It was the realization of a lifelong dream, a bittersweet emotion. Here I was, my teammate wide-eyed beneath me, standing under the clock tower of the most prestigious show jumping ring in North America, arguably in the world. A band played brightly at the far end of the ring. The Lord Royal Strathcona's Posse waited to escort us in. International riders in their crimson jackets and spotless breeches were walking the course for that afternoon's grueling Grand Prix, the grand finale of two weeks of tough competition.
Some day I hoped to be competing at the Grand Prix level as well, but for now I was content to stand under that magical clock tower, to ride in across the golf-course green grass, my horse dancing sideways beneath me, and to accept the Desmond G. Griffin Memorial Scholarship. For those ten minutes we soaked it all in. Superfaire looked up at the stands and then out to the course, ears pricked with curiosity. I put my hand on his chestnut-colored neck to reassure him. So this is what it felt like to be in the International Ring. The feeling was incredible yet overwhelming.
As the chairman of Spruce Meadows, Mr. Southern, gave a speech about the scholarship, I began to wonder how I suddenly found myself here. What got me this far? It was a combination of hard work, support from my family, and the commitment to do the right thing regardless of the consequence.
I thought back to the start of the Spruce Meadows season. There were three shows, the first being the National in June. At the close of the third show in July, the North American Junior of the Year award was given to the junior rider who had accumulated the most points. This was an award I had never thought I could attain.
On one of the final days of the National tournament, a friend came to our stabling area carrying the day sheet, showing all the orders of go for that day as well as the previous day's results. She excitedly pointed out that I was leading the Junior of the Year standings. Superfaire had been on his game and we had been placing well, but I also knew that there was still a long season ahead of us. Superfaire was small and had to work harder than most horses to clear the 4' 6" jumps. He had the heart and speed to make up for it though, and he would try anything I asked.
The summer progressed. The courses got tougher. Olympic course designer, Leopoldo Palacios, made sure of that. By the end of the second Spruce Meadows tournament, the Canada One, Superfaire and I were still in the lead. The caliber of horses and riders had improved dramatically, and the real test was still to come. The Canada One Tournament and the final North American tournament were back to back with only two days of rest between. The important classes were held on the final two days of the North American.
At the end of the Canada One tournament, I sat down to discuss things with my trainer, world-class rider Rich Fellers. He was heading up a team to compete in the Prix de Nations class, which ran on the second of the two resting days between tournaments. This popular class was made up of teams of four from each region of the U.S. and Canada. It was an honor to be chosen to ride on a team, and some regions even had qualifiers earlier in the summer. When Rich asked me to ride on his team, representing the Northwest U.S., I was thrilled at the opportunity. The class would consist of two long rounds around a big, technical course. It would be a great learning experience, and an opportunity to ride on a team.
We had a family meeting to discuss the idea. My dad, also a rider, suggested that I rest Superfaire. The classes of the final week would provide more than enough stress without adding the Prix de Nations. Ultimately, he left the decision up to me. After talking to Rich again, I realized that there was no one who could take my place should I decide not to ride. Without me and Superfaire, there would be no Northwest team. I agreed to ride.
As expected, the course was long and difficult. It also contained Superfaire's sole problem jump: the open water. Despite hours of practice, my Irish teammate could not understand that he was supposed to stretch out and jump across the twelve-foot wide pool. Time after time, he would land with a splash in the water. In competition this was an automatic four faults. In both rounds of the Prix he also pulled one other rail in difficult spots. The course was slightly more than he could handle. Our team ended up third overall, not as well as we had hoped to do, but respectable nonetheless. By the end of the second round of the Prix de Nations class, I could tell that Superfaire was fatigued.
Although he'd had little time to rest, he warmed up well the next day. I rode confidently into the ring for the first class of the last tournament, which would decide the final standings for the 2002 North American Junior of the Year. Superfaire jumped well but not as brightly as he had the previous week. He was only clearing the fences by inches. The fourth from last jump was a wide black and white oxer. Superfaire gave me a good feeling in the air, but stumbled slightly on the landing. It was so slight that no one else noticed it. I even questioned whether I had really felt anything. Two strides after he landed he was cantering normally, and I turned the comer to face the last three jumps. He had two of the three down. This was so unlike Superfaire that I worried as I walked him out of the ring. He rarely touched the jumps, and he had never had a rail without rider error.
Back at the hotel room that night, I watched the video of our round over and over. I had ridden him well, he just didn't jump high enough. After watching the video enough times I convinced myself that I could see his stumble but it was too slight to be conclusive. Besides, he was completely sound coming out of the ring. The only logical conclusion was that he was tired. I knew he needed a day to rest. Resting him, however, would mean forfeiting the Junior of the Year Award. If I didn't ride, I wouldn't get the points necessary to qualify for the final class in which the points were quadrupled. We were ahead, but not by much.
The decision was hard, but I knew it was right. I cared about Superfaire. He was my friend, and I spent more time with him than any person. He had shown us that he needed a break and I knew that we wouldn't do well if I took him in the ring with this knowledge. I scratched the class for the next day. As I took him out to exercise him that day, the full realization sank in. We had been so close. I could almost feel the tingle of victory. Now, we had to be mere spectators. It was like clenching a fistful of sand only to find it slip through your fingers.
Superfaire was his perky self, unaware of what we had lost. The award didn't mean anything to him. The only thing he cared about was walking into that ring and competing. He lived for jumping. I realized that I could learn from him. For me, show jumping was about my love of horses and the love of the sport. It wasn't about being the 2002 North American Junior of the Year.
Although I had come to this realization, it was still hard for me to watch as my fellow junior riders competed for the award. I wanted to be out there, riding against them, riding against the clock. On the final day of the North American tournament, I rode into the International Ring to receive the memorial scholarship for successful juniors who displayed good horsemanship and sportsmanship. To me, it was an even bigger honor than being awarded Junior of the Year. People are always watching, waiting for your reaction to the circumstances thrown at you in life. To be recognized as a good horsewoman with a positive attitude was satisfying. Sure, looking back, I still would have loved to be the Junior of the Year, but doing the right thing paid off. It always does.
Bryna Finch is a freelance writer & a writing/literature major at George Fox University.