How I keep my hands steady when Archie throws his head up

Archie can turn a straightforward fence into a tug-of-war in half a second. One moment he is taking me to the next jump; the next, his neck is up, his eyes have gone wide, and my hands are too far forward trying to stop it. The habit usually appears when I am rushing, bracing or riding beyond what he can comfortably see, although pain and unfamiliar tack can also be involved.

When Archie throws his head up during a jump, my hands stay steadier because I treat his head as information rather than an instruction to pull. My task is to keep my fingers, elbows and shoulders soft enough to follow his motion while I check the approach, the distance and the possibility of discomfort. That means fewer corrections, more patience and a lot of honest observation of what Archie is doing beneath me.

Reading the signal before the head goes up

Archie often gives me a warning in the stride before the blow-up. His canter shortens, his poll comes slightly forward, or he looks sideways at the fence instead of taking me straight to it. At a summer competition at Camden Equestrian Centre, I noticed this pattern in the warm-up arena: the horse was fresh, the surface was deep, and I was trying to repeat a canter rhythm that had already disappeared. Recognising the shortened stride was more useful than pulling his nose towards his chest.

A raised head is not automatically a training problem. I check the bridle for twists, the bit for sharp edges and the saddle for changes that might rub a sore back. Archie has seen a saddle fitter in western Sydney, had his teeth checked by a local vet and worked with an equine physiotherapist, because guessing can make a bit issue worse. Between those visits, my own job is to ride the approach honestly: if he cannot take the distance, I circle and rebuild. “Going clear” is always preferable to a round that ends with a horse trying to escape the bit.

Letting the approach come to me

My eyes need to arrive at the jump before my body does. On a long stride, I try to keep looking beyond the fence and up the canter, rather than staring at Archie’s ears or the top rail. I let the canter come slightly forward when I need more room, then allow it to lengthen again once we are in the air. This sounds simple, but under competition pressure I tend to flatten my hip and chase the next movement instead.

The most helpful change has been giving Archie room to adjust his stride. If I feel him start to raise his head, I resist the urge to shorten the reins sharply. I use my voice, preserve a steady rhythm and wait for his nose to come back towards the vertical. In an arena lesson, I can draw a ground line or place a pole on the ground to remind me that the jump is part of a canter, not a separate piece of gymnastics. The pole gives both of us something to ride to.

Softening my hands without losing contact

My hands used to arrive early. Archie reached for a fence, I pulled back to slow him, and then I had to travel forwards again over the jump. That repeated blocking motion taught his head to come up and my fingers to close around the reins. Today I try to make a soft, following contact from the shoulder, with elbows bent and a loose grip. The rein can stay connected without becoming a handle for pulling him into a shape.

A half halt is useful when I have taken too much speed out of the canter, but it is not a request for constant tension. I close my fingers for a moment, deepen my seat and then reopen my hand as Archie responds. Over the fence, I follow his neck with my arms rather than forcing my hands towards his ears. If I miss the distance and he puts his head up, I release, regain the rhythm and address the next fence. Hanging on would only preserve the mistake.

Practising where the answer is safe and small

I used to rehearse a difficult jump as though every error had to be fixed at full speed. Now I give Archie a quieter place to work, such as the sand at a Braidwood arena, and build the exercise in stages. We begin on the flat, then place a single pole on the ground, then use a small crosspiece. I keep the fences low enough that he can assess them without panicking, and I work both directions so I cannot rely on the shape of the arena.

The exact order matters. First I check that my canter is balanced. Then I check that the landing is clear and that I am not asking for a tighter lead than the fence requires. On a hot afternoon, I choose early morning or bring him back in the cooler part of the arvo rather than drilling tired. Cool-down hoses, clean boots and access to water matter as much as the gymnastic grid, and Archie tells me plainly when he has had enough for the day.

Training my body as carefully as Archie

Keeping my hands steady is partly a strength and position exercise. When I tense my shoulders, my hands follow with me and there is nowhere for the reins to go. A simple check is to notice whether my elbows are actually bent after I have taken up the rein, not just while I remember to do it. My coach has asked me to follow his mouth, use my hips and leave my arms hanging as long as the movement allows.

I practise that feeling on the flat and over trot poles before adding height. Serpentine work, simple transitions and canter changes to a marker keep my shoulders from fixing in one place. In dressage, Archie needs a clear half halt and enough rein for me to sit quietly at the halt. In show jumping, I need to stay out of his way and not turn the bit into a steering wheel. Over cross-country, I keep the contact light on uneven ground and wait for a secure landing. With the same horse in each discipline, the technical outcome differs, but the basic lesson is the same: an elastic hand gives him more options.

Carrying the skill into competition rings

The warm-up ring changes everything. At Sydney Equestrian Centre and other busy NSW venues, horses circle, music plays and someone is always preparing the next course. I can feel Archie watching those movements, especially when I am nervous and my rein becomes less forgiving. Our early Saturday ride at home may be calm, but once a start list is pinned up and the committee is directing competitors, I need a short routine I can repeat without thinking.

Australian club competitions often run through Equestrian Australia-affiliated associations, with members paying nominations and entries, while volunteer committees arrange the arenas and the jumps. That network of coaches, farriers, vets, physios, saddlers and local agistment yards is part of the equestrian market here, and word of mouth matters. Before an event, I book my coach and physio around work, collect the horse’s registration papers, and keep the float organised with hay, water, boots and a spare bridle. After the last run, I walk him quietly before loading him, rather than turning nervous energy into another fight at the trailer.

My steady-hands routine before the fence

Tack comes first on my checklist. I run my fingers under the bridle, confirm the noseband and throatlash are not twisted, check the bit is sitting correctly and ask my coach to look over the girth before we start. I also look at Archie’s eyes and ears. A horse that is normally relaxed but suddenly refuses a familiar fence may be telling me something physical, so I do not turn every refusal into a lesson about boldness.

Then I use a simple sequence: breathe, shoulders down, eyes up, hands quiet. I mark the canter rhythm and allow enough rein for his neck to move. If his stride changes, I answer by changing my balance first. The routine sounds ordinary, which is exactly why it works when my heart is beating hard. My fingers do not need to be rigid to be steady; they need to stay responsive.

What I notice	What it may mean	What my hands do	My next adjustment
Reins tighten before the fence	I am bracing or the canter has shortened	Pause the pull and follow his mouth	Restore the rhythm and adjust the approach
Archie’s head rises with his mouth opening	Discomfort, fear or a loss of balance	Maintain soft contact without clamping	Check the tack and review the distance
My eyes drop towards his ears	I am panicking about the top rail	Keep my arms low and supple	Look up and trust the canter
His neck stays stiff after landing	My hands were uneven or held the reins too long	Release, reset and soften my shoulders	Ride the next stride more independently

These are checkpoints, not rules that override Archie. The head may come up for a good reason, and my job is to listen before I ask for more speed. The steadiness I want is not a frozen hand; it is a quiet hand that can absorb a surprise without turning it into a battle. On a clear round, Archie carries his head where he needs it, and I finish with arms that are still soft enough to pat him.