Before You Correct the Horse: Learning to See

Classical training is not primarily about teaching the horse a series of movements. It is the progressive construction of understanding between two unlike beings.

It is a profound process in which two separate beings gradually develop a shared language—one of balance, trust, strength, sensitivity and understanding—in order that movement begins to feel like a dance rather than a negotiation.

Consequently, training is really the development of a relationship—one that is not merely physical, but also mental and emotional.

But if this is true, then the rider must learn something more than a collection of aids.

The rider must also learn to see.

To recognize balance and imbalance. To distinguish a loss of impulsion from resistance. To notice when the horse is crooked, when the rider is crooked, or when one is creating the problem in the other. To begin separating what is visible from what may actually be happening underneath.

Because before we can know what to correct, we must understand what we are looking at.

This is really the sixty-five-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?

Riders are often taught a “standard” physical correction to make before they are taught how to evaluate what is happening.

For instance, while tracking left at the trot or canter, the horse may “fall” to the outside—to the right. The rider is traditionally taught to use the outside right leg to keep the horse from drifting.

Very often this is not particularly effective. The rider applies the leg, and the horse continues to drift, so the rider is told to use more leg. Possibly even instructed to kick. The rider may then begin pulling hard on the inside rein to turn more sharply and/or use the outside rein strongly in an attempt to drag the horse back to the left.

What happens next is a wrestling and pushing match.

The horse loses his correct bend as well as the fluidity of the movement and proper impulsion. The attempt to make a simple turn or corner becomes a fight and a struggle.

Most people would say that the horse is not responding to the outside aid.

And they would be correct—to a degree.

But that observation alone does not tell us enough.

We have seen the symptom. We have not yet necessarily understood the pattern.

The problem may in reality be one of balance.

One possibility—and a common one—is that the horse is pushing more strongly with the left hind while failing to carry sufficient weight through the outside right. The right hind might even be the horse’s weaker leg. Because the horse is not pushing and carrying equally, the action of the left hind becomes dominant and the horse’s balance begins to drift toward the right.

If this is what is happening, simply applying more outside leg does not correct the underlying problem.

What is needed is to begin equalizing the pushing and carrying power of the hind legs and to bring the horse’s balance back toward the outside right so that he can remain on the track through the curve.

But even this is not the whole picture.

Very often the rider is also in the wrong balance, shifted too much to the inside left, thus driving the combined balance of horse and rider even farther toward the outside.

If horse and rider are crooked, they cannot travel in balance around a turn.

If the horse then loses impulsion and the rider tightens the legs and hands in an attempt to hold everything together, the turn becomes increasingly awkward and sticky.

A properly executed turn has flow and ease.

It is like a river going around a bend.

The inside and outside aids can be thought of as the banks of the river. They are not pushing or interrupting the flow of the water. They merely provide the boundaries that channel it.

That distinction is important.

The aids should organize and guide the movement—not manufacture it through force.

Learning to See Before You Ride

This is one reason I so often begin my work on the longe line. I am not simply warming the horse up. I am gathering information. I want to see whether the horse can first achieve a correct way of going without the added complication of carrying a rider.

Can he maintain the circle?

Can he bend through his body?

Does the rhythm remain regular?

Does he lose impulsion in one direction?

Does one shoulder drift?

Does one hind leg appear to push more easily while the other has difficulty carrying?

What changes from one rein to the other?

These observations begin to give us a picture of the horse before we add the rider.

If the horse cannot trot and canter in balance, on the bit, with sufficient impulsion and correct bend on a circle without you aboard, then it is going to be considerably more difficult once you add your weight and balance to the equation.

The longe gives you an opportunity to stand back and see.

If the horse consistently falls to the outside while longing left, then you know that some element of the imbalance already exists before the rider is added.

But if the horse travels beautifully on the longe and then repeatedly loses that same balance once the rider gets on, the rider becomes an important part of what we need to examine.

Perhaps the rider is sitting too far to the inside. Perhaps one leg is gripping. Perhaps the hands are changing the bend. Perhaps the rider is unintentionally shifting the horse’s balance to where he can only fall to the outside.

Seeing the actual problem is critical to the solution.

We have begun to separate one part of the equation from another instead of immediately reaching for a correction.

And this is why it is so important to learn to see and evaluate what is happening beforecorrecting the horse.

Before the Rider Can Correct, the Rider Must Learn to See

Over the years, I have become increasingly interested not merely in what riders are taught, but in whether they are being taught how to observe and understand what is happening beneath them.

Knowing that the outside leg influences the horse is useful. But knowing when to use it, why it is needed, what response you are looking for, and whether it is actually addressing the problem requires something more.

It requires judgment.  And judgment begins with observation.

This is one of the ideas that lies beneath the Classical Riding Roadmap I have been developing.

A roadmap can tell you where you are going, but first you must be able to recognize the terrain you are standing in.

I do not think riding can be reduced to a catalogue of aids: if the horse does this, the rider does that. The horse is a living, changing being. So is the rider. What works in one moment may be completely inappropriate in another because the balance, energy, strength, understanding—or the relationship between horse and rider—has changed.

The rider therefore must learn to observe.

What is the horse really doing?

Where is the balance?

Where is the energy going?

Is the rhythm changing?

Is the horse able to bend, or is he protecting his body because the requirement is difficult, uncomfortable or even painful?

Is he physically unable to give the response, or does he simply not understand the question?

What changes when the rider changes?

Is the rider helping the horse find the answer—or making the problem worse?

And perhaps most importantly:

What needs to be addressed first?

Sometimes the answer will be an aid. Sometimes it will be an exercise. Sometimes the horse needs to become stronger or straighter. Or even heal a muscular imbalance.  Sometimes the rider needs to change. Sometimes we need to go back to the ground and look again.

And sometimes the wisest thing we can do is stop trying to correct the visible symptom long enough to honestly observe the horse in front of us.

This is where training begins to become something more than the execution of movements.

Remember the state in which we started.  We are bringing together two creatures of different species: one biped and one quadruped, one historically a predator and the other prey, each with a different body, different balance, different instincts and a different language.

And somehow, through training, we begin to build a bridge between them.

First there must be relationship and trust. Then a language begins to develop. Balance, strength, sensitivity and understanding follow. Gradually the aids can become quieter and the corrections smaller. Horse and rider cease wrestling over the direction of the movement and begin to organize it together.

Ultimately, classical riding asks whether two separate beings can become sufficiently connected and coherent that movement begins to resemble a dance rather than a negotiation.

Not through force.

Not at the expense of the horse’s physical or mental body.

But through understanding.

And understanding begins with attention.

Before we can truly correct the horse, perhaps our first responsibility as riders is much simpler:

We must learn to see.