Riding first on course without letting pressure take over

Being the first rider on course at a big event has a particular kind of pressure. There is no useful round to watch, no chance to see how the ground is riding, and no quick comparison with another horse’s rhythm. When Archie and I are called forward before everyone else, I have to make decisions from my own preparation rather than borrowing confidence from the riders waiting behind me.

That responsibility can feel exciting, especially at a large Australian event where the warm-up is busy, the timetable is tight and spectators gather around the arena. I have learned that the answer is not to pretend I am calm. It is to give the pressure somewhere useful to go: into a clear plan, a repeatable warm-up and a quiet conversation with my horse.

Part of the round	What can increase the pressure	What helps me stay effective
Before entering	No previous round to study	Walking the course carefully and choosing priorities
In the warm-up	Crowded arenas and changing conditions	A short, purposeful warm-up for Archie
At the start	Silence, officials and waiting spectators	Breathing, riding forward and following the first line
During the course	Second-guessing a fence or turn	Returning to rhythm and the next job
After finishing	Reviewing every mistake immediately	Cooling Archie down before analysing the round

Accepting the empty course

My first task is accepting that an empty course is not automatically a disadvantage. It means I do not have information about how other combinations are coping, but it also means I am not carrying someone else’s mistakes into my own round. A refusal, a time fault or a difficult turn from an earlier rider can be just as distracting as it is helpful.

At a big show, I sometimes catch myself looking towards the arena entrance, hoping another competitor will appear before us. That feeling is a sign that I am trying to outsource my confidence. Instead, I remind myself that the course designer has given me a question to answer, and Archie does not need me to predict every possible problem. He needs a balanced rider who is present for the fence in front of him.

This is especially important in eventing because each phase asks for a different type of concentration. After dressage, I may already feel watched and assessed. Show jumping brings a sharper focus on lines, related distances and time. Cross-country adds terrain, speed and the responsibility of keeping the partnership safe. Being first simply brings that concentration forward; it does not change the standard of riding I have practised.

Preparing before the start list becomes real

When I know I may be first on course, I prepare as though my number will be called early. I study the course map, walk every fence and make notes about the parts that deserve a definite decision. I am looking for the first place where Archie may need extra support, the turns that could become hurried and any change of surface or light that might affect our rhythm.

I do not try to memorise a dramatic story for the whole round. I divide the course into small sections: the first line, the middle questions and the final fences. For show jumping, I count strides where that is useful, but I avoid becoming rigid about a distance that may ride differently on the day. For cross-country, I identify the required speed, the safest approach to each complex and the places where I can allow Archie to travel forward.

This routine works at home as well as at competitions. Around Melbourne, a training day at Werribee can involve a long drive, an early start and a ground surface that feels different from the arena near home. At Sydney International Equestrian Centre, the scale of the venue can make a familiar exercise feel more significant. Walking deliberately helps turn an impressive setting back into a series of practical riding tasks.

Keeping the warm-up short and useful

My warm-up is not a performance for the people around the arena. When I am first to go, I have no reason to keep schooling while waiting for another round to finish, so I try to make every minute count. Archie needs to move freely, listen to my aids and feel confident in the work required for the phase. Once those things are present, extra repetition can become tension.

In dressage, I prefer a few transitions, some accurate figures and a moment to confirm that Archie is responding to my leg and hand. Before show jumping, I want a relaxed canter, a couple of straightforward fences and one or two adjustments to the stride. Before cross-country, I focus on forwardness, balance and attentiveness rather than attempting a miniature version of the entire course.

Busy warm-up arenas require manners and awareness. Australian events can have riders arriving from very different programs, with thoroughbreds, warmbloods and smaller sport horses sharing limited space. I keep my line predictable, acknowledge riders who are jumping and avoid allowing my own nerves to make Archie rush. If the warm-up steward gives a direction, I treat it as part of the event rather than an interruption to my plan.

Giving Archie a job

Archie notices changes in my body quickly. If I brace through my shoulders or grip with my knees, he can become less comfortable in the contact and more inclined to hurry. I cannot remove every nervous thought, but I can keep my aids familiar. A steady lower leg, a soft hand and a clear look towards the next question give him information he understands from ordinary training days.

Before we enter, I usually choose one simple focus. It might be riding forward from the first stride, keeping my eyes up through the turns or maintaining the same canter after a fence. I do not give myself a list of ten corrections. Too many instructions make me ride defensively, and Archie then has to work through my indecision rather than simply responding to a clear request.

This approach also protects our partnership from the atmosphere of the venue. At a large show, there may be loudspeakers, trucks, photographers, marquees and spectators close to the arena. Australian summer competitions can add heat, dust and glare, while a wet winter event may bring slippery patches and heavy footing. I cannot control every environmental detail, but I can keep Archie’s job understandable.

Using the first minute to settle

The moments before the bell are often harder than the first fence. I have walked the course, warmed up and checked my tack, yet the official’s signal makes everything feel suddenly important. I use that pause to breathe out, soften my hands and look towards the first line. My aim is not to produce a perfect feeling before we start; it is to begin riding rather than waiting for confidence to arrive.

The first few strides set the emotional tone of the round. If I allow Archie to drift or shuffle while I stare at the first fence, I have already created a problem. I want an active, balanced rhythm that gives me time to make decisions. At a show jumping event, I ride the first approach with the same attention I would use at home. On cross-country, I establish the intended pace without chasing it.

I also accept that the opening line may not feel exactly as it did during the course walk. Wind can change the atmosphere, another horse may have disturbed a take-off area and the light may look different from the saddle. I keep the plan but leave room to ride what is in front of me. A plan should guide my decisions, not prevent me from making them.

Staying with the next fence

The greatest danger for me is allowing one moment to occupy the whole round. If Archie has a slightly long stride, I miss a perfect distance or feel less balanced through a turn, my mind can replay it while the next fence approaches. Being first can intensify that habit because there is no previous rider’s round to bring me back to the present.

I use a short reset after any untidy moment. I breathe out, re-establish the canter and name the next task in my head. That might be “straight to the gate,” “hold the line” or “forward to the spread.” The wording is deliberately plain. I do not need a motivational speech while riding; I need an instruction that connects my attention with the horse.

On cross-country, this mental discipline matters for safety as much as performance. A combination may require a change of balance, a narrow approach or a careful line after a larger fence. I cannot spend several strides judging what has already happened. The same is true in show jumping, where a late correction before one fence can leave the following turn rushed. Rhythm gives me a way back into the round.

Managing the practical details

Pressure is easier to handle when the practical work is already organised. I check Archie’s gear early, keep water and spare supplies accessible, and allow more time than I think I need for walking from the stables to the warm-up. At venues outside Melbourne or Sydney, travel can be a significant part of competition day. A float journey, unfamiliar parking area and long walk to the arenas all affect how much energy remains for the actual start.

I also pay attention to local conditions rather than relying on a standard routine. In Australia, the surface may be firm after a dry spell or deeper after rain, and temperatures can rise quickly during a morning that began cool. I follow the event’s instructions about horse welfare, hydration and cooling, and I adjust the warm-up if Archie feels hotter or more tired than expected. The goal is a prepared horse, not a tired one.

The financial side of the local competition scene can add background pressure too. Entry fees, lessons, fuel, float maintenance, accommodation and feed are real costs, particularly when an event requires travel from regional areas. I try not to turn that investment into a demand for a flawless result. The money has supported our preparation and experience; it does not give me control over every stride on the day.

Reviewing the round without carrying it home

Once we finish, my first responsibility is Archie. I let him settle, cool down properly and have a drink before I start dissecting the performance. The immediate feeling may be relief, disappointment or excitement, but none of those emotions gives a complete assessment. I want to notice how he is recovering and whether he feels comfortable before focusing on scores.

When I review the round, I separate decisions from outcomes. A fence can fall even when the approach was well ridden, while a clear result can hide a rushed turn that needs attention. I consider whether I kept the rhythm, whether I gave Archie enough support and whether my plan matched the conditions. If a mistake came from hesitation, I record that clearly rather than labelling the whole ride as a failure.

Being the first combination out has gradually become a useful test of independence. I still feel the nerves when a large venue goes quiet and our number is called, but I know what to do with them now. I walk the course, warm up with purpose, give Archie a clear job and keep returning to the next fence. The pressure remains part of the experience, yet it no longer gets to decide how we ride.