Garland Farms Dressage

Learning to ride the Schoolmaster by Ange Bean

I have a confession to make. I'm afraid of schoolmasters. I honestly didn't know of my fear until I moved south. As the rookie trainer in central Illinois, folks with amazing, talented dressage horses weren¹t exactly breaking down my door. I was training the OTHER horses -- the misunderstood, the conformationally challenged, the "un-trainable" ones. After a few rides this hodgepodge of horses began to come around. They all had one thing in common -- they all knew less than I did.

When I moved south, I came with Maryal Barnett's endorsement of "I've seen her turn some unlikely candidates into dressage horses." So I ended up atop young stuff. Granted, they were of a much higher caliber than I'd been on before, but again, they knew very little.

Then one day the inevitable happened -- Ricky showed up on my ride list. It struck fear in my heart.

Ricky, fondly known as Tricky Rick, is our 21-year-old schoolmaster. He does it all. He's been there, shown here, won that, and taught half of Georgia to ride. Now it was my turn.

Ricky has all the skills but gives nothing away for free. He requires you to allow him to go forward from your seat to your hand. He refuses to be driven forward, and refuses to let you pull him onto the bit. He wants you sit in such a way that being round is his most logical and comfortable option. Then his back comes up and he flowers into the FEI master he is. And his tongue stays in.

His tongue is a status symbol at Garland Farms. Students discuss if his tongue was in his mouth, at what gaits he kept it there, and how far out it was sticking.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I was not up to the challenge. Yes, I had gotten horses round. I had done it with lots of lateral work, and when I felt that amazing moment when the back came up, I'd ride it as long as possible. When I felt the back drop I¹d go back to lateral work or stretch. Then I'd pray that the horse¹s back would stay up for the 7 minutes I was in the show ring. I admit it, without my crutches I was powerless.

Ricky and Gina were about to change all that.

Needless to say, the first ride on Ricky was a disaster. At first I couldn't get him out of the western quarter horse jog. Then I couldn¹t get him out of the "bat-out-of-****" trot. And I couldn¹t get him into the canter AT ALL.

Well, I picked up my shattered ego and climbed aboard again. This time I didn't get reins. Honestly, I was relieved -- less responsibility.

We stretched my knee downwards and my rib cage upwards. We opened my hip angle some more (when, oh when, will I finally get past my hunt-seat background?). We redefined my half-halt -- now it is stretch, push the round part f your bottom through my belly button (at least that's the mental pictures that worked for me), then close my whole leg from the hip to the calf.

It was magic. Suddenly I had a tool for bringing the horse's back up. I used my new-and-improved half-halt and the horse would stretch forward to the bit and step bigger with his hind legs.

Ricky responded. Precelli, the young horse of my dreams, added her approval. Conner loved it. Isaac, our token saddle bred, pretended he was German.

The canter was another story.

True to the hunter deep inside of me, I wanted to cue the canter with my outside leg, then lighten my seat and close my hip angle. Ricky was not amused.

I carried my ego back home in a bag several times. I kept hearing this funny rumor about the key to the canter being in the half-halt preparation. And some strange thing about freeing up the inside seat bone. And another tale about "riding the up part of the stride." I thought these were all very illustrious goals since I was trying to keep my butt in the saddle.

Even Gerhardt Politz threw in his two cents worth. "No! No! Quit hopping out of the saddle like a rabbit!"

Meanwhile, Ricky's tongue was consistently in his mouth in the walk and barely peaking out in the trot. I just couldn't get him into the canter. I was working on an acute case of canter-phobia.

Precelli saved my pride. I asked her for a little too much bend on a circle and happened to over-correct my shoulders at about the same moment. She very politely stepped into the canter. I was amazed. I took her back to the trot and carefully made the same mistakes again. It worked.

I was onto something.

I climbed aboard my ever-patient, probably-too-forgiving Con-man and tried it. He not only stepped right into the canter, he did it uphill. And with impulsion. And bounce.

Then it was for the true test. I prepared, I prepared again, I almost chickened out, then I just went for it. Ricky cantered off -- tongue hanging in the breeze. I didn't care. He was cantering. I was happy.

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