“One minute,” the starter says, breaking through my thoughts. My body has tensed and now Harmony knows what is coming. I have to let her break to a jog to keep her from rearing up. I circle her around the box, cutting in through the opening and out the side to keep her moving in a forward direction.
I check both of my watches to make sure they are cleared and ready to start. I concentrate on my breathing, willing myself to stay calm and collected as the adrenaline starts to pump through my body.
“Fifteen seconds,” the starter calls.
I time my final circle around the box to bring me to a standstill just inside the side opening as he begins to count down from ten. I start my backup watch. Harmony is alert and suddenly stands stock-still, her head raised and ears pricked forward intensely out the opening.
“Five, four . . .”
I push the button to start my watch and glance down to make sure it is counting the seconds—three, two, one.
“You’re off. Have a good ride,” I hear the starter call as I nudge Harmony in the sides and she explodes out of the box.
“Easy, girl.” I steady her with my voice and take a strong hold on the reins.
I need to settle her into a rhythm for these first couple of fences and not let her get too flat. I keep her to a steady pace and stretch up to the first ramp, emblazoned with the Young Equestrians Championships logo. As we fly over it, I let myself relish just for a moment that I am really here doing this!
Back to concentrating. We have a long gallop to the next fence, a fallen log, and Harmony wants to go much faster than I will let her. My instructions as the path finder for our team were to start out five to ten seconds behind the minute markers until the halfway point. Depending on how much horse I have left, I could use the second half of the course to take advantage of the down-sloping terrain and make up some time.
I see my stride to the log from at least eight out, and my stomach flips with pleasure. I lower my seat to the saddle and feel Harmony’s strong uphill strides take us up to the log and over right out of stride.
The number-three jump is a big cabin with a bit of a drop landing, so as I approach I sit up taller and add a little leg to make sure Harmony stays strong to the base. She hits it just right, a little on the deep side, and as we fly over, I slip my reins to give her the freedom to use her neck in the air.
The first water combination comes up quick. Just one more table to set us up before the turn. My watch starts to beep. Perfect. I am about ten seconds behind my first minute. Plenty of time to make it up later. As Harmony’s huge stride carries us to the table, I see a flyer coming. Shoot! That’s exactly what Christian told me might happen. If I hit a flyer here, then Harmony will be too strung out for the big log drop into the water and might stop. There’s nothing I can do to change it, though; she has locked onto the table and won’t listen to my half halts. She leaves the ground from so far away, I feel like we will never come back down. As I land, I stand up and pull hard on the reins, moving the bit in her mouth.
Thankfully, she responds. It really clicks for me that I am actually here with her and we are doing this together! As Harmony slows her speed, I am able to sit deep in the saddle and really put my leg on to get her hind end underneath her and gather up her impulsion.
I know I need to really come at this strong, as sometimes she hesitates a bit at the first water. I round the turn and feel her powerful hindquarters pounding the ground. Her ears prick at the log and I know she is measuring it up.
I feel her tense up, there is a flash through my mind, and for a brief second I see that vision of murky gray that she has shown me in the past. Great. Just great. She wants to talk now, but I have no idea what she wants to tell me. Plus, this is weird. Usually we don’t communicate like that when I’m in the saddle.
“Focus, girl!”
I feel her lose impulsion as she peeks at the water. I reach back with one hand and slap her lightly on the haunches with my stick. She responds to my touch and leaps off the ground, trusting me completely and flying over the log and down the 4’6” drop into the water. I remember to stay tall with my body so I don’t get pulled forward, because I have to focus on the turn to the bank. Nerves are flowing through me because I have this bad feeling something is awry with Harmony, but I have no time to figure it out right now. We have to press on.
My reins still long from the drop, I widen my arms so I can guide her through the turn and work with my legs to keep her strides even and balanced and she gallops through the water, one, two, three, four, five, six. I count to myself and squeeze on six to bounce up the bank and over the brush on the way out. Yes! We’re through! Maybe I am wrong and there isn’t anything off with my horse. Maybe it’s just that we’re both feeling the anxiety of where we are and what we are doing in this moment.
I give Harmony a huge pat and I hear the cheers from the crowd as I gallop on through the roped lane. There is a long gallop here before the next jump, and Harmony has finally stopped pulling my arms out. I can hear the sounds of her strong and regular breathing and feel the air rushing by my face, making tears stream from my eyes in the wind. Our movements are in sync, my arms following her head and neck and my legs and hips rising and falling with each stride bounding off the ground. I feel as if we are flying.
I can see the trainer up ahead and I stand up slightly in the stirrups, raising my hands so Harmony knows a jump is coming. She adjusts her balance immediately without me having to touch the reins and we sail over it without losing any time. Just the angled brushes and the two-minute mark before I get to the coffin combination. I know the first two riders on course had problems there, so Christian’s last-minute advice was to take the option on the right side. It was only one stride longer than the short way, and he felt the extra stride would give me time to get Harmony’s shoulder straight and prevent a run out at the corner. I needed to get home with a clear round to start our team out right. Even if that meant getting a few time penalties and losing my individual medal position.
Before the turn, I slow up so that Harmony knows something serious is coming. She is down to business now and comes back to me way easier than at the water. I pulse with my legs, gathering her up underneath me and controlling her speed with my stretched back. I keep a strong stride to the first element of the coffin, an airy hanging log, and get ready to lean back for the sloping ground on the other side. Two short strides and she leaps the ditch, stumbling a bit as she lands. I react quickly, helping her get her head back up with my reins and find the curved line I need to ride to the corner. I see my focal point on the other side of the corner, a dead tree stump just up on the hill beyond the ropes, and ride with all of my body and mind to that point.
Ride the line, not the stride, I hear in my head. But I can’t stop the ticking of strides I feel underneath me; one, two, three . . . and then suddenly my stomach is in my throat, as my horse drops out from underneath me, slipping on the grass in the turn and almost going down. Noooo, I scream out inside my head. No!
I don’t take my eyes off my line, but kick hard with my right leg and open my left rein to show her the way. She picks herself up, and for a moment I think we are running past the corner, when in an instant, she shifts her balance and throws her shoulders up and over, making it between the flags. My right stirrup grazes the flag, knocking it down, but I know we made it clear.
Just one breather fence, the table before the next big combination. I focus on Harmony’s gallop, making sure she is finding her footing easily. The sound of her hooves is muffled by the emerald-green turf, and I feel her strides coming easily as the damp grass gives her just the right amount of rebound. A few drops of rain hit my cheeks and the cool wetness feels refreshing.
The big drop looms ahead and I see another flyer coming. Not wanting to make the same mistake I did before the water, I check her back with two strong half halts and add in another stride before we jump the drop
. The extra stride helps give her jump more scope and we soar into the air. I feel her back rounding up underneath my seat and we come down, Harmony staying light and balanced on her feet.
I know I made the right choice as I stay out for the curving seven strides and hit the first corner exactly on the line we had walked.
The next jump is crazy. The ditch and wall are so massive that we hadn’t even stopped long to look at it on the course walk. Christian had said, “Just keep walking; don’t look down in the ditch or dwell on its size; this question is all about the bravery of the rider. Focus on the top of the brush, not the ditch, for your takeoff spot and try to bring your horse right to the base of the ditch. You need to hit this jump with lots of impulsion on a bit of a building stride, just like a triple bar.”
Joel and I had disobeyed him and gone back by ourselves later to psych each other out by standing down in the ditch, the wall looming two feet over our heads. We laughed about it at the time, but now I was sorry we had. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest. I had never jumped anything so big or intimidating in my life.
“Ten seconds of boldness,” I tell myself. I remembered Brian Sabo telling us those words during a cross-country clinic that my mom had sent me to a year ago, before I had been accepted at Fairmont. It was the last clinic I’d taken Dean to.
I don’t exactly close my eyes, but I stare beyond the top of the brush and pull from deep within myself a bravery I didn’t even know I had. Harmony senses my renewed commitment and quickens her pace in response.
Suddenly, it’s as if I am mounted on Pegasus, and I start driving her every stride toward the immense obstacle. The brush comes into sharp focus, and I feel I couldn’t possibly be any closer to the ditch without falling in it. She shifts her weight back, pushing us up and off the ground and soaring over the wall, without even touching the brush on top.
OH MY GOD!
As we touch ground again, I lean forward, urging her on. Thankful that I finally am letting her out, Harmony gives a fresh burst of speed. I have about ten seconds down at the three-minute mark, and this is a good galloping stretch where I can pick up a few seconds before the sunken road.
The wine barrels were cleverly placed just before a turn to slow up horse-and-rider pairs and to help them get organized for the sunken road. After that bold jump at the ditch wall and the long gallop, I really need to get that short, bouncy “coffin canter” again. The distance in the sunken road only walked in thirty-four feet, so I know it’s going to be snug. I don’t quite get the balance I want on my first half halt, so I send Harmony forward again, and this time when I ask her to come back, it’s just right. I count the strides to the rails, making myself keep the rhythm without speeding up. She drops her head and neck as she begins to land and I feel her hind legs coming down hard on the rails.
The sunken road catches her by surprise and she drops from the air too soon. Slightly stunned by the hard rub, she hesitates and I coax her on with a cluck. Quickly regaining her composure in one stride, she lowers herself easily down the bank and takes the two collected strides across.
I sit up and add as much leg as I can muster to help her jump up the second bank. I still have to get turned to the skinny, so I turn with both reins, close my outside leg, and pump with my whole body to close the distance in the three strides. We are still farther away than I would like, but Harmony leaves the ground anyway, and once again that gray, almost black image flashes through my mind. “Stop that!” I yell.
I get to the back seat, slipping my reins to avoid catching her in the mouth. Well, it isn’t pretty, but as I know, sometimes in cross-country riding you’ve just got to “get her done!”
The next three fences fly by, flowing right out of stride.
As we reach the top of the hill, Harmony takes a big, deep breath and waits for my direction. I add leg to tell her we have a jump ahead of us, and her ears turn and focus on the giant log ahead. A big leap over and we land halfway down the hill on the other side, turning and refocusing to go back up the bounce bank steps on the other side. She covers the distance easily, gathers up, and bounds up the steps and the two strides out over the cabin. I hear the cheers again and reach out to give Harmony a huge pat on the neck. She has to be the best cross-country horse ever! She made that obstacle feel like nothing!
Now the ground has some downhill slope, and Christian had said I could let her gallop a bit on this stretch if I needed to make up time. That minute flies by with only the double brush and the hammock in my way. By the time I hit six minutes, I am right on my minute mark, with plenty of horse left.
The Head of the Lake. The famous water complex that I had seen on TV so many times during Rolex competitions. I see the crowds of people lining the ropes, and my stomach flips once at the thought of all of them watching me. Pushing those thoughts aside, I review what we had talked about in the course walk. I start to go through all the steps, see my stride, and push for the log. Harmony responds so quickly and with such force that I find myself flying into the one stride with way more power than I need. She jumps in so big that she hits the water with as much force as if we were leaping off a two-story building! I fall forward onto her neck and drop my rein.
I’ll never get organized in time for the fish, but luckily we had walked the option line. I sit up, pulling hard on my left rein, as I yell “option” so the fence judge knows my plan. This way will cost me time, but I will at least still be clear. I circle back through the water, jumping the black flag option going the other way and finding my line to the duck. On any other day, the fish and duck might actually appear as intricate art carvings out of wooden logs, and they are, but today, to Harmony and me, they are a part of the challenges we are facing on course.
Shoot! I check my watch as we gallop away from the lake and see that we are down by fifteen seconds. A costly mistake.
The picture frame is next, and Harmony ducks her head and neck slightly as we sail through it. There is a long gallop stretch to the next oxer, and I take a chance and keep up my speed. Ears pricked, gallop strong and uphill, we meet it slightly long, but well within her abilities. If I can keep up this pace, I just might make it. My watch goes off signifying seven minutes. Two minutes from home!
At the bottom of the hill are the wine barrels and then the final combination on course, the chevrons on the mounds. The way Harmony is eating up the ground, I don’t want to slow down, but I know I have to get the strides right between the chevrons. I jump the first one and sit up and say, “Whoa.” Harmony immediately listens, shortening up her stride and meeting the second on a perfect four strides. Yes!
Two jumps left and a minute to get to the finish line. Harmony is tiring slightly but when I urge her on with a cluck, she responds with another surge of energy. We have never done a course this long before. In my head are Christian’s words: “Riding a tired horse isn’t the same as riding a fresh one. You’ve got to help them out a bit more. Help hold them together.”
The time is going to be close. I keep up my speed, urging her on every stride with my legs and my voice. “Keep going, girl; I know we can do this.” We fly down the hill and approach the table. I don’t think I can gather her together to ride to the base, so I keep up the pace and move up the last three strides. Maybe a touch risky, but I just sense it’s the right thing to do.
One jump left. I glance at my watch. Twenty seconds to go. I can’t back off on my speed one bit. Christian had told us to ride the last fence with as much conviction as the first—“no last-fence-itis,” he called it. I muster every bit of skill I have ever learned. I use my legs, my balance, my core. I keep my pace up, count my rhythm in my head, and thankfully, see the perfect distance. One, two, three, four, and over!
I lean forward, urging us on the final strides to the finish line. My watch shows us right on the optimum time, and my head explodes with sheer happiness! I drop my reins and throw my arms around Harmony’s neck. Tears
of joy stream down my cheeks as she pulls herself easily up to a jog.
She holds her head and neck high, like she is proud of herself, too. My pit crew comes running over to grab her. I unclip my air vest as I slide my right leg over and land lightly alongside her. The vets are already at her head, beginning to take her pulse and respiration. Another one comes up behind me, ready to take her temp.
The crew strips off her saddle as the vets do what they need to do. Harmony’s nostrils flare pink and she is breathing hard. The crew goes to work grabbing cold sponges from an icy water bucket and they begin sponging her down.
My horse starts to breathe easier after a few minutes and by the time her final respirations, pulse, and temperature are taken she is where she needs to be in recovery.
I spot Christian running over to me. He gives me two high fives and then clasps my hands in his. He looks as emotional as I feel. He then gives me a quick hug. “Nice ride, kid!”
“Thanks.” I’ve caught my breath, too, and I give him the lowdown on the course so he can go back and report to the other team members.
“Really great, Vivienne,” he says again. “I’ve got to see Tristan out now. I’m so proud of you.”
I smile and wipe away tears of ecstasy as my crew hands me Harmony’s lead rope. I kiss her nose and pat her on her neck. “I love you,” I tell her. After a ride like that—after riding this horse on a course like this one, well, I know one thing: my life has just changed forever.
CHAPTER fifty-two
I take Harmony back to the barn, and even though I want to be out watching the rest of the team go, I owe it to her to be the one to take care of her. I could hand her off to the groom, but decide against it. This horse has just given me everything she has.
Back in the cross-ties, the first thing I do is get her a half-dozen cookies. Then, I prepare the icing machine by packing it with ice, placing the freezing wraps around her front legs, and turning the machine on. Cold immediately begins pumping through the hoses attached to the wraps. She shifts her weight slightly as this happens and I say, “It’s okay. Stand still, sweet girl.” I then pack a set of rear leg ice boots with crushed ice and wrap her back legs, since the ice machine can only function on two legs at a time.
Dark Harmony: A Vivienne Taylor Horse Lover's Mystery (Fairmont Riding Academy Book 2) Page 23