What a windy dressage test taught me

The morning Archie and I rode at a dressage competition near Melbourne, the forecast looked manageable: a cool breeze, scattered cloud and no rain. By the time we arrived, the wind had picked up enough to push ripples through the arena surface and send dry leaves skittering under the rails. Every few seconds, a cluster of gum leaves lifted from the edge of the grounds and spun across the car park. Learn more about Veloquips.com.

I had prepared for the usual competition nerves, but not for the distraction of flying leaves. Riding a dressage test on a windy day with flying leaves turned out to be a useful lesson in attention, preparation and communication. Archie was listening, but he was also watching everything that moved, and I had to become much clearer about which things mattered and which did not.

The warm-up began before I entered the arena

The first lesson was that a windy competition starts well before the bell. Archie noticed the conditions as soon as he stepped off the float. His nostrils widened, his ears flicked towards the trees and he walked with the slightly elevated energy he often shows when the weather changes. He was not frightened, but he was collecting information from every direction.

I allowed more time for him to look without turning the warm-up into a sightseeing tour. We walked around the venue, passed the judge’s car and worked near the arena entrance before asking for much concentration. At an Australian competition, this extra time can be especially valuable because many venues are open, tree-lined properties rather than enclosed urban arenas. A gust travelling across a paddock can feel very different from the breeze in the warm-up area.

My own habits mattered too. I put sunscreen on before leaving home, filled a water bottle and kept a light layer within reach. A cool Victorian morning can become bright and warm by late morning, even when the wind makes it feel chilly. I also had the familiar competition breakfast: something plain, a strong cup of tea and enough food to avoid becoming shaky in the saddle.

Once Archie had walked, trotted and cantered in both directions, I introduced short periods of more focused work. I did not try to ride an entire perfect test in the warm-up. Instead, I practised transitions, changes of rein and the movements most likely to suffer if his attention wandered. This gave me a better feel for his state of mind than repeatedly running through the whole pattern.

Flying leaves changed the meaning of concentration

The leaves were not a single distraction. They appeared, disappeared and reappeared in different places. Some stayed outside the arena fence, while others crossed the track directly in front of us. A few caught in the corner and spun around like small birds. Archie looked at the first ones with interest, then became more concerned when a stronger gust sent a whole group across the centre line.

I learned that concentration does not mean pretending the distractions are absent. When I tightened my body and tried to force Archie to ignore the leaves, he became more alert. My hands became less independent, my breathing shortened and my aids lost their usual quiet timing. The more I worried about his reaction, the more significant the leaves seemed to become.

A better approach was to acknowledge the distraction and immediately give him a familiar task. I could soften my inside hand, close my outside leg and ride forward into a steady contact. If he looked, I did not punish the look, but I did not let it become a change of direction either. The message was simple: noticing something is allowed; leaving the work is not.

That distinction helped me as much as it helped Archie. I stopped measuring success by whether his ears stayed perfectly forward or whether he never glanced at the trees. Instead, I looked for the moment when he returned to me. In a windy dressage arena, that return can be more meaningful than a picture-perfect few strides produced only because the surroundings happened to be quiet.

My position had to become quieter

Wind exposed every unnecessary movement in my riding. When a gust hit my back or moved my jacket, I instinctively braced through my shoulders. Archie felt that brace and became shorter in his neck. I then wanted to push him forwards, which created a cycle of tension: I stiffened, he stiffened, and the movement became less fluid.

I focused on keeping my weight deep and my legs long rather than gripping. A quiet lower leg gave him something consistent to follow, while a relaxed seat allowed me to absorb his changes of balance. I thought about breathing out through the corners of the arena, especially before the transitions and medium work where I usually become more ambitious.

The canter was the clearest example. A strong crosswind pushed at us on one long side, and Archie lifted his shoulders as if preparing for a sudden change. Instead of trying to hold every part of him in place, I maintained the rhythm and kept my eyes on the next letter. The canter was not our most expressive work, but it stayed organised, and that was a worthwhile result.

Afterwards, my coach pointed out that my best moments came when I rode the line rather than the weather. That phrase stayed with me. I could not control a gust, but I could control my preparation, my balance and the clarity of the next aid. The wind made those basics impossible to ignore.

The arena walk revealed what I had missed

Before the test, I had inspected the arena in a fairly practical way. I checked the letters, the surface and the entrance. I looked at where the judge was sitting and noted the areas where leaves had gathered. I did not, however, spend enough time considering how the arena looked from horseback.

At ground level, the leaves seemed harmless. From the saddle, they moved at eye height and sometimes flashed between the rails. One corner had a line of trees behind it, so every gust produced motion beyond the arena as well as inside it. Archie could see a great deal more than I could when I was standing beside him.

I now understand why a quiet arena walk is part of training, not just a competition routine. When I school at home, I can occasionally ask a friend to move a jacket, open a gate or walk around the edge of the arena. I can also practise entering from different directions and riding past objects that are familiar to humans but suspicious to horses.

That sort of preparation does not make a horse immune to surprises. It builds a pattern of returning to the rider after noticing something. I have started adding controlled distractions to ordinary schooling rather than waiting for an unusual show day. The aim is not to frighten Archie or manufacture drama. It is to make focus a practical habit.

Preparation includes equipment and venue rules

My clothing also affected the ride. A loose rain jacket can flap noisily, a long tail can brush against the saddle and an unfastened number bib can become a moving target. Before mounting, I tucked away anything that could snap or rustle. I checked the girth, reins and stitching on the bridle, then made sure my helmet was correctly fastened.

For Australian dressage competitions, riders need to pay attention to the current rules of the relevant organising body as well as the venue’s own requirements. Helmet standards, tack, clothing and safety expectations are not areas where I rely on memory from an old season. Equestrian Australia rules and state association updates can change, so I check the latest information before an event rather than assuming last year’s kit is still acceptable.

Travelling with a horse also means thinking about biosecurity. Requirements vary between states and venues, and horses may need identification, health records or other documentation depending on where they are coming from and the event being attended. In New South Wales, for example, biosecurity responsibilities sit within the Biosecurity Act 2015 framework. I treat cleaning gear, avoiding shared water tubs and keeping records as normal parts of responsible competition travel.

The local equipment market has made this preparation easier, but also more tempting. Australian riders can find everything from new rugs and compliant helmets to second-hand saddle cloths through feed stores, online marketplaces and state-based horse groups. I have learned to inspect used safety equipment carefully and to spend money first on items that affect security, fit and safety rather than collecting attractive extras.

I also found it useful to keep my competition packing separate from my cross-country supplies. My cross-country kit list reminds me how quickly small items become important on a long day at a venue. Dressage needs less equipment, but the same principle applies: water, spare clothing, a phone, paperwork and a few quiet minutes can make a difference.

The test was about recovery, not perfection

When the bell rang, I felt Archie take a deeper breath. The first halt was square enough, and the entry stayed straighter than I expected. At the start of the test, I was very aware of the leaves beyond the short side, but I kept my eyes on the line and rode the familiar sequence rather than anticipating a problem.

There were imperfect moments. Archie looked at a leaf crossing the diagonal, and one transition was more hurried than it should have been. In the canter, I carried too much tension into the corner. My instinct was to replay each mistake immediately, but that only distracted me from the movement in front of us. The useful response was to recover, establish the rhythm and continue.

The final halt was not the most polished ending we have produced, yet I was pleased with how quickly Archie came back to me throughout the test. He never tried to leave the arena or refused a movement. Each time something caught his eye, I had a chance to support him, and each time he returned to the work.

That ride changed my idea of a successful dressage performance. A calm, still day can make good riding look easy. Wind reveals whether the connection is real because the horse and rider have to keep communicating while the environment keeps changing. Our marks reflected the untidy moments, but the experience gave me information that a quiet schooling session could not.

I learned to prepare for conditions rather than idealise them. I learned that Archie does not need me to pretend the world is boring; he needs me to stay consistent when the world becomes interesting. Most of all, I learned that a windy dressage test can still be a productive one, because every recovered transition and every returned glance builds trust for the next ride.