Why I Always Walk The Show Jumping Course Twice Before Riding
Show jumping can look straightforward from the grandstand. The fences are brightly painted, the arena is enclosed, and the course map usually offers a neat sequence of numbers. From the saddle, though, every fence has a different question. How quickly should I arrive? Where will Archie land? Which turn will steal the most time? How much room do I need before the double?
That is why I have made walking the show jumping course twice part of my competition routine. The first circuit helps me understand the designer’s plan. The second lets me test that plan against Archie, the arena, the footing, and the way the distances will actually feel while I am riding.
I am not trying to memorise a string of numbers mechanically. I am building a mental picture that will still be useful when the bell rings, the atmosphere rises, and I have only a few seconds to make each decision. A careful course walk turns a collection of fences into a rideable strategy.
Why One Walk Is Not Enough
My first walk is deliberately broad. I follow the course in numerical order, but I do not rush to calculate every stride immediately. I look at the overall shape, identify the start and finish, and note where the course changes direction. This gives me a sense of the rhythm the designer wants: forward and flowing, careful and technical, or a mixture of both.
There is a lot to absorb at a show. Horses may be schooling nearby, riders may be discussing the track, and the steward may be calling competitors for another class. During that first lap, I am often taking in the obvious information while missing small details. I may notice a narrow oxer but fail to register how close it is to the arena wall. I may see a related distance without appreciating how sharply the preceding turn affects the approach.
The second walk slows everything down. I revisit the places that deserve more attention and examine them from the direction Archie will actually travel. I check whether a decorative filler creates a visual question, whether the landing side slopes slightly, and whether the distance between fences feels generous or compressed. Seeing those details twice makes them easier to recall under pressure.
What I Notice On The First Circuit
The opening circuit is about orientation. I find the first fence, then trace the route to the second without assuming that the most obvious track is the best one. A course can tempt a rider into a wide turn that feels comfortable but costs time, or offer a tighter line that only works if the horse stays balanced and responsive.
I also look for the natural landmarks around the arena. A gate, a judge’s box, a tree, a loudspeaker, or a cluster of spectators can become useful reference points. Instead of remembering only “turn left after fence four,” I might remember “land, pass inside the flower box, then ride toward the white standard.” Those visual anchors make the sequence more reliable than numbers alone.
The fences themselves tell me about the likely emphasis of the round. A tall vertical after a forward oxer may reward a balanced approach. A plank near the in-gate may test concentration. A combination asks for accuracy in the first effort, while a long gallop toward an upright demands that I keep Archie in front of my leg without letting him rush. The first walk helps me identify these questions before I decide how to answer them.
| Course Feature | What I Check | Riding Question |
|---|---|---|
| First fence | Distance from the entrance and available approach | Can I establish rhythm before asking for takeoff? |
| Related distance | Number of strides, terrain, and landing space | Should I maintain the pace or adjust it? |
| Combination | Width, pole placement, and visibility of the second element | Will Archie stay straight through both efforts? |
| Tight turn | Space between the previous landing and the next fence | Where can I balance without losing momentum? |
| Final line | Direction toward the finish and likely distractions | Can I stay focused instead of easing off early? |
What The Second Walk Reveals
On the second circuit, I think less like a spectator and more like a rider. I stand at the takeoff point and look back toward the previous fence. Then I turn around and study the next effort from the landing side. This changes the scale of the course. A fence that appeared large from the side may look inviting from the approach, while a simple vertical can become more demanding when the turn leaves little room to organise.
This is also when I walk the distances. I do not treat my counted strides as an infallible answer because my walking stride and Archie’s canter stride are not identical. Still, the measurement gives me a useful starting point. I want to know whether a related distance is likely to ride on a normal rhythm, whether it may require a slightly more forward feel, or whether I should protect the balance and accept a quieter approach.
The second circuit often changes my route. A line that looked efficient on the map may be too sharp after seeing the actual arena. Conversely, a turn that seemed risky may be perfectly manageable because there is more space than expected. Course walking is therefore a process of updating the plan, not defending the first idea I had.
Turning Numbers Into A Rideable Sequence
Memorising the order of fences matters, but I rarely remember the course as a bare list. I break it into sections: the opening line, the turn to the combination, the long side of the arena, and the final approach home. Each section gets a simple purpose. For example, the first line may be about establishing rhythm, while the middle of the course may require more precision and patience.
This helps me avoid staring at the next fence too early. If I am already thinking about fence seven while jumping fence five, I can miss the turn or allow Archie to lose his balance. A sequence-based plan keeps my attention on the current job while giving me a clear idea of what follows. I know when I need to land and ride forward, when I need to sit up, and when I need to prepare a change of direction.
I also decide where I want my eye to be. Before a related distance, I focus on the first element and let the second arrive as a consequence of a good entry. On a bending line, I look through the turn toward the destination rather than locking onto the standard beside me. Those choices sound small, but they give my body a clearer message and reduce the temptation to interfere at the last moment.
Reading The Course Through Archie
A course is never ridden by an abstract horse. It is ridden by Archie, with his particular stride, reactions, strengths, and moments of uncertainty. When I walk, I consider how each question might meet him. He is capable of producing a careful, athletic jump, but he still benefits from a rider who gives him a clear approach and does not change the instructions halfway to the fence.
The surface matters as well. Firm grass, deep sand, or a recently watered arena can affect the way I manage the pace. If the footing feels holding, I may give myself more time before a turn. If it is particularly good, I can allow a more forward rhythm without chasing. I also look at the warm-up and the entrance so I understand how much time I may have to settle him before starting.
His preparation away from the competition arena supports these decisions. A horse that has had a sensible break between events is usually better able to concentrate and recover, which is why I pay attention to Archie's rest-day routine as part of the wider show plan. Course walking cannot replace fitness, relaxation, or good training, but it helps me use those foundations intelligently.
Details That Prevent Expensive Mistakes
The most useful course-walking observations are often unglamorous. I check whether the numbers are easy to see from the previous fence, whether a standard narrows the entrance to a turn, and whether the finish line might tempt me to relax before the last effort. I notice where the arena fence sits and whether a jump has a bright filler that could draw Archie’s eye sideways.
I pay particular attention to the landing side. Riders naturally focus on the obstacle in front of them, but the first few strides after a jump determine whether the next part of the course will feel organised. A poor landing can make a turn tight, flatten a related distance, or leave too little time to change the lead. By looking beyond the fence during both walks, I remind myself that each jump is part of a larger line.
I also decide where not to overcomplicate matters. There may be several possible tracks, but I usually want the one that allows Archie to stay straight, balanced, and confident. A clever inside turn is not clever if it produces a rushed approach. Saving a few metres is useful only when the quality of the jump remains high. My best rounds come from making efficient choices that still feel fair to him.
Building A Plan That Can Adapt
No course walk can predict every moment of a round. Archie may land on the wrong lead, a pole may fall in an earlier class, or another horse may draw his attention as we pass the warm-up side. The purpose of walking twice is not to create a script that collapses when something changes. It is to give me enough understanding to adapt without becoming disorganised.
Before I enter the arena, I reduce the plan to a few reminders. I might tell myself to keep the first fence quiet, ride positively to the combination, and stay committed to the final turn. These cues are easier to use than a long internal speech about every stride. The detailed work has already happened during the walks, so the ride can remain active and present.
If I make a mistake, the second walk still helps. I know where the next fence is, what line I intended to take, and which parts of the course require immediate balance. Rather than dwelling on the previous jump, I can return to the plan and give Archie a fair chance at the next one. That recovery is one of the clearest benefits of preparation.
The second walk also gives me a chance to check my emotional state. If I feel rushed, I can stand quietly at the first fence and breathe. If the course seems intimidating, I can break it into the same manageable sections I use in training. Walking twice does not remove nerves, but it replaces some uncertainty with familiarity.
When Archie and I leave the warm-up, I want the course to feel known without feeling rigid. I want to have seen every approach, considered every turn, and chosen a rhythm that suits us both. That preparation begins on foot, but it is designed for the moment when I gather the reins, hear the bell, and ride forward.
A second course walk takes only a few extra minutes, yet it can sharpen decisions that matter throughout the round. Make it part of your next show-jumping routine: walk once for the big picture, walk again for the details, and carry a simple, adaptable plan into the arena.