How I handle the pressure of being last in dressage

Being the last rider to go in a dressage class gives me plenty of time to overthink. I can hear horses warming up, watch the scoreboard change, and imagine every way my test might fall apart. Archie, meanwhile, has already had his socks, boots and leg boots checked three times. The strange part is that waiting does not make me calmer; it gives my brain a long list of things to get wrong.

My usual defence is a simple routine: settle Archie, walk him quietly, breathe and focus on the movements we have practised. I try to remember that being last is only a place on the start list, not a verdict on our partnership. At a Victorian competition, that reminder matters because the day carries its own pressures, including early alarms, horse floats, changeable weather, volunteers and a full of supportive but chatty mates.

Waiting while everyone else rides

The first thing I do when I see “last” beside my name is separate what I can control from what I cannot. I cannot choose the draw, change the judge’s perspective or stop other riders earning high scores. I can control how much noise I take in, how I ride the warm-up, and whether I give Archie clear signals in the arena. That division turns an intimidating wait into a series of practical jobs.

Watching other tests can be useful, but I try not to turn myself into a scoreboard watcher. If I see a rider collect a seven for a movement I have been struggling with, I can spend twenty minutes worrying about it. I prefer to note the surface, the arena edges and my own breathing instead. Knowing the ground feels steady is more valuable than knowing that someone else received 72 per cent.

Sometimes the hardest part is simply having nothing useful to do. During one long delay while officials checked the timing equipment, I spent a few minutes on a brief distraction on my phone. I set a timer, finished the silly business and put the phone in my bag. The point is to occupy the restless part of my brain briefly without asking Archie to carry the nervous energy.

Preparing Archie for the pressure

Archie needs a quieter preparation than I do. I check the weather, the forecast and the work area before we leave because a change in ground or a sudden gust can alter how he feels. Boots come off and the tack gets checked only after we have arrived. At home, I also keep his turnout and exercise routine predictable; there is no benefit to changing his feed the day before a class.

Before loading the float, I pack the things I actually need rather than every conceivable aid. That includes a halter and lead, a bucket, hay net, water, a towel, a spare leg boot and a small first-aid kit for the human and the horse. I put the score sheet, pen and Archie’s details in a folder that stays with me. A tidy bag lowers the number of decisions I must make when I am already tired.

I also build in extra time because Australian roads and horse-float travel have their own arithmetic. We stop on the way, check the water tank and allow Archie to stretch his legs. At a summer event in Melbourne, shade and airflow are just as important as the arena. I sponge him if the day is hot, use a fly veil when the flies are persistent, and keep him moving gently until our call.

Making a plan for the arena

My written plan is deliberately short. I mark the test with a few reminders: soften the reins before the centre line, sit up for the first transition, allow time for the half-passes and keep my hands still. Each cue relates to something Archie and I can produce at that moment. If the page contains a dozen instructions, I will try to execute a dozen instructions at once and lose the rhythm of the horse.

Visualisation helps when I do it properly. I picture the whole arena, then ride the test in my head at walking pace, including the moments around the letters. I imagine a small mistake, such as coming slightly out of line on an entry, and Archie waiting for me to ask again. Seeing the recovery before the competition reduces the novelty of making it in the arena. My coach calls this having a plan B, and I call it making a mistake part of the test.

I use a simple breathing pattern that suits me: a longer exhale after the in-breath, with my shoulders dropping on each release. Before the horn sounds, I name three things I can feel: my feet in the stirrups, Archie’s mouth under my hands and the next letter ahead. I do not try to empty my mind completely. The goal is to stop every thought from fighting for attention and give the useful one a clear path.

Settling into the warm-up arena

The warm-up arena is where the waiting either settles or ruins me. When Archie is called early, I stay focused on his walk and the work we need. If we are near the end of the schedule, I resist the urge to hurry because rushed half-passes and frantic changes of rein are difficult to fix. A calm twenty-minute warm-up is usually more useful than a frantic five minutes followed by twenty minutes of tension.

Venues become familiar in ways that matter. At Equestrian Victoria dressage events, including the State Championships at Werribee, I learn where the warm-up arena sits, which side tends to hold the odd bump and where the shade is. I collect Archie’s number, confirm the arena entry and listen for the volunteer who will point us to the holding area. Those practical details are familiar anchors when the class order has me waiting for hours.

On the day, I greet the people working the event rather than treating them as background noise. The judge, scorer, starter, marshals and volunteers all have jobs to do, and their calm voices make the place feel manageable. Other riders say things like “You’ll be flat” or “Have a crack,” which is Australian reassurance in two words. I answer “thanks” and return to Archie because that is where my responsibility sits.

Riding the test instead of the order

Once the music begins, the order in which I rode disappears. Every movement becomes its own small problem, and my job is to solve the one in front of me. I look where I am going, use my planned markers and make the smallest helpful adjustment. If the leg yield is ordinary but the aids are correct, I can accept it and continue. Fuming at a mediocre score helps neither Archie nor the next movement.

Pressure often appears as the urge to protect a score. After a less polished diagonal or a wobble at the halt, I can hear myself demanding perfection. I take one breath, thank Archie for trying and return to the next letter. This is not carelessness; it is choosing the response that gives us the best chance of the remaining test. Sometimes the recovery is clean, and sometimes the judge still sees the error. Both outcomes belong to the same ride.

I try to ride for the judge in front of me, not an imagined panel of spectators. The public deserves respect, but their imagined opinions add nothing useful to the quality of my aids. Australian competition language is blunt: if a ride is not good enough, it is “not game,” and no amount of bravado changes that. I would rather finish with an honest, accurate test than a polished-looking effort built on panic. Accuracy is the part I can control.

After the final entry

The moment I leave the arena, I stop discussing marks. Archie comes out of the warm-up, and I check him before I check my phone. I untack carefully, offer water within the guidelines for the venue, and walk him if he needs to move. If it is hot, I use the hose and scraper; if he is only tired, I let him stand quietly. Looking after him gives my body a task and brings me back from the score.

The result comes later than it once did. I eat a club sandwich, talk with my coach and compare notes on the ride rather than counting places. If the score is lower than I hoped, I ask what happened in the arena and what we can practise at home. If it is higher, I still watch the video and note the next improvement. A good result is useful only if I can learn from it without hiding the less glamorous details.

Most importantly, I do not let the draw order define the partnership. Archie was not “the last horse” and I was not “the last rider”; we were a team completing a test after a long day of waiting. Some classes I ride beautifully and some I do not, but the pressure now has a familiar shape. I recognise it, give it a place and then focus on the work in front of us. That is how I get through the silence before the final entry and walk into the arena ready to ride.