Riding a strict dressage test without losing the plot

My experience riding a dressage test with a judge who marks very strictly became much clearer than I expected on a hot morning in Toowoomba. Archie, my 14-year-old warmblood, looked well turned out for the EFA-affiliated summer competition, but the score I brought back was lower than the picture I had in my head. The judge was courteous, her notes were specific, and nothing suggested she had been looking for reasons to knock me down. She rewarded the precise version of each movement and left little room for the vague aids I had hoped would pass unnoticed.

That distinction mattered. Before the test, club riders had described our judge as harsh, a word I had repeated without thinking. By the time I had cooled Archie down, checked his legs and reviewed the marked sheet, I could see that strict marking was not the same as careless marking. It exposed tiny inconsistencies between my outside rein, my seat and the tempo I asked for. My first reaction was embarrassment; the slower reaction was curiosity about what another round with that same eye might reveal.

The judge who noticed every half-flag

I entered the Advanced class confidently after a winter of consistent work. Archie had improved quietly, especially through transitions, but the test demanded passage and a canter change from the collected canter. My warm-up felt good, yet I knew the judge would be watching whether those qualities lasted between the letters.

In Australian competition, an EFA-affiliated event is usually run by a local club committee. It recruits the judge, manages entries and prepares the arena, while the EFA supplies the rules, accreditation framework and national judging structure. At Queensland events, riders may meet the same judge repeatedly as she travels between state and interstate appointments. A reputation for strict marks travels quickly in that circle.

The sheet confirmed what I felt. Collected trot, 6.5; shoulder-in, 6; passage, 6; canter change, 5.5; final halt, 7. The figures did not feel harsh. They felt like a camera showing me where balance and aids fell apart for a few strides.

A Queensland morning built around heat and horses

We arrived before the dew had lifted, because Queensland summer competition days start early. The grass around the Toowoomba showgrounds was wet, while the air already felt heavy. Archie came off the horse float fresh, which was lucky, as the path to the stable had turned to soft dust. In Australia, “arvo” can arrive before breakfast, and both horse and rider need plans around heat rather than excuses about it.

The float was parked near the main ring among polished utes and trucks. Float parking follows local directions, and unloading is quicker if you know where the tie area is. I had boots, brushes and reins ready before leaving home because, once Archie was unloaded, there is no polite moment to search through a bag while the next float waits on the ramp.

A groom travelling from the Downs told me Archie looked “a bit of a dag” if I hurried him. It was familiar Queensland reassurance: keep him relaxed, give him time, and he will have a go. I used that advice in the warm-up, allowing a loose walk before asking for the trot. I kept a fly rug on Archie while he waited between schooling and the class because stable flies bother horses around Queensland stables.

Preparing for an exacting test

Before entering, I studied the test sheet until the movements became a sequence of short conversations. A, E, H and C were prompts rather than destinations. I planned where I wanted to sit, how I would ask for the half-pass and when the rising trot would begin. For passage, one clear half-halt and a steady seat seemed better than the constant squeezing I used at home.

Archie notices inconsistency. He will walk on the long rein for several strides, then question a sudden leg cue because it does not match what came before. The judge’s eye made me realise my outside aids were often too busy. An aid can be present but still too far behind the movement to influence it. At home I called that “being in his rhythm”; in the arena, it was late.

I changed my warm-up plan. Instead of using every movement at full intensity, I saved energy for the collected canter and checked that my breathing stayed quiet. Our coach told me to ride the corners and leave the rest of the arena for the judge. On a big outdoor arena, I often tried to control the whole rectangle from the short side.

Where the marks disappeared

The first collected trot started better than I expected. I felt the diagonal changes and kept my shoulders quiet, then sat slightly behind the movement to ask for more engagement. Archie took the contact and drifted behind my hand. The 6.5 was not a comment on his power; it showed the moment I stopped supporting him with my seat. That distinction gave me useful work.

The lateral work exposed the same fault. In shoulder-in, my inside hand stayed low while my outside rein became uneven. At the half-pass, I added my leg as Archie changed stride, which made him look across the arena rather than through it. The 6 for shoulder-in was lower than I had pencilled in after training. On the sheet, I could see the drifting steps I had missed.

The canter change was hardest. I asked for the new stride too far into the old canter, then tried to correct with my upper body. Archie became tense and lost the downhill, forward feeling we had practised. A 5.5 hurt because the surrounding collected canter had been one of our better phases. It was also the most useful score because it showed where my nerves met my technique.

Hearing what the judge actually saw

When I collected the score sheet, the judge invited me to stand beside her. Her remarks were brief: I had a good seat in the trot, needed more patience in the canter and used my hands late in the lateral work. She did not call the test unsafe or say Archie lacked ability. Her comments felt like a map, with the same landmarks I noticed once I knew where to look.

This was different from feedback after a cross-country round, when the course is judged for jumping effort, balance and time. In showjumping, Archie can jump an oxer with room to spare while I look as though I planned it. Dressage leaves nowhere to hide. A late half-halt or a seat that tips forward can alter a whole movement.

Strict did not mean arbitrary, and I appreciated the wording in the judge’s notes. The EFA system asks judges to apply the same movement definitions and directives across a class, with collective marks considered alongside rider and horse marks. I had feared a personal vendetta, but the numbers tracked the performance rather than my mood. At local levels, prizes are often ribbons, grooming vouchers or donated goods rather than large cash awards, while the marked sheet and qualifying progress carry more weight in conversations around the horse floats.

Turning feedback into useful work

I wrote the judge’s comments beside each movement before Archie had cooled. “Late outside rein” went beside shoulder-in. “No seat change in collected trot” went beside passage. “Change the canter sooner” went beside the transition. Written down, the score stopped feeling like a verdict and became a list of cues I could practise. That change in mindset did more for my confidence than a reassuring pat.

Over the next month, we worked on simple transitions at walk and trot before adding the collected canter. I used counting, pressure-release exercises and praise when Archie answered immediately. At home, poles at the quarter-marks helped me feel half-pass alignment without a full arena. I stopped correcting every drift with my hands and gave the outside rein more time to do its job. My stable routine became a checklist rather than a last-minute scramble.

I use practical outdoor planning as a reminder to prepare gear, water, feed and first-aid supplies before a long day away from the yard. For competition, that means checking the float, rug, boots and cooling equipment the night before, not discovering a missing girth while another rider walks past. Archie’s condition also mattered: regular schooling, a controlled workload, daily leg checks and routine tick checks gave him the energy to answer.

A clearer picture of progress

At the next competition, the judge was different, so I resisted comparing every score as a personal battle. I cared about consistency, not inflated numbers. On the new sheet, collected trot was a 7, shoulder-in a 6.5, passage a 6.5 and canter change a 6. The improvement was modest, yet it came from the movements the strict judge had isolated, which made it easier to trust.

The comparison I keep returning to is between the first marked sheet and the work that followed it. That made the purpose of the marks obvious: they separated details I had felt from details I had genuinely fixed.

Movement	First test	Next test	Main change
Collected trot	6.5	7	Stayed with Archie’s balance instead of pushing from behind
Shoulder-in	6	6.5	Slowed the outside rein and made the half-halt clearer
Passage	6	6.5	Kept the aid brief and quiet in the rising trot
Canter change	5.5	6	Asked for the new canter sooner and stopped correcting with my upper body

A strict judge gave me fewer places to hide, but she also gave me fewer vague explanations. I still dislike a low mark beside a movement Archie usually makes look easy. I have learned to treat the score as a starting point rather than a label. Archie came home from that first Toowoomba test tired but sound, and our next round began with a more honest plan.