“Working trot.”  The phrase still exists, although often times, I’m not sure why.  It’s rare these days to see a horse working at the working trot.

Horses are trotting all over the place, certainly, but it’s hard to see them exerting the least bit of effort to do so.  It might be more accurate to call the gait we see the “holiday trot.”

Most horses trotting along (that seems to better capture what’s going on) are definitely on holiday.  That means no work.  What do you and your horse do on holiday?  You (or your horse) probably get out of bed (the stall or paddock), maybe do a little sightseeing (that looks like good grass to eat…wait, was that chair there yesterday?)…but basically relax (forward?…not sure what you mean by that…).

The biggest defense of the holiday trot — which includes trotting under tempo — is that it is the way to create balance, which is necessary before the horse can do anything well.  To my mind, there’s way too much emphasis — or should I say, misplaced emphasis — on balance and what you need to do to help your horse learn how to balance or balance better.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for balance.  I’m just not impressed by a horse that is balanced while basically doing nothing.  And I’m not sure how that prepares the horse to do anything more challenging and do it well.

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Once upon a time, not so long, long ago, in a land of sweeping hills and secret valleys, there lived a silver-haired lady and a herd of horses, often tame and sometimes wild.

One special horse was the color of milk caramel, and glimmering flecks appeared on his coat when the sun shone upon him, as if he had been sprinkled with gold dust.  His muzzle was as soft as the softest velvet.  When he stood alert, listening to the sounds only he could hear, he was as still as a statue.  When he ran, it was as if the air itself ran with him.

The golden horse was strong and brave, a willing partner to the silver-haired lady.  But though he trusted her more than anyone else in the world, she was unable to ease his fear or tame his spirit when he caught sight of a syringe.

Twice a year, the horse required a syringe of medicine to keep him healthy. He tried so hard to flee when he caught sight of it, that the lady feared danger would come to both of them.  It pained her to see her brave horse so fearful, and she vowed to help the golden horse be as brave with a syringe as he was with the woods.

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The oft-quoted aphorism of Etienne Beudant, “Ask for much, be content with little, and reward often,” always works when you’re training horses.

Now, we’re on the way to finding out why, courtesy of some fruit flies.  Sex-starved ones at that.  It’s all a little roundabout and quite racy and it might sound like a tenuous connection at best, but stick with me…

Scientists at the University of California conducted an interesting experiment consisted of two groups of male fruit flies.  The first group was put in a box with female fruit flies who were interested in hooking up.  The second group was put in with an already satiated group of female fruit flies, who showed no interest in their male counterparts.

Afterwards, the two groups of male fruit flies were offered a choice of two meals — one with alcohol and one without.  The males who had hooked up avoided the alcohol, while the other males, according to the BBC news, “went on a comparative bender.”

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Everyone today is a trainer.  Hardly anyone is a riding instructor.

What a shame that is.

I’m both and I enjoy being both.  Riding instruction is different from training, even if you’re training both horse and rider.  At least, that’s how I see it.

The difference?  I think we train horses.   I don’t think we train people.  We may teach, we may instruct, and hopefully, we’re always there coaching.  I think coaching is important — because it addresses the psychological and emotional needs of the student — and it’s important not just for those who compete, but for anyone.

When I was eight years old, I took my first lessons at a “School of Horsemanship.”  I had instructors.  I went to the stable and not to the barn.  I didn’t call my instructors by their first names.  Those instructors, who all followed Gordon Wright and the U.S. Cavalry School, put me on Shetland Ponies and off-the-track Thoroughbreds and taught me how to fall off a horse.  Every horse (and a lot of ponies) were expected to be able to jump 3’6″.  And they did.  If your horse stopped in front of a fence, you jumped it from a standstill.  And learned to keep your balance in the process.

Instruction was less kindly back in the day.  There was a lot of shouting and repetition, but as I recall, you never sensed boredom or resignation or contempt or the tone that my Yankee-Irish horsewhispering boyfriend calls “snippy” in any instructor’s voice, the way you so often do now.

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