Bon-bons on the Couch Vs. Trying

Last Friday I woke up with a heavy knot of anxiety in my stomach. My daughter and I had entered a horse trial for the weekend, and I'd reached the point where it seemed like a Very Bad Idea. I emailed a friend that I wasn't sure why I was competing, at this point in my life. It would be much simpler and probably much more pleasant to eat bon-bons on the couch all day instead. I then trudged out to the barn and explained to my daughter how I felt. "Ah," she replied, with genuine sympathy. "I've been there." Then she set up a beginner-novice oxer to vertical two-stride and told me to get myself and my mare over it.

I'm condensing a bit. And I'd like to say that beginner-novice used to be the lowest commonly-offered level of my chosen sport, eventing. Recently most events have added an even lower level, called Starter, which is where my mare and I are. Starter jumps are essentially speed bumps. I once competed several levels higher, schooled above that, and had serious plans to compete at a level that's tough by nearly anyone's standards. But then I landed on my head one too many times (four too many times...) and then I spent five years with undiagnosed autonomic dystonia, which meant that my entire autonomic nervous system--the bits you don't consciously control, like heartrate and blood pressure--spiraled out of control any time I was moving through space quickly, say, on the back of a cantering or even trotting horse. My heart rate would go above 170 bpm--no, that's not safe at my age--and my asthma would get bad, and not surprisingly I would feel pretty anxious, and the worst part was that no amount of effort in the world, no slow careful fitness work, no asthma meds, no EMDR (which I otherwise love) or thoughtful mental exercises, or brilliant kind horses or good coaching or anything else I tried would make it better. I couldn't get fit, because the exercise needed to improve my fitness was on the other side of the dystonia wall. I didn't understand what was happening to me, and I couldn't make it better, even though I really, really tried.

Then for a bit I traveled a ton for my writing, then we had a global pandemic, then my good mare Sarah was injured in the field to the point where she had to be retired, then the wonderful horse I leased went back to his owners, then my trainer found me a new, lovely, sensible, short-and-wide little mare. Rosie hadn't done much but she is cheerful and tries hard. Oddly enough, owning her didn't cure my brain dysfunction, so for our first year, stuck with a rider who had actual micro-blackouts from time to time, limited balance, and a perpetually racing heartbeat, Rosie got rather less brave in self-defense.

Then, finally, I got a diagnosis, and treatment from a functional neurologist. I don't really understand it all but I can say it's empirically much better, and I've been slowly making real progress at last. Last week my daughter and I did conditioning with our horses on the long slow hill on our farm, something we've done for years. Walk up, walk down. Trot up, walk down. Canter up, walk down. I've got an exercise app on my Apple watch--which is how I finally realized my heartrate was so out of control in the first place--and last week, for the first time, when I trotted Rosie up the hill with myself in two-point--a bit like a jockey--then cantered up it in the same position (so, my own effort was the same, but my body was moving more quickly though space) my heartrate stayed the same. And was also reasonable.

This is huge, and exciting, and I've been gradually, systematically restoring Rosie's confidence, and my own. And yet--why compete? Especially last weekend, when I had nothing on the line, knew that I won't make it to any other horse trials this year, wasn't qualifying for anything, etc., etc., and let's face it, I'm not headed for the Olympics or anything--the importance of this show from an external standpoint was zero. 

Also it was so much work, and it was very hot, and that two-stride my daughter set looked really scary, both to me and to Rosie. "Will they have a two-stride on Starter?" I asked. The answer was Almost Certainly Not. I'd ridden Starter at this venue before, with the leased horse, and the showjumping course was outside-diagonal-outside-diagonal, the simplest 8-jump course in the world. 

My daughter set me a whole course, with the two-stride at the end. And I can canter whole courses now, which I couldn't do for a long time (before this, we trotted them). And Rosie did the whole course beautifully until the two-stride, where she spun away the second element, afraid. "Do I lower it?" my daughter asked.

"No," I said, "For heaven's sakes. She can trot that." (I probably said a different word than "heaven's.") I had her jump the second element by itself, twice, then the whole two-stride twice, and then I pulled her up and patted her. "Now I repeat the whole course?" I asked.

My daughter shrugged. "Maybe just the second half."

"Cathy," I said, referencing our coach and good friend, the indomitable Cathy Wieschhoff, "would make me repeat the whole thing."

So I did, and we were awesome. The anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach slid away. And then it stayed gone while I went to the event and competed at wiener Starter, and Rosie was very good in dressage, and then there actually was a two-stride on the Starter showjump course, and Rosie turned to it with understanding and something like pleasure, and jumped it very neatly. And we cantered the whole course and my heart rate stayed manageable, and my asthma didn't spike, and I didn't feel dizzy, and I rode well. The way I used to. The way I've longed to.

The next day Rosie warmed up for cross-country beautifully. We cantered the first fence on course and I felt her falter a tiny bit--wow, Mom, that came up fast--my old horse Gully always liked time to process situations he didn't really understand, and Rosie's the same way. She goggled at the big fences to either side of our small second fence, and I could tell the entire undertaking felt like a lot to her. We haven't schooled off our home farm since April, and while she wasn't at all worried about the jumps I was asking of her, she was concerned about the upper-level jumps nearby and the jump judges and being alone on course and who knows what else. She spun a few times, looking for a more comfortable place to be, and I turned her back the way we needed to go, with some correction but not too much fuss. We jumped all our jumps on the first attempt. We trotted more of the course than I had planned but I gave her the ride she needed.

Then we had a whole snafoozle at the finish line--a long story, fault on both sides--and ended up with time faults and didn't get a ribbon, but of course Rosie didn't know that, she felt very happy, and I didn't care--what's a ribbon, really?--and I felt very happy, and also physically really good, in a way I haven't for a long, long time. And we'll spend the fall and winter, in between weddings and trips and lovely family things, schooling some more off-property and getting Rosie used to more things, just as we got her used to the two-stride. And we'll compete not because we're headed for the Olympics or even for low-level glory, but because accomplishing something that both takes effort and makes your heart sing is always worthwhile. It even beats bon-bons on a nice comfy couch. The journey is its own reward.