Overcoming freezing over a fence
Michael
Hillman
Probably one of the hardest things that I've had to
work on in my riding career is 'freezing' in tight
situations, which for me, is anytime I'm in front of a
fence. Now 'freezing' for me goes back a long way. In
7th grade, my father booted me off the football team
after I handed the football to the guy next to me when I
realized, after intercepting a pass, that I was about to
be made minced meat. While my father admitted giving up
the ball was
nice survival instincts, he didn't look to fondly upon
the fact that the kid was on the opposing team.
At my mother’s
suggestion, I tried baseball, but every time I got to
the plate, I struck out. (No one ever explained to me
that you didn't have to swing.) My performance in the
field was even worse. Every time the ball was hit in
my direction, I ducked. I figured that the odds were
against me catching the ball; instead, it would
invariably be some part of my body that would. Since
my throwing was pathetic, my father relegated me to
score keeper, second string at that. Needless to say,
it didn't bother me much when my dad got around to
cutting me again.
After these two futile
attempts at physical sports, my dad bought me a chess
set and mumbled something about being happy that he
had two more sons. I soon mastered Chess, but found
the image of a high school chess player was less then
desirable when it came to attracting great looking
girls. Faced with being a labeled a 'nerd' for the
rest of my life, I cast about for another sport to
prove my maleness. On my first ski trip, I hit the
snowplow. Basketball was out of the question;
my
little sister always beat me. I tried golf, but always
lost all my balls before I got around the course.
Eventually, my search finally led me to a riding
stable.
My first riding lesson
is a story in itself, and I won't go into it. Suffice
it to say, the fact that the barn was full of rich
collage girls answered the age-old collage student
question: "Where are all the girls?" It took
me a little while to get use to being on a horse, but
as I soon discovered, the horses provided the physical
stamina I lacked, while I provided the brains they
lacked. Ok, I 'tried' to provided the brains.
As fate would have it
though, my inability to think fast enough in a
'clutch' situation formed a performance ceiling which
my riding coaches would hit and bounce off of, over
and over again. I can't begin to count the number of
times I was awarded 7th place out of six. Eventually
the humiliation of my inability to work through
freezing in tight situations led me to quit riding.
Horses, however, were
never far from my mind and 5 years after quitting, for
some reason that I can't explain, I called up Julie
Gomena, my present coach, and inquired about her
willingness to take me on as a 'mentally challenged'
student. Because our paths had crossed before, she was
knowledgeable of my past problems and found me a horse
that would build my confidence. As my riding improved,
we eventually hit, the dreaded 'Clutch zone'. Julie,
who had long anticipated this, was ready.
Since I tend to freeze
when I have to think quickly, Julie correctly reasoned
that the answer was in develop my instincts to the
point were the demands for me to think were, well,
minimal. Over the following years, Julie presented and
challenged me with every possible jumping combination,
and even after I thought we were jumping it ok, she
required me to jumped it again. And again, and again.
Since Oxers were my biggest fear, Julie always ended a
lesson with a big one. After each lesson I would walk
out to the field and walk around each of the fences I
had jumped, measure them against my own height, stand
back and look at them from a ground perspective as
opposed from a horse's back. As time progressed, the
fences got bigger, and my instincts got better. The
scores at events soon began to tell the story, but it
wasn't until that fall that for the first time ever, I
finally beat the 'freezing'
The Loudoun Horse
Trials had begun better than expected, we were in 6th
place after dressage, sufficiently high enough were I
would normally become so concerned about doing well
that I would begin to 'freeze'. Determined more then
ever not to blow my placing, I decided for once to
follow my coach's advice about the benefit of watching
others jump the stadium course.
By the time I had seen
the tenth horse, I had laid out a strategy; by the
twentieth, I was able to visualize myself in front of
every fence. As I tacked up for stadium, I kept going
over and over my plan in my head. Like a chess game, I
went through every option, every variation. I tried to
think of everything that could go wrong, and plan for
it, and I tried to think of everything that could go
right, and build on it.
The first fence was
tall, completely vertical, and somewhat imposing.
Worf, my trusted steed, left to his instincts, would
come into it heavy on his forehand. To get over him
over it without dropping a rail, I knew I had to jazz
him up. To do this, I had been taught, over and over
again, to trot smartly into the ring, pick up a
forward canter and make a sharp turn towards the
fence, using the turn to force Worf to balance
himself. Much to my surprise I actually did this, and
much to my pleasure, Worf cleared the first fence with
ease.
The second fence was a
crisscrossed vertical, the only thing I had to do was
do nothing, which for me, is a lot harder than it
sounds. But I had planned to do nothing, and I
followed my plan, and Worf hunted over it with ease.
The third fence, a big oxer, presented us with our
first significant challenge. Set at a weird angle in
relation to the second fence, it required Worf to make
a sharp right turn and then make a sweeping circle to
the left.
If I pulled him up too quickly, I risked
killing his bouncy, forward momentum, which I would
need to get over the fence clean. Instead of pulling
on the reins, I tried something novel, for me at
least: a half halt. Worf responded instantly, and we
were able to execute a smart turn towards the fence.
Following the routine drilled into me by countless
lessons, I consciously kept my lower leg active all
the way to the base, and up and over we went. Three
down, too many left to go.
It was about this
time that I took my first breath and mentally paused
to assess the situation. Everything had work according
to plan, and while the forth fence was an fairly small
in-and-out, my track record had taught me that the
fences I consider easy are usually the ones where
rails drop. Recognizing this, I jiggled the bit to get
Worf's attention and asked for anther half halt.
Worf’s front end rose in response to my signal and
confident he was focused, I just sat and let the fence
come to me. Worf jumped through without a hitch.
The fifth fence was a
plank fence, the type Worf had yet to jump clean. The
way this was built, it should have had a sign around
it saying 'drop rail here'. Remembering to increase
the pressure of my legs before I increased the weight
in my reins, I turned Worf towards our nemesis.
Unfortunately, Worf began to cross canter. My first
instinct was to panic and drop him, but I resisted and
increased my leg and rein pressure. Holding him in
front of me and between my legs, Worf had no other
option but to approach the fence straight on. Though
we were slightly out of sync on the take off, Worf
still managed to clear fence with plenty to spare.
By now Worf's blood
was up, and as he spied the sixth fence, an imposing,
wide, nice oxer. As Worf grabbed the bit and
accelerated towards the base, I visualized myself
jumping a bigger oxer during a lesson. Worf responded
to my unconscious signal and cleared the oxer without
any indication of an effort on his part. The seventh
fence was a three fence combination: an oxer to a
vertical to another oxer. In watching the previous
riders, the long distances between fences were
catching many a horse and rider. I concluded that the
many dropped rails were a result of approaching the
combination without enough speed.
With thought of having
a clean round now in mind, I accelerated Worf in the
turn towards this combination, using the turn, not my
hands, to balance him. Because I had held him to base
of other oxers, I took, as Julie would say, 'a little
money out of the bank' and asked for a long spot. Worf
left the ground just were I wanted him to, and his
speed set him up for a perfect one stride to the
second element, which he also cleared with ease. The
last element, an oxer, was jumped before I knew it, and
for the first time I was cognizant that Worf was
jumping straight in the middle of each fence.
The seventh fence was
a medium sized vertical; again I used the turn to
balance him, and then just left him alone to find his
own spot. As I landed, I made a tight, fast turn to
the right towards the second to last fence. A turn to
the left would have given me a better approach, and
the plan called for it if the round had not gone well.
However, the left turn, which almost everyone was
opting for, was resulting in everyone incurring at
least 2 time penalties. Since the right hand turn was
do-able, and I was having a good round, I risked it.
Remembering to drive forward in the turn, I felt Worf
fight to keep his balance. As we came out of the turn,
he sprang forward like a coiled spring and jumped the
next fence perfectly.
By now I was feeling
pretty good, but was still aware that I had on more
than one occasion blown a course by not riding the
last fence. Faced again with a big oxer, I once again
found myself visualizing jumping a bigger one in a
lesson. As Worf accelerated towards the last, I could
hear Julie's instructions in my mind. With a single
well placed bound, and without any interference from
his rider, Worf jumped his way into forth place.
With Radnor on the
horizon, and the ground hard as a rock, I swallowed
hard some well given advice and didn't run Worf the
next day for cross country. I've yet to learn when to
say enough is enough, but fortunately I'm smart enough
to listen to those who have learned. The following
week it rained, and with the ground more forgiving,
Worf made his last pre-Radnor run a blue ribbon one.
Unfortunately, it would also be the last of the
season.
A stupidly broken arm
was just around the turn for me. While I didn't get to
Radnor, I have the satisfaction of sitting out this
winter knowing that for once I did not freeze, that I
had actually laid out a plan and followed it, and more
importantly, the plan had worked. If I could do it once,
I can do it again, and that thought has keep me warm all
winter.
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