(“What goes on in an instructor’s head”)

Turn the clock back a little more than 40 years. I was a newly minted riding instructor – making $72 a week, living in what turned out to be a converted chicken house (which I did not know at the time), mimicking a George Morris-esque delivery, and spouting an agglomeration of what I’d heard from him, gleaned from my Pony Club girlfriend whenever we’d come up for air, and tried to comb from the impenetrably dense prose of Seunig and d’Endrody. All to stay half a step ahead of my pupils.

Onto the scene at my humble place of employment came an FBHS, Pamela Fitzwilliams, to conduct a clinic. In her typical no-nonsense British manner, she looked me over and said, “Well, if you’re going to teach, it would really be better if you knew something!”

Obviously her concept of “something” encompassed more than did mine. At that time she was mentoring the fledgling New England Dressage Association, and she persuaded them to offer me their first educational scholarship – a stipend to attend the American Dressage Institute for several weeks.

One hitch, she explained, was that my riding would have to be observed by another impartial expert who would determine if I passed muster and was deserving of NEDA’s support.

Up to that point my riding experience had been limited to field hunters, some of whom I had evented, and a lot of ex-racehorses fresh from the track. As was the case with many of us back then, my dressage expertise was comprised of knowing the location of (most of) the letters.

I was to audition (unbeknownst to the other participants) at a clinic being conducted by Michael H P Handler, son of the then-Director of the Spanish Riding School.

“What horse will you bring,” asked Mrs. Fitzwilliams. My choices essentially amounted to one little thoroughbred mare, recently off the track. This news was greeted noncommittally, but not to see her plan thwarted, Mrs. Fitzwilliams generously offered me her own horse to ride.

OK, so this was well before the warmblood revolution. An English thoroughbred. I can manage that. 17 hands. Never been on such a big horse. Fourth level. I have no idea what that is, but “Uh oh,” feels like the right response.

And so the big day arrived. Attired in my dress – up canary breeches and carrying my ratcatcher coat and my velvet hunt cap, I set off for Harvard, Mass., to seek my fortune. On a horse which I would ride for the first time ever in front of Mr. Handler. Did I know enough to be worried? I’d like to say I did.

At her patron’s stable, I caught up with Mrs. Fitzwilliams – her horse, Duffy, residing in fancier digs than I ever had seen. We loaded up, and on the way to the clinic site she began to quiz me, “If he asks you for shoulder-in, what aids will you use?”

Running through my nearly empty Rolodex of dressage answers, I replied, “Leading outside rein and indirect inside rein.”

A pause. A small (nervous?) twitch of the upper lip. A one word rejoinder: “Quite.”

As the clinic began, I found myself in a group of four riders. Prior to mounting,

to present the best dressage-like image, I had lengthened my stirrups two holes each.

[Spoiler Alert: And whenI finally got to ADI, they lowered them an additional four. You can imagine how short I must have been riding!]

After appropriate introductions, we took the track in single file, myself second in line. “Beginning with the last horse,” directed Mr. Handler, “one at a time, turn on the haunches to the inside.”

One fly in the ointment: I hadn’t the faintest idea what a turn on the haunches looked like. Resourcefully, I had two chances to figure it out. So I looked over my shoulder at what the last horse in line did, peeked again at what the next horse did, and then ungracefully hauled poor Duffy around in some totally undefined way – his stoicism exceeded only by his owner’s.

Bottom line – I, despite my best efforts, did receive the scholarship, found a new world opening up to me, and began to dig the money pit that I, like all of you, have spent my life trying to fill.

Reflecting on all of this, I’ll never forget the look on Mrs. Fitzwilliams’ face when I proposed my bogus shoulder-in aids. It got me thinking of—from a student’s perspective—what you must think goes on in an instructor’s head as his or her student bumbles erratically towards (or away from) enlightenment. More on this topic next time.