended up with a close-up of his muzzle stuck in the viewfinder. But as you can see by even this photo, he's not exactly taking after his sire, who is-- conformationally speaking-- your typical working American Quarter horse. At just 4 weeks old, Cowboy's back is at my chest, and I'm nearly 5'9". So I'm thinking he's going to be a bit taller than his dad, who was barely 15.2. Plus, Cowboy is definitely built uphill, which is again taking after his dam's warmblood side. And he struts around his pen like a sport horse. So much for our desire to produce just an all-around riding horse. Though things can certainly change over time as he develops, it appears that what we have here, as my sister says, "is a palomino Trakehner."

Now, Cowboy really isn't technically a Trakehner. His granddam was. His dam is half-Trakehner, sired by a Dutch Warmblood (and branded as an Oldenburg). How's that for being confusing? Believe me, raising warmblood sport horses and managing their registration possibilities can be a dizzying process! But Cowboy does look the part of his warmblood ancestors. And that's okay. He'll still be a lovely, useful horse. However, he's a living example of what can happen when you breed two horses of dissimilar conformation together: you get a foal that's representative of either one or the other parent, and often you get neither. You get a throwback to some great-grandsire lurking in the genetic gene pool. Rarely do you get a foal that is an optimal blending of the two disparate parents. Which is why it's best to keep in mind that old horseman's saying: "Always breed type to type." I'm guessing that means that next time around we should either breed April to an actual warmblood. Yet no one in our family presently wants another warmblood. Or my mom (who loves doing the "foal thing") could get herself an AQHA broodmare. As for me? I'll just stay on the sidelines. With my gelding.

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