(“Some people think of a half halt as just a squeezy sort of motion they make with their hand.”)

So why my obsession with stopping? In part it’s related to my vending machine analogy. You must ride your horse in a way that everything—a change of gait, of stride, of balance, of direction—is equally available to you at all times. When riders moan that their half halts don’t work, it’s no surprise if they can’t even make a full halt. The simple fact is if your horse is blowing through you that much, the chance of a half halt working is almost nil. Some people think of a half halt as just a squeezy sort of motion they make with their hand. And if they perform that motion, they are absolved of their responsibility. Aside from the larger issue that your hand plays only a minor role in the task, I would encourage you to think of half halts in a more existential way. If you’re not getting the answer you need, you haven’t really made one. Other times I’ve written of the technical aspects of making an effective half halt—the coordination of the aids and their timing, the asymmetrical nature of the aid, and how you must avoid pulling back when you give it. But here’s some news. Sometimes you just plain old have to mean business. An FBHS I rode with years ago once said, “If you’re going to ride a vulgar horse, you must use vulgar aids!” Here, admittedly, we’re treading on dangerous ground. In principle, it’s better to do too little rather than too much. But at some point, your horse simply must be told—with emphasis—to stop. In these circumstances a modest or even an immodest amount of force, reasonably applied, may be required. Apply the stronger aid too slowly and gradually and you invite your horse to treat it as a delightfully soft, supporting pillow. When that happens, you must emulate a surgeon, firmly but carefully wielding her scalpel. “Put a little edge on it!”

If you draw a graphic representation of the half halt—the vertical axis as strength and the horizontal axis as the passage of time, then the curve you’re trying to make would look like it spikes before it drops off suddenly. It’s all about setting limits. Imagine a castle from the Middle Ages with a moat and a drawbridge. An additional defensive feature was called a portcullis, a latticed frame of heavy timbers sharpened to points on the bottom which hung over the portal and could be dropped rapidly into place to keep out intruders. If your horse insists on running through the bit, you must make as formidable a barrier with it as that.

And do not apologize if you take no prisoners!