Finding the right tempo in a dressage test
A dressage test can feel wrong before the first movement is finished. Archie may be obedient, balanced and ready to work, yet the pace can seem strangely sluggish, as though every stride is arriving late. At another show, the opposite happens: the letters come up too quickly, the corners disappear, and I feel as if I am chasing the test rather than presenting it.
I have learned that tempo is less about riding faster or slower and more about preserving the rhythm, balance and adjustability that were already there in training. The useful response depends on whether Archie is genuinely losing energy, becoming hurried, or simply feeling different because of the arena, footing, weather and my own competition nerves.
How I decide what I am feeling
The first distinction is between rhythm and speed. Rhythm is the regular sequence of the horse’s footfalls; speed is how much ground those steps cover. A horse can take quick, tense steps while travelling slowly, or cover plenty of ground without losing the beat. If I react to the wrong problem, I can make a steady test look rushed or turn a lively test into a flat one.
I check whether Archie is still answering my aids. If my leg produces a longer, more purposeful stride without a loss of balance, the issue was probably a lack of energy. If my half-halt is ignored, his neck becomes rigid, or the stride gets shorter and quicker, I am dealing with tension and hurried tempo instead. That small diagnosis gives me something practical to do rather than a vague instruction to “ride better”.
The arena itself can distort my judgement. A large outdoor rectangle at a showground may make Archie feel as though he has endless room, while a smaller indoor surface can make the same pace seem fast. Wind, deep or loose footing, loudspeaker announcements and horses waiting near the warm-up can all change the sensation. I try to judge the quality of the stride, not compare it with the feeling from the previous weekend.
When the test feels too slow
When Archie feels behind the leg, I avoid kicking continuously. Constant leg pressure quickly becomes background noise, and it can produce a bigger-looking step without genuine forward connection. Instead, I use one clear aid, then soften. I want him to understand that the answer is an active, balanced stride, not a frantic acceleration.
In the warm-up, I might ride a few transitions within the pace: a working trot, a little more ground cover, then back to working trot. The aim is to wake up the hind legs while keeping the same regular beat. A brief stretch forward and down can also help him loosen his back, provided he returns to the working frame without falling onto his shoulders.
Once the test begins, I think about riding towards the next letter rather than pushing every stride. On a long side, I allow enough impulsion to reach the corner with purpose, then use the corner to rebalance. Corners are useful because they naturally ask for bend and engagement; there is no need to manufacture extra speed halfway down the arena.
If Archie remains genuinely slow, I may make the transition more definite. A clear upward transition from walk to trot, or from trot to canter, can restore the conversation between leg and hand. I do not want to sacrifice accuracy for animation, though. A prompt transition at the right marker will usually earn more than a hurried approach that causes a late or crooked movement.
When the rhythm starts running away
A fast-feeling test often tempts me to pull. That can make Archie shorter in the neck and quicker in the feet, especially if he is already anxious. I try to close my fingers briefly, lift my posture and allow the rein again. The half-halt should redistribute his balance, not block the forward movement.
My seat matters just as much as my hands. If I brace my thighs or grip with my knees, Archie can interpret that tension as a request to hurry. I breathe out through the corner, sit tall without leaning back, and follow the swing of the trot. A quiet lower leg gives him fewer mixed messages.
Before entering at an Australian competition, I often use a simple warm-up pattern: large circles, transitions, a few changes of rein and plenty of straight lines. At a busy ag showground, the warm-up may be on grass or a smaller sand area, with riders coming from several directions. I keep enough space to protect our rhythm rather than trying to match somebody else’s pace.
| What I notice | Likely issue | Helpful response |
|---|---|---|
| Regular steps but little ground cover | Low energy or weak connection | Use one clear leg aid, then soften |
| Short, quick steps | Tension or loss of balance | Sit taller, breathe, use a gentle half-halt |
| Bigger stride with a drifting shoulder | Too much forward without control | Rebalance through a corner or transition |
| Pace changes after every aid | Confusing or inconsistent signals | Simplify the aid and reward the correct answer |
| Tempo changes in one movement only | Preparation or line problem | Set the balance earlier before the movement |
Using training to make the pace reliable
I get the best competition results when tempo is practised as part of ordinary schooling, rather than treated as a show-day emergency. During a flatwork session, I may ride a straight line in working trot, ask for a few steps with more reach, then return to the original pace without changing the rhythm. This teaches Archie that “more” means more ground and energy, not running.
Transitions are particularly valuable because they reveal whether I am carrying the horse or whether he is carrying himself. I like transitions within the trot, walk-trot transitions and canter-trot transitions on both reins. If the downward transition becomes abrupt or falls onto the forehand, I repeat it with better preparation instead of accepting a messy response.
Circles and serpentines help me feel whether tempo changes with the bend. Archie can hurry through a turn when he anticipates the straight line, or lose energy when the curve becomes demanding. I use the outside rein to maintain the shape, support with the inside leg and keep my shoulders aligned with the track. The exercise is about balance, not collecting a particular number of strides.
Lessons also help because a coach can hear what I cannot feel. I may believe that a trot is too slow when it actually looks calm and expressive, or I may think a canter is controlled while an observer sees a rushed three-beat rhythm. Video from training at home is useful as well, although I try not to judge every frame by competition standards. A test needs to be correct and rideable before it can be polished.
Adjusting for Australian show conditions
Heat changes my plan. At a summer event in New South Wales or Queensland, Archie may warm up early, then lose energy as the sun climbs. I keep the early work purposeful and short, offer water when appropriate, and avoid making him sweat unnecessarily before the test. On a cool Victorian morning, he may need more walking and suppling before he feels mentally available.
Travel is another factor. A long float trip, an unfamiliar stable block and a delayed draw can leave a horse flat or over-alert. I allow time to unload, settle and look around rather than expecting an instant competition frame. If the venue is several hours from home, I would rather have a simple, reliable warm-up plan than a complicated schooling session that uses up Archie’s concentration.
The surface deserves attention too. Sand that is deep, sticky or unusually firm affects how much ground a horse can cover. A grass arena after rain may encourage a shorter stride, while dry footing can make a nervous horse feel more reactive. I do not chase the tempo I had at home if the footing requires a more conservative approach. Safety and regularity come first.
Local show routines can be informal but still demanding. Riders may call the event “the comp”, bring an Esky to the float, and spend half the morning moving between yards, gear checks and the warm-up steward. Those practical details influence focus. I keep my test plan written down, check the arena location and leave enough time for a calm final walk rather than arriving flustered from the truck.
Riding the feeling without losing the test
Once I enter the arena, I reduce the amount of information I give myself. I do not want to monitor every stride, every judge’s movement and every possible mark at once. I choose a few anchors: regular rhythm, straightness on the centre line, preparation before transitions and a soft, consistent contact.
If the first few movements feel slower than expected, I ask whether the accuracy is still available. If Archie is balanced and listening, I may leave the pace alone rather than chase a more dramatic picture. Judges generally reward a correct, harmonious movement more generously than an energetic movement that loses shape, rhythm or preparation.
If the test feels rushed, I focus on the next movement’s preparation. Before a corner, I breathe and rebalance. Before a transition, I establish the line and close my outside rein. Before a halt, I stop thinking about the previous error and organise the final few steps. This prevents one hurried moment from spreading through the whole test.
I keep a small mental phrase ready: “same rhythm, better balance”. It works better for me than “slow down” or “go faster”, because those commands are too blunt. If I tell myself to slow down, I may accidentally block Archie. If I tell myself to go forward, I may create tension. The more precise phrase keeps the adjustment subtle.
My notes from previous campaigns, including these December competition notes, remind me that the feeling in the saddle is only part of the result. A test can feel quiet and understated while earning solid marks, or feel powerful while losing points through tension and inaccuracy. I write down what changed in the warm-up, the weather, the surface and my own mindset so the next decision is based on evidence.
Reviewing the test afterwards
I wait until Archie has cooled down and settled before analysing the ride. The first questions are simple: Did the rhythm stay regular? Did he respond to my aids? Did I preserve the line and accuracy? These answers are more useful than deciding whether the entire test felt good or bad.
The score sheet can show where tempo affected the marks. Comments such as “needs more impulsion”, “hurried”, “tight”, or “lack of balance” point to different solutions. A low mark for a medium trot may call for better preparation and strength, while a low mark for a transition may show that I changed the pace too late.
I also compare the test with the warm-up. Sometimes Archie feels slow because I am waiting for a perfect, extravagant stride, yet the warm-up showed an adequate working pace. In that case, the correction is mental: trust the training and ride accurately. At other times, he really does lose energy after travelling or standing around, and I need a more effective pre-test activation routine.
The goal is not to make every test feel identical. Horses and venues vary, and a useful competition skill is the ability to adjust without overcorrecting. With Archie, I aim for a tempo that is regular, forward and adjustable, then let the movements show that quality. When I can stay calm enough to feel the difference between sluggishness and tension, a difficult pace becomes a manageable riding problem rather than a reason to abandon the plan.