Why I prefer a short course walk to a long one before show jumping

Most eventers and show jumpers will tell you that walking the course is non-negotiable. The question I used to skip over, until Archie and I started messing up distances I had "studied," was how long that walk should be. After a few seasons of dragging myself around a 1.20m track for forty-five minutes, then riding in and feeling like I had read a textbook right before an exam, I cut my walks down. A short course walk, taken with purpose, beats a long one for me almost every time.

I am not suggesting anyone skip the walk. The minute you step off the lorry at SIEC, Werribee, or a one-ring Pony Club grounds, you have to know how the track flows. What I am arguing is that the value comes from clarity, not from covering every metre twice. A focused twelve-minute walk with a plan beats a wandering half hour where I lose track of which line I picked for the treble. Here is how I came around to that view, and what I do instead.

What I pack into a short course walk

My walk starts after I have already looked at the course map the night before. I print it out, scribble notes in the kitchen, then stick it on the side of the float so I see it loading the horse. By the time I am at the ring, I have a rough picture of the order, where the related distances sit, and which jumps have options. That means when I walk, I am not learning the course for the first time. I am confirming my plan and adjusting for things you can only judge on the ground.

During the actual walk, I let myself stop at each obstacle for thirty seconds or so. I count the strides in related lines out loud, I watch a few riders go if the warm-up is open, and I look at the ground. I check if the rail on the second element of a combination lands in soft sand or on a hard lip. I note where the cameras sit at Werribee because that is often where the ground gets churned up by photographers moving around. I do not walk every alternative route on a jump-by-jump basis. If I am second-guessing between two tracks, I pick one and commit.

On competition morning, I check the going at the warm-up before I look at the ring. If the surface is deep, my plan shifts. I might add a stride to a related distance, or take a longer route to a combination. I scribble these adjustments on the back of my course map, then walk once. That is enough to fix the plan in my mind. If I am not adjusting, my walk gets even shorter, because there is nothing new to learn.

How I count related distances without wandering

Counting is the part of course walking that used to swallow my time. A related distance of four strides between an oxer and a vertical is easy enough, but the moment you get into long one-stride or two-stride options off a bending line, you can talk yourself into trouble. I used to walk the same line three or four times trying to land on a specific number. Then I would ride it and still miss.

What changed things for me was committing to a single count per line and trusting it. I measure with my own stride, not someone else's. I take my normal walk, count aloud as I go, and accept it. If the line feels short to my eye, I do not try to stretch it by walking faster. I trust the count and ride the rhythm I planned. A short walk enforces this discipline because there is no time to second-guess.

The heat at Australian venues makes a long walk brutal

Our summer show calendar in Australia is relentless. The Sydney Summer Classic, the January shows at Boneo Park, the Gawler three-day, the Sunshine Coast events in February, all of them fall in the kind of heat that turns a wool saddle pad into a sauna. When the thermometer hits thirty-eight degrees at midday, walking a course for forty minutes becomes a workout in itself. I have come off long walks feeling flat, light-headed, and annoyed before I have even sat on the horse.

A short course walk means I am in the shade of the truck with Archie eating his hay net while everyone else is still circling the arena. It means I can drink water, eat something proper, and avoid the 2pm sun that bounces off the sand at Werribee. The Australian heat has shaped a lot of my competition habits, including my competition day nutrition plan, which I worked out after a few too many wobbles in the January heat. Keeping the walk short is part of the same logic. If I am overheating before I jump, my reaction time on a long approach is shot.

Most of our bigger venues run morning classes for a reason. The Boneo spring carnival starts at 7.30am, the Sydney Summer Classic begins at 8am, and even Werribee's winter shows try to keep big classes out of the worst of the day. Once you are in the second half of the programme, there is no avoiding the heat. I have learned to ride earlier when I can, and walk shorter when I cannot.

Information overload hurts more than it helps

A long course walk invites a specific kind of paralysis. You watch twelve rounds go on the same line you were planning to ride, and suddenly you have eight opinions from trainers, three suggestions from the rider behind you, and your own original plan all fighting for space in your head. By the time you are in the ring, you have five plans, not one. The horse does not care about your five plans. He needs one rider with one clear picture.

I learned this the hard way at a 1.10m at Boneo. I had walked for nearly an hour. A coach I respect told me to take an inside line I had not considered. Another rider I know said the outside line was the only safe option. I walked both, went back and forth, then walked them again. In the ring, I rode neither cleanly. I half-committed to the inside, then bailed to the outside mid-stride. Archie chipped in. We had the rail. That was the day I started cutting my walks down to a single pass plus a quick revisit of any line I was unsure about.

When a longer course walk actually makes sense

I do not want to sound dogmatic, because there are rounds where a longer walk earns its keep. A huge 1.40m track with seventeen jumping efforts and a long related distance out of a corner combination deserves a careful look. If I am riding at a new venue I have never seen, like the first time I went to the indoor at Willinga Park, I will walk more thoroughly. The footing, the turns, and the feel of the place are all things I want to settle into rather than rush.

I also walk longer when I am riding a young horse. Archie as a six-year-old got a more generous walk than he does now as a seasoned campaigner. A green horse benefits from seeing the jumps more than once and from having me rehearse the rhythm out loud. The same is true if the track has a tricky option that I genuinely cannot decide between. I will walk it three times if I have to. The difference is that those three walks are focused on the same question. I am not wandering.

What I do at home so the walk can stay short

The reason a short course walk works for me is that I do not save all my thinking for the day. In the week before a competition, I study the course map. I count related distances on paper. I watch videos of the venue on the eventing page. I think about which jumps will suit Archie's canter, which will ask him to sit, and where I want to use the ground. By the time I am standing at fence one on competition morning, the plan has already been formed.

It also helps to keep a small notebook. I write down what worked and what did not after every round. Did I misjudge a distance because I rushed my walk? Did I miss something because I walked too long and got tired? Patterns show up fast. The notebook has cut my walk time in half over the last two seasons without costing me a single rail that I can blame on poor preparation. If anything, I have ridden more consistently because I am less in my head.

Trusting my eye and Archie's feel

The biggest thing a short course walk gives me back is intuition. When I walk for forty minutes, I stop trusting my eye. I start trusting my notes, my friend's notes, my coach's notes, and the seven rounds I watched. When I walk for twelve minutes, I am forced to look at the fence, feel the canter, and ride the moment. Archie feels that shift. He is a sensitive horse who responds to how I am breathing and how I am holding my shoulders.

There is a moment at most Australian events where the warm-up feels right and the horse is with me and I want to get on with it. I want to chase that feeling. A long course walk delays it, sometimes past the point where my brain is still sharp. A short walk preserves it. I keep my notes in my head, my notebook in my back pocket, and my eyes on the course. Then I ride.