Mouthy Monday

I got HOC to write a little on the term "in front of the leg", it's a term I like to roll around in my mind without really understanding it. I think it fits in with what we've been talking about.

In front of the leg

Whatever discipline we ride, I believe there are some common base requests we have on our horses.

We want them to move in balance with the rider.We want them to be obedient to the aids.We want them to move in such a way that it makes them comfortable to ride.And of course, we want them to be safe. At least as safe as a horse can be.

Mugs asked me to write something about the term “In front of the leg”, and in addition she said “geared towards us western nerds”. As I have never been in the saddle of a western horse this makes things a bit complicated to me, but as I believe we have the same base requests on our horses I will make a try anyway. And it would be very nice to get a discussion going here with some input from the western nerds as well as the dressage ones!

To me, the term “in front of the leg” means that I want my horse to always think forward when I am in the saddle. So it comes in under the base request “obedient to the aids”.

It does not sound too difficult to achieve, does it?

Problem is, that as with most things that sound simple, they really aren’t when you look more closely into them.The setting here is that we simply do not want the horse to move forward, we also want the horse to move forward with quality. In balance, and while it is being comfortable to ride on – that is with a swinging back and active hind legs.

So when I ask my horse to go forward, I don’t want the horse to lose its balance and increase speed, getting on the forehand. I want it to keep the balance and rhythm. I want it to keep a soft contact on the bit, without tensioning or bracing. The horse is just to lengthen or shorten the strides, depending on the rider’s aids, while keeping the outline. He is to be energetic but relaxed. Here I believe lays the challenge. Forward is not always good. Not if you ride your horse out of rhythm, or out of balance, or if it tenses up.

(Mugwump interuptus) Thinking forward, especially on some of the pluggy, poky horses who com in to our lives is a good concept. I'm translating this as if the horse is correctly and happily moving out without needing my leg to keep him moving, but still balanced in the hands he is ahead of the leg?

Dive in here you dressagers, this really ties in with the "horse happy with their job" theme.



Here's a cool story from levinoranna.blogspot.com


There's a quote in Virginia Woolf's Orlando, a quote which I would willingly tattoo onto myself if only I had the space. 'For what more terrifying revelation can there be than that it is the present moment? That we survive the shock at all is only possible because the past shelters us on one side and the future on another...'. This quote came to haunt me, one sunny afternoon, sitting in an English lecture at University.

Whilst the lecturer had been talking, pacing from one side to another, I watched his feet. Half-pass on the right rein, then piaffe; a nervous, jerky step on the spot that made the brown leather of his shoes squeak. Then side-step, side-step, across the diagonal, then a pivot, and on he marched on the opposite rein.

I thought back to two weeks previous. Another Easter, another month at the stables.

Becky was moving in with her boyfriend and his kid. They were waiting for the council to allocate them a flat.

Maria was married; came down to pawn off her baby to us while she rode her mare.

Becky's sister visited, proudly showing us her second child. 'I wanted a girl, but once you know it's hard to feel disappointed.'

Nat, after a three month hiatus, was back with our boss' son, staying on site till they found a cheap flat nearby.

As we sat, smoking, eating, drinking tea, dogs sniffed around us, playing dead until they had us in fits of laughter and we felt honour bound to give them some crusts.

We got up with the dawn, often staying at each-other's houses. Mornings were spent feverishly creating mental lists of things to do, tack to clean, horses to vet. Or, more often than not, hungover, grimly recounting the events of last night whilst clutching cups of tea to our heads.

By 8am Becky would slink off to attend to the dogs , and me and Nat would set a goal to finish mucking out.

By ten, itching to ride, chucking the last slabs of hay into boxes and slinging water into buckets, the lunge line would appear and so began the unenviable task of exercising the babies.

Razor, an appropriate name considering his huge neck wound, would be done first. A colt, he had quietened considerably after the accident. Syringe, bute, bowl of warm water, paper towels. We would gingerly approach. 'ewwwwww. it's got even more pus than before.'

I would try, unsuccessfully, not to look, then watch with fascinated horror as black, crusty scabs and pus were picked off and the wound was drained by catheter. He seemed to take a secret pleasure in being a martyr, enjoying the attention he received from two females. 'Bless your cottons, Raze, you're such a good boy.'

Next was Tulip and Levi. Levi, Nat's showjumping prospect, dances around like the goon he is, a swinging trot punctuated by fits of bucking and snorting to worry his owner; 'you'd better not do that while I'm on, Levi.'

Tulip, a barbie-esque palomino, quietly accepts her western saddle, always circling the lunge at a floating trot, however hard we try and make her jog.

Lighting the first of many Lucky Strikes, we mount, taking the gravel path at a trot and turning right onto the road. As usual, the horses snort in alarm at the motorbike in a driveway they pass every day.

The woods, which will later blaze red and gold at sunset, are a soft green. We stop on occasion, listening for quad bikes or tree-cutters, but mostly let the horses pick their way through the undergrowth.

Tulip babyishly climbs the banks, unwilling to muddy her feet in the swamp. Levi, the eternal prankster, hops over logs and randomly breaks into canter.

Both washed down, we turn to the next two: DJ, a potential racing arab, and Reg, another jumper. I ride DJ, excitedly jogging on the spot due to a rigorous fitness regime and too many oats.

As Reg, a 17hh giant, extends up the hill, I urge DJ on in two-point position, my hands almost by her ears. The ride is fun, filled with laughter.

I take most of it at a canter, the incentive to catch up increasened by Nat's endless stories. They are filled with tales of drugged-up horses, shady deals, randy showjumpers. I recognize names I've heard at the World Cup Qualifiers, Hickstead, even the Olympics. I tell her how envious I am. "Well stay here then! You could borrow one of mine, I'll teach you how to jump proper. I reckon you could qualify for 1.10m at Hickstead by the summer."

Back in the lecture room. The sun, instead of energizing me, as it does at the stables, fills me with a leaden sleepiness. I suddenly realize where I am.

Surrounded by my own existential crisis, I realize everyone is moving on. Having babies, moving in with boyfriends, starting business ventures. Where am I? What am I doing here, and why? For a terror-stricken ten minutes, thoughts of my road in life, the path of higher education I've taken, the very bad mark I've just received for my essay, and my incredible debt ,flood my brain.

Looking down at the quote sheet, I see it. 'The past shelters us on one side, the future on another.' The future. Settled once more, I lean back a little in my chair, letting my mind drift to a world ten years from now, a world populated by huge barns, a cross country course, solariums, horse walkers, and a couple of big, powerful eventers whickering in their boxes. There's still time.