The Dressage Test Memory Trick I Use Without a Caller

Remembering a dressage test without a caller used to make me more nervous than the actual riding. I could school every movement neatly at home, then arrive at the arena and suddenly wonder whether the next change of rein came after C or before it. With Archie, that uncertainty showed up in my shoulders, my breathing, and eventually in the accuracy of our movements.

The method that finally helped is simple: I learn the test as a sequence of pictures and riding jobs rather than as a string of letters. I still know the arena markers and the official wording, but I attach each movement to a clear image, a preparation, and a feeling in the horse. That gives me something useful to recall when the judge is watching and there is no friendly voice calling from the side of the arena.

Why memorising letters was not enough

At first, I tried to memorise a dressage test in the same way I might learn a shopping list. I repeated the letters, read the test sheet several times, and walked through the movements while pointing at a diagram. That approach worked until I was riding. Then the pressure of keeping Archie balanced made the letters disappear from my mind.

The problem was that a letter does not tell me how the movement should feel. “Turn at E” is information, but it does not remind me to organise the outside shoulder, soften the inside rein, or keep the rhythm through the corner. When I relied only on the arena map, I was often technically aware of where I should go while being late with the preparation that got us there.

I also discovered that tests are easier to remember when I divide them into short chapters. The first centre line becomes one chapter, the work around the short side another, and the diagonal or change of rein a separate event. That stopped the whole test from feeling like one long block of information.

My picture-and-purpose system

Before I ride a new test, I draw the arena in a notebook and mark each movement in a different colour. I do not try to make the drawing beautiful. It is a quick floor plan with arrows, circles, diagonals, transitions, and the occasional star beside something that deserves extra attention.

Next to every movement, I write its riding purpose in plain language. For example, a 20-metre circle might become “keep the shoulders on the track of the circle and finish balanced.” A transition across the diagonal might become “straight, forward, then prepare before the corner.” These phrases are much easier to recall than the formal test description when I am concentrating on Archie.

I then attach a visual image to each section. A centre line is a railway track. A circle is a round plate that must stay evenly shaped. A free walk is a long, relaxed bridge between two points. The image does not replace correct training, but it gives my brain a quick cue. If I picture the railway track, I remember to keep my hands even and ride straight towards the judge rather than allowing Archie to drift.

This system also helps me distinguish movements that look similar on paper. A change of rein can feel different depending on whether I need a forward transition afterwards, a half-halt before the corner, or a careful preparation for another circle. The picture tells me the route, while the purpose tells me how to ride it.

The five-beat rehearsal I use at home

My most useful rehearsal has five parts. First, I read the test aloud. Second, I walk the route on foot while saying the letters. Third, I ride it from memory at a walk. Fourth, I repeat it without speaking. Finally, I ride selected sections with my eyes focused on the arena rather than on the test sheet.

Reading aloud catches small details that are easy to skip silently. Walking the route gives my body a sense of distance, especially for diagonals and circles. When I ride it at a walk, I can concentrate on the order without asking Archie for much effort. I often stop after a section and explain to myself what comes next, which exposes any weak spots before they become an arena mistake.

I do not drill the complete test endlessly. Repeating it badly can make the mistakes feel familiar. Instead, I choose two or three difficult joins and practise those separately. One might be the transition from medium work back to working pace. Another might be leaving a circle and finding the diagonal without cutting the corner. Once those joins are reliable, the whole test feels much less fragile.

The day before a competition, I do one quiet mental run-through while making a cup of tea or standing beside the paddock. I imagine the judge’s car, the entrance, the halt, and the first turn. This is particularly handy when a competition is a long drive away, such as a trip towards Werribee or the Sydney International Equestrian Centre, where the venue itself can be distracting.

I memorise the preparation, not just the movement

The trick that made the biggest difference was learning the moment before each movement. I ask myself, “What does Archie need two or three strides before this?” That question keeps my memory connected to riding instead of turning the test into a mental recitation.

For a corner, the preparation might be to rebalance and keep the shoulder from falling out. For a transition, it could be to close my leg, steady my core, and keep the contact consistent. Before a diagonal, I might think about straightness first and the change of bend second. These small reminders create a chain: prepare, ride, finish, then set up the next movement.

I use a few short cue words, but I avoid building a complicated code. “Straight, bend, forward” may be enough for one section. “Organise, circle, leave” may work for another. If I have too many words, I end up trying to remember the memory system instead of riding the horse.

That preparation also protects me when something goes slightly wrong. Archie may spook at a judge’s car, lose a little impulsion, or take an extra moment to settle after the halt. If I know the purpose of the next movement, I can regain the rhythm and continue. I am less likely to panic because I am remembering the job rather than waiting for the next letter to rescue me.

How I practise without making Archie stale

Dressage test practice can become dull for both horse and rider if every session ends with riding the same pattern repeatedly. I keep Archie interested by using pieces of the test inside ordinary schooling. A circle appears during a warm-up, a transition is ridden on a long side, and a diagonal becomes a chance to check straightness before returning to a more varied exercise.

I also ride the test in sections with different priorities. One run might focus on rhythm and relaxation. Another might focus on accurate geometry. I may ride only the first half, praise Archie, then take a walk break before working on the final movements. This keeps the schooling constructive instead of making him anticipate every letter.

Video is useful here, although I try not to become dependent on it. A friend can film a section on a phone, and I can compare the route with the official diagram later. In Australia, where many local competitions run on busy grounds shared with show jumping or eventing, checking the test arena setup beforehand matters. A temporary fence, a loudspeaker, or a line of parked floats can make a familiar pattern feel different.

I also practise entering a quiet arena with no caller and no person standing at the gate. At some grounds, the warm-up is crowded and riders are calling movements to one another, while the competition arena feels very still. Rehearsing that silence helps me trust my own preparation. If I am schooling cross-country as well, I keep my position work separate; my notes on cross-country balance remind me that the posture needed over a fence is not the same as the quiet, centred position I want in a dressage test.

What I do on competition morning

On competition morning, I do not keep rereading the test until I am dizzy. I look at the diagram once, then write a small list of the sections that usually disappear from my memory. That could be the loop after the centre line, the transition near the short side, or the final turn down the centre line.

I walk the arena if the rules and timetable allow it, paying attention to the actual distances. A full-sized arena feels different from a smaller outdoor surface, and a grass warm-up beside the dressage rings can create a very different atmosphere from an indoor school. At events around Victoria or New South Wales, the weather can change quickly, so I also consider whether wind, glare, or a wet patch will affect my route without allowing those details to dominate my thoughts.

With Archie tacked up, I use a short verbal rehearsal rather than a full lecture to myself. I say, “Enter straight, halt, breathe, turn.” Then I picture the first section and leave it there. In the warm-up, I focus on rhythm, suppleness, and a few accurate transitions. I do not ride the entire test repeatedly because I want Archie responsive and fresh when we enter.

Australian competitions often involve early starts, long float trips, and a fair amount of waiting around. I have learned to keep the routine practical: water for both of us, a rug suited to the temperature, spare gloves, and enough time to settle after unloading. If the event is an hour or more from home, I allow for traffic and the slow shuffle into a venue, particularly around major equestrian centres. A calm arrival is part of test preparation, not an optional extra.

Staying present when the order slips

Even with a good system, I sometimes forget a movement. The important thing is not to freeze. I take a breath, keep Archie moving in a sensible rhythm, and use the arena markers to rejoin the test. A small pause in my thinking is less damaging than allowing the horse to lose balance while I search frantically for the next line.

If I make an error of course, I listen for the judge’s correction and continue. I do not try to mentally restart the whole test. The next movement is the only one that needs my attention. This is where the picture-and-purpose method is especially helpful: I can recognise the next shape and ride its preparation even if the previous section was untidy.

I also remind myself that a caller would not ride the test for me. A caller can provide the order, but I still need to prepare the transition, guide the shoulders, maintain the tempo, and show the judge a confident partnership. Learning the sequence independently has made me more aware of those responsibilities.

Now, when I enter a dressage arena without a caller, I am not trying to recite every word perfectly. I am following a series of clear pictures, each linked to a practical riding job. That gives me enough structure to remember the route, enough flexibility to handle a wobble, and enough attention left to stay connected with Archie from the opening halt to the final salute.