Keeping My Eyes Up and Body Still Through a Show Jumping Triple

A triple combination asks for a particular kind of discipline. The fences arrive quickly, the distances are fixed, and there is very little time to repair a poor decision between elements. When I ride Archie through one, my job is to stay organised without becoming rigid: eyes looking ahead, shoulders quiet, lower leg supportive, and hands following the shape of his neck.

That balance has taken plenty of practice. I used to stare at the first rail, tip forward as we landed, and then scramble to find the next fence. Archie would often make the sensible decision for both of us, but it was not a reliable way to jump. The improvement came from breaking the combination into small pieces and training my body to remain useful after every landing.

Why a triple combination exposes small mistakes

A triple is rarely difficult because of one enormous fence. Its challenge comes from the sequence. The first jump needs a balanced approach, the landing must leave enough room to organise for the second, and the final element often arrives before the rider has fully settled. A tiny shift in position can become a rushed stride by the third fence.

The first element also tempts me to focus too narrowly. If I lock my eyes onto the top rail, I lose the line beyond it. Archie feels that change immediately. My neck stiffens, my hands become fixed, and my weight moves towards his shoulders. He may jump the first fence neatly, but the next approach becomes less adjustable.

I now think of the triple as one flowing question rather than three separate jumps. Before entering, I identify the whole line, the fence where I want my eyes to land after take-off, and the place where I intend to finish. That mental picture gives me somewhere to go after the first fence instead of leaving me trapped in the moment of take-off.

Using my eyes to ride the whole line

My eyes are the first part of my body I organise. On the approach, I look beyond the first element towards the top of the second or the space just after it, depending on the layout. I still register the first fence through my peripheral vision, but I do not let it become the only thing in front of me.

This is easier when the approach has a clear rhythm. I count the final strides quietly, keep my head level, and avoid dropping my chin. Looking up does not mean staring into the distance. It means keeping my vision open so I can read the next rail, Archie’s balance, and any change in the line.

As we leave the first fence, I move my eyes to the next target without throwing my upper body after them. That distinction matters. My head can turn slightly while my sternum stays centred over Archie’s withers. If I look dramatically to the side, my shoulders follow and my outside rein loses its quiet boundary.

During a recent indoor competition, I had to work harder on this because the walls made the arena feel smaller and the artificial light changed the way the fences appeared. My indoor show jumping experience reminded me that eye discipline matters even when the surroundings are unfamiliar.

Building a still upper body

“Still” does not mean frozen. I want my hips to follow Archie’s movement, my elbows to open and close with his neck, and my shoulders to stay relaxed. The stillness is in the unnecessary movement: no pitching at the first fence, no collapsing over the middle element, and no sitting heavily when I feel uncertain.

A useful image is to imagine that my ribcage is suspended above my pelvis. My seat follows the horse, but my chest does not chase the jump. Through the combination, I keep a soft bend in my elbows and allow my hands to travel forward enough for Archie to stretch, while retaining enough connection to guide him straight.

The lower leg has an equally important role. I keep my calf gently against his side and my heel weighted without forcing it down. If my lower leg swings back at take-off, I lose stability and may unintentionally push him past the ideal distance. If it swings forward, I can land behind the movement and interfere with his balance.

I practise this feeling on the flat by riding transitions in a light seat. Trot to canter, canter to trot, and a few strides of lengthening teach me to move with Archie without gripping. Poles on the ground then add a timing element. I can concentrate on holding my posture while his stride changes, without the visual pressure of an actual fence.

Rehearsing the canter before adding height

The canter into a triple needs enough energy to cover the distance, but it must remain adjustable. I do not want a fast, flat canter that arrives at the first fence with no options. I want Archie’s hind leg engaged, his shoulders lifted, and his stride available to shorten or lengthen slightly.

Before jumping, I ride a series of transitions within the canter. I ask for a few shorter strides, then allow him forward while keeping my upper body tall. I also ride large circles, shallow loops, and changes of rein so that the canter is balanced in both directions. These exercises reveal whether I am carrying the rhythm or simply hoping the horse will find it.

When poles are set as a placing exercise, I focus on the quality of the stride rather than chasing a particular distance. Archie needs to understand that the line remains calm even when the poles are moved. I keep my eyes beyond the final pole and maintain an even contact, especially if the first approach feels slightly long.

Only after the canter feels dependable do I build the exercise into a small triple. Starting low allows me to practise the sequence without protecting myself from the height. If my body stays quiet over small fences, I have a better chance of keeping that same shape when the jumps rise at a competition.

Managing the landing between elements

The landing after the first fence is where I used to lose the most control. I would sit abruptly, pull for balance, and then discover that Archie had shortened too much for the second element. Now I try to land with my weight centred, my eyes already up, and my hands following rather than fixing.

The first stride on the ground is valuable. I use it to feel whether Archie is straight and whether the canter has stayed active. A gentle closing of the leg can maintain the rhythm, while a quiet outside rein keeps his shoulder from drifting. I avoid making a large correction unless safety requires it, because a frantic adjustment often creates a bigger problem than the original mistake.

Between the second and third fences, I concentrate on breathing. It sounds minor, but holding my breath makes my back stiff and my hands tense. A soft exhale helps me absorb the landing and remain available. Archie does not need a dramatic signal there; he needs consistency.

At home, I sometimes place a single rail after a small fence and practise staying in balance over it. I also ride through a line with one element removed, imagining where my eyes and body would be if the next jump were present. These exercises help me keep the same physical habits when the actual combination is more demanding.

Adapting the routine to Australian conditions

Training in Australia means paying attention to the environment before I worry about perfect technique. In Brisbane, summer heat can make an evening session feel heavy even after sunset, while in Melbourne a cold, wet morning can change the footing and the horse’s willingness to loosen through his back. I check the Bureau of Meteorology forecast, plan shorter schooling sessions in hot weather, and allow Archie time to cool down properly.

At venues around Sydney or regional New South Wales, early starts are common because several classes need to fit into one day. That affects preparation. I pack hay, water, electrolytes, spare clothes, and a simple timetable the night before rather than relying on a rushed dawn routine. Archie travels better when his feeding and watering remain familiar.

The Australian horse market also influences how I train. Arena hire, coaching, agistment, diesel for the float, and quality feed all add up, so I make each lesson purposeful. A good coach can often create a useful triple from poles and small uprights instead of requiring a large collection of competition-style fences. That makes regular practice more realistic than waiting for an expensive show-jumping clinic.

Biosecurity is part of travelling as well. The Biosecurity Act 2015 provides the national framework, while state and territory rules affect horse movement and event requirements. I clean manure from the float, avoid sharing water buckets, check the venue’s conditions, and carry the paperwork or travel details that an organiser may request. Good preparation reduces stress before I even pick up the reins.

Keeping the same plan on competition day

At a show, the triple may look different from the one I practised at home. The arena can be bigger, the approach can feel enclosed by rails, and another rider’s round may make the line appear faster than it really is. I walk the course carefully and identify where I will look after each fence, rather than memorising only the colours and numbers.

My warm-up is deliberately simple. I want Archie moving forward from my leg, responding to half-halts, and travelling straight. A few small fences are enough to confirm the rhythm. I do not keep jumping until I feel perfectly brave, because too much repetition can make both of us tired or tense before the class begins.

Australian competition rules also make safety equipment part of the routine. At an Equestrian Australia affiliated event, I check that my helmet complies with the accepted standard and is correctly fitted, and I make sure my body protector meets the event requirements when cross-country is involved. I do this well before mounting, since a last-minute equipment issue can distract me from the course.

When we approach the triple, I return to three simple reminders: look through the line, keep my chest quiet, and support the canter with my leg. I do not try to manufacture every stride. If Archie stays straight and in front of me, the combination becomes a conversation rather than a crisis.

Afterwards, I assess the round without judging it by the final rail alone. I note whether I looked up, whether my hands followed, and whether I stayed balanced after each landing. Those details tell me more about our progress than a single fault. With enough repetition, keeping my eyes up and body still becomes less of a technical instruction and more of a dependable habit in the saddle.