This post, somewhat belatedly...follows 'rain rain rain' back in May.

2001, and foot and mouth hit the UK, closing everything down. I didn't ride all summer, the ponies had time off as we were not even allowed out of our gate with them due to the restrictions in place in the countryside. This was especially cruel as we had just bought Jack to start doing novice classes with, and all of a sudden we were house bound. The longest summer came and went and 2002 brought a complete show season. I was 15, sitting mock exams, had a new pony to bring out and off we went again to our show scheduling. Except, Frankie ripped a hole in his shoulder in February and needed a month off. A month! Of box rest! Argh. I was gutted for him. The wound was nasty, and I still to this day am not 100% sure how he did it. He is not a horse that enjoys a stabled lifestyle, so we spent plenty of time keeping him occupied. Our first show was in April and it was going to be touch and go to get him out and fit to complete an early warm up before the first qualifier. The vet relented and we started walking in hand in the 3^rd week, and I was on him at the end of the 4^th. We hacked out as much as school allowed me to and he was fit enough to jump one class by the show, in my judgement. We went, we completed, I don't even remember if we placed or much about it, just that he got round and we were good. Bloody relief. He had a scar and still does to this day, but he was happy and glad to be showing off to people again. We went to our next qualifier and he had an unlike him stop at a fence. He jumped it on the second go, and I must have put him at it wrong as Frankie has stopped at a fence maybe 3 times in 14 years with me, and the other two times were my fault. I was worried it was pain, but he jumped the rest ok and we went home with another qualification for the summer championships. There was then a break to our first HOYS qualifier at Northern Horse. Jack was also going to come for an outing in the novice ridden.

The main thing I remember about the day was nerves. Feeling like throwing up from 5am til whenever, not wanting to warm up because that meant the class would start soon, not being able to sit upright with the anxiety. Mum told me I shouldn't do the class if it was that bad. The only thing worse than feeling that bad was not doing the class, so I bucked up a little and warmed up. I still felt sick and jelly-like, but luckily Frankie thinks highly enough of himself to disregard pansy-ass, lily-livered teenagers who mope around on his back, and we were fine. I soon came to realise that it wasn't the fear of jumping that crippled me so. It was the fear of not winning. And not because anyone had the expectation we would. They didn't. Mum took me showing because Frankie and I were good, that's for sure, but she is the antithesis of a pushy parent. She wanted a good attitude from me far more than a good performance, although the two do often go hand in hand. So I couldn't tell her this shaming reason for my gut churning. I still can't rationalise it completely, but it was my yearning to be the best, to beat the odds, to be the 15 year old girl on the non-perfect looking pony who was so good to her and was so talented that beat the pros and the horses who went to HOYS and were placed every year. Frankie was that good, if not better, and I wanted to show that off every class. If we didn't go clear, we couldn't win and if we couldn't win, what was the point? What if we didn't get another chance? Ugh. It's why I eventually quit competing. That feeling was not worth it. Showing wasn't worth it. I was sick of being judged on my appearance and Frankie's blue eye. He was my perfect buddy and ride, and who were they to undermine that? I took it too personally, as you can see! So I quit.

But, there was one last twist in my showing career.

It's June 2002. Maybe May. We're in Wetherby. I feel very sick. There are some top notch horses and riders in this class, like, HOYS champions, people who qualify every year. I am drawn late. I have to watch. Grim. Mum ignores my moans and groans and chats to Frankie about my madness. Our friends who are in another class have come to watch. I cannot stuff up! I do the practice fence a few times, Frankie feels wonderful, as usual. What's the fuss about? I fiddle with my body protector. I hate wearing it to jump, but I'm not being that person who falls off and gets an injury that could have been prevented. I watch with little interest. What does it matter what everyone else does? If I go clear, I can win. If I don't, I can't. There are one or two clears, but not many. Before me is a horse who has won at HOYS the year before, a big chestnut stallion, he is ridden by a professional. Ugh. I hate them. I have finished my warm up and I always watch the person right before me to critique their ride to really focus on the course, the strides, the possible problems. For me, us, it's usually the littler fences that Frankie doesn't focus on, or maybe a plank that is more a rider psych out, or the max height spread. There are no huge bogey fences that I can recall, so I'm surprised (am I?) there haven't been many clears.

Anyway, the person before me is nearly finished so I go to move to the gate and then there is a gasp. The former HOYS winner has had a refusal at the second last!! a simple spread, heading back to the gate, and he's stopped! No way! I know it's awful, but my sick feeling lifts a little. He might do that. Frankie won't. So in we go. Salute the judges, pop into canter, confirm my lines and head to the first, which is very little. No probs. Same with two and three, also small. I don't remember the middle of the course, although I do have a breathless account written down somewhere at mum's. I do remember coming to that last line and seeing the flowers at the wings that some horses had spooked at and we just popped the second last, then the last, for a clear round! Aces. Salute the judges again, head out to lots of clapping and happy small fan club. Take off Frank's boots, make him nice and shiny for the flat half of the class, take a breath. Feel slightly happy, although now is also bad, because we are in the running to win the effing class, and I want that more than anything. If I'm called second, boy, that's gonna sting. I don't remember the ride much either, except it went well and we headed back to the line of maybe 6 horses. I was stood in 2^nd or 3^rd with the horse I thought would win to my left but I kept my face neutral whilst stealing glances at his horse. A horse which also did plaited workers and wasn't, in my opinion, a typey welsh cob, but many judges disagreed, clearly.

It was a class where the announcer called out the placings, by number, in order. Always heart lurching if there were people in the class whose numbers started the same as yours. Very cruel. Worse than not being pointed at to come forward by the arsey steward.

They called in the first number, 668. I looked at next-door-horse's number. 545. Nope. There was a smattering of applause. Oh! 668 was me! I asked Frankie to walk forward and when no one told me to go back to my place in the line, I allowed myself a small grin and my small fan club gave a few cheers. My grin grew larger as I was handed a rosette, and then the judge signed my qualification card – yessss! - and gave me an envelope with some token prize money, and I don't even remember who was 2^nd, 3^rd etc. I just remember thinking 'I'm 15, I've just qualified for HOYS on my fabulous, genuinely home produced pony. Life doesn't get better!' It was such an incredible feeling. Wish I could've bottled it for the future!