While my broken hand changed my plans regarding the U.S. Dressage Finals, it did not cancel them, because I had two students qualified in the amateur and open Grand Prix divisions. And when you have students at that level, you go, broken or not!

In addition to being exceptionally good riders on wonderful horses, Abe Pugh and Jenn Drescher are also some of my favorite humans, and getting to spend time with them is always a pleasure. And my favorite thing about big shows like national championships is that everyone from all over the country gets together in one place, so it’s an efficient way to see friends from everywhere and catch up.

The finals are just a splendid horse show. They get to pull from all of the A teams from show management and volunteer crews around the country: the best show secretaries, the best ring stewards, the best technical delegates, the best press corps and media coverage, the best of everything. It means the show runs like a well oiled machine, and that is always a joy.

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I had this plan.

My friend and coach Ali Brock was scheduled to come to Aleco and Sandra Bravo-Greenberg’s gorgeous Rutledge Farm, just a short hike away in Middleburg, Virginia, for a clinic as part of their Rutledge Farm Sessions clinic series. The clinic was not only a chance for me to get some lessons on Elvis, who is 2.5 weeks out from the U.S. Dressage Finals, but also an opportunity to get some nice press coverage of my wonderful horse who is, ahem, owned by a syndicate with shares still available.

And then, as Ali would be stopping at her Virginia base for a few days before returning to Florida, I thought I’d seize the moment and bring Puck down to her, to have lessons in the privacy of her own farm on my horse who’s not always ready for public consumption.

Swell plan, right? I even had a blog in mind touching on the differences between riding in a public symposium versus a lesson in private.

What I didn’t plan for was the broken hand.

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One of the beautiful things about dressage is that there are so many levels at which to play. I don’t just mean training level versus third level versus Prix St. Georges versus Grand Prix; I mean that there are schooling shows, recognized shows, CDIs, and various regional and national championship tracks. My original goal for Elvis this year was the USEF Developing Prix St. Georges Championships, a track dedicated to 7-9-year-old horses, and a program for which the bar is fantastically high. The top 15 in the country go; I was 19th. Close, but no cigar.

So when that ship sailed, I made a new goal: the U.S. Dressage Finals in Lexington, Kentucky, in November. Qualifying for Finals requires either taking champion or reserve, or earning a “wildcard” score above a certain qualifying threshold at one of the nine regional championships. I live in Region 1, which has lots of very quality trainers on quality horses. The Prix St. Georges open championship tends to be one of the bigger ones. And Elvis and I drew a time early in the class.

I gave Elvis the month of August to fluff around, letting him do some basic work, plus some hills, plus some in-hand work as I forge ahead on Operation Piaffe, all geared towards letting him be productive, but not overwhelmingly fit, through the hottest of the Virginia summer. In September, I put him back to real work, and for the first time, I leaned on him for conditioning. Our rides were longer. I really got on his case about self-carriage, which has been the biggest bugaboo for us. I made him TIRED. The week before the show, I kept our collective noses to the grindstone. I’ve upped my own fitness program, and I didn’t back down on either of us until Saturday when I caught Elvis napping midday—unusual for him—and declared victory. He hacked Sunday. He had Monday off. He schooled lightly on Tuesday, just thinking sharp and bright to the aids. We drove to North Carolina on Wednesday, where I did the same.

And on Thursday, I popped on my tailcoat, and off we went.

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In the last decade, I’ve embraced the educational approach of having one coach. Too many voices in my head aren’t good for me or for my riding; it seemed to muddy the waters. Over the last nine years, I’ve dabbled in the occasional clinic with phenomenal people—USEF and USDF training sessions with the team coaches or other very accomplished names, and the Masterclass with Isabell Werth this winter—but all with my coach at my side to frame the new perspective into context and to help translate into a system with which I’m familiar.

Late this summer, I lost that coach. In August, Michael Barisone, who’s been my trainer, my mentor, my family and my friend for nine years, was charged with shooting a woman at his farm. The details of the crime will be tried in a court of law, and since I wasn’t there, and I’m not a lawyer, that’s the beginning and end of my role in this tale.

But I’m a professional rider with lofty goals, and that means I had to find a new trainer. It’s been awkward and difficult and horribly sad. After going through the stages of grieving, I looked at my string of magnificent horses, all too precious to have their ascendence to High Performance Sport sent askew by my sadness. And so I started the process of forging new coaching partnerships.

Read the rest at The Chronicle of the Horse!