Clever, talented, nice? Have a gold medal!

Until today, British dressage had never won an Olympic medal of any colour. This afternoon, they smashed it and picked up gold ones. They did so in London. They did so by beating Germany (who dominated the sport forever – I exaggerate only very slightly). And they beat them by a Gloucestershire mile. Could anything be better?

Obviously I’d like to thank World Class support and lottery funding. Big up the grooms and experts who keep these stunning horses fit and well. And before they turn up the music to encourage me off this acceptance speech stage, I’d really like to thank the lynchpins of this gold medal success – rider Carl Hester and former rider Dr Wilfried Bechtolsheimer, for being very clever, very talented, and very nice.

You see, the gold that the team of Carl, Charlotte Dujardin, and Wilfried’s daughter Laura Bechtolsheimer took home today has been a good 20 years in the making. Carl couldn’t afford a superstar dressage horse, he learnt to ride in Sark, on a donkey. He travelled to Gloucestershire to work for Dr B. There, he honed his natural talent, competed some extraordinary horses, and locked a then five-year-old Laura in the feed room when she got on his nerves. Today, they hugged as she cried over what they’d achieved.

There are few families with the wealth to possess one, let alone several, of these incredible grand prix horses, but where Carl landed firmly on his feet was that Dr B was prepared to let him ride them, too. Most stable jockeys can expect to spend the majority of their time getting bucked off the newly backed youngsters and contesting the odd novice class.

Carl had to sell his 2004 Olympic ride Escapado in order to afford a yard and set up on his own. There was a risk he’d never have a horse so good. Still, he never forgot the break Dr B gave him, and passed the favour on. First, he wanted partner Spencer Wilton to be the one he trained to gold medal glory, but just as they parted ways, Charlotte rocked up to work in return for training and took on some of Carl’s top horses.

The best was Valegro. Not only has Carl moulded the pair into the best in the world, he has protected Charlotte from the sale of that horse. Whoever owns the best dressage horse in the world is offered millions for it. Millions. That’s hard to turn down, particularly since a horse could rip a tendon tomorrow and be worth nothing. That’s jolly, jolly nice of him – and joint owner Roly Luard.

Three people asked me today: “If Carl owns Valegro, why isn’t he riding him?” Well one, he has Uthopia to ride, two, he didn’t just want to win a gold medal in London on a horse he’d trained, he wanted to train another horse and rider to do the same alongside him, and three because he’s Nice like that. And being nice is smart, because by making that decision, he didn’t have to rely on others to make up a gold-medal worthy team, he had two thirds of it in his stable. He’s not just a pretty face that Carl.

So to the former colleague who once told me: “You’ll never get anywhere in life being nice”, Carl just proved that’s bollocks. He was good enough to give a girl a break, because someone had done the same for him, and those two men’s actions secured unimaginable success for British Dressage today. Niceness is underrated. I’m very happy it exists in my sport. Thank you.

Brit jumpers win penalty shootout

What impeccable timing British showjumper Peter Charles has, mustering up his first clear round of London 2012 in the jump off, clinching team gold. The equine side of Blue Fin Towers went wilder than they did when Bruce Springsteen rocked up at Royal Windsor last May.

 I couldn't believe it. I was bouncing off the walls, and felt terribly inspired and proud, and all the things you're supposed to be when Brits win medals, but I really couldn't believe it.

 A few months back, Brit showjumper Robert Smith (son of "V" signs for victory Harvey), said our team didn't have a hope in Hades of winning gold in London (I'm paraphrasing). He came in for a lot of flack, which seemed ludicrous to me at the time given the amount of people who, off the record, agreed with him.

Me included. I put money on Britain's dressage squad winning team and individual medals, any fool with access to the FEI results record could have predicted the same, but it was a brave soul who did likewise on our showjumpers. On paper, they didn't have it. But you know what they say, "Bad on paper, good in an Olympic jump off".

 And much as I like to bash the dressage-marketing drum, showjumping is a more accessible sport in terms of being easy to comprehend – leave the poles up and you win. Pole down = four faults. Leave them up going faster later on = you're in there.

 Having just walked past a (what's the collective noun for men you wouldn't expect to like showjumping?) watching a rerun of the medal win on a big screen by London Bridge station, I'm hoping jumping now bounces back to the glory days of Harvey Smith in terms of coverage and popularity in Britain. This is a sport broadcasters are happy for Britain to be good at.

In addition – because I always want more, it was my first word – I'd now like the sport's terminology to enter everyday parlance. So, next time you see someone trip, please holler, in your best pinched-nose tanoy voice "four faults", please. Thank you.

Feel the love, Charlotte

It was bloody brilliant. Bloody, bloody brilliant. How, at 25, at her first Olympics, under the pressure of a gaining German team, did Charlotte Dujardin manage to keep her cool and break the world record to ensure Britain stayed ahead of their rivals following the first stage of the team competition? I've never seen that done. It's entirely unfeasible. I just can't get my head round it. She's supernatural, that girl.


I was questioning the sanity of whoever signed her up to go last. Surely give that pressure to mentor Carl? But no, good call. Maybe she's better for that kind of utterly ludicrous pressure. 



Joy unconfined.



The only sadness today was the look of a kicked puppy worn by Sweden's Patrik Kittel. He was papped over-flexing Scandic Watermill yesterday in training. For all of a second. I'm going to go out on a limb and piss-off the anti-rollkur brigade here, but seriously, that man is not cruel. He'd invite you all to watch him train and would be calm and friendly for hours however much vitriol you spat at him.  Sometimes, he has to gain control, and, without force, brings the horse back to him before carrying on soft and light as anything. Don't judge him on one picture. Go and watch him train, then make a sound judgement. And while you're at it, watch those kicking and yanking in anger, and tell me which you'd rather ride your horse.



That's me done. I'm going to go and celebrate. Please someone buy that Charlotte several bottles of champagne. And Carl, too, for giving her the perfect Blueberry to ride and the skills to do it.

Dressage rocks - spread the word

My feet twitched throughout Carl Hester and Uti’s tempi-changes this morning, my fingers shook as Laura Bechtolsheimer entered the arena on Alf, and my stomach muscles are only now recovering from the excitement of two fantastic tests that put Britain in gold medal position going into the second day of competition. It turns out all I needed to get me feeling something slightly more intense about these Olympics was for the dressage to start.

No, dressage excitement isn’t an oxymoron. Sure, I’ve heard the sport likened to paint drying and grass growing in the past 24hrs – by a chap on the bus and a man in the curry house. Both had randomly got tickets for the eventing dressage over the weekend. Admittedly, if I were selling the sport, that isn’t where I’d start. You’ve at least got to throw in some tempi-changes (skipping) and piaffe (dancing on the spot) to stand any chance of grabbing the attention of someone who prefers their sports to revolve around balls – or at least wheels.

           

Dressage is most commonly labelled “horse ballet” by the uninitiated. That’s fine. The equines point their toes and pirouette, while those who love them are as passionate in that devotion as any Royal Opera House season ticket holder. Men’s magazine journalist Pete Cashmore today coined the term “posh pony disco” instead. And I’d take that, too. Valegro et al have, after all, been privately educated, and reside on charming estates in Gloucestershire. I’ve not heard their accents, mind – though I couldn’t tell an upper class Dutchman or Dane from Adam anyway.

See, people can call dressage whatever they want as far as I’m concerned. If they’re calling it Something I’m happy, because that means they’re talking about it. For eight years I’ve been attempting to garner more interest in the sport, behaving like some sort of kür missionary. Tactics range from posting You Tube links of Blue Hors Matine at Aachen 2006, or Totilas in Kentucky in 2010, to sending endearing images of Uthopia taking a nap, and drawing attention to the sheer cuteness of Blueberry’s dished nose. I’ve even stooped so low as to point out how good looking the riders are, both male and female, and therefore had to go home and beat myself with a copy of How To Be A Woman in penance.

In the past three years the message has been more readily received. Totilas single-hoofedly made riders in other disciplines at least stop referring to dressage as “the boring bit you have to do before cross-country day”. It helps enormously of course that the British team are in with a bloody good shot of gold in London. Success has 1,000 friends on Facebook, let alone all those fathers. Opinions are shifting – a former colleague who used to swear and spit when I passed her dressage pages for proofing was über-excited to be attending the dressage in Greenwich.

But I want more – there’s little satisfaction in preaching to the semi-converted. I want anyone in Britain who has cheered our rowers, cyclists and judo(ists?) over the past two days to be as ecstatic when our dressage team smashes it. I want them to have a clue what the sport is they’re (hopefully) applauding – for them to have seen it. So, two o’clock tomorrow, BBC red button, there’s a charismatic Spaniard on a crowd-pleasing grey stallion, followed by the best and handsomest dressage horse in the World – Valegro – ridden by the ridiculously talented and not at all snooty Charlotte Dujardin. She’s going to win us at least one gold medal in the next week. Glory. Get a piece of it. Tune in. And if you’ve already enjoyed it, tell your friends.

Tears, finally. Almost

Today, I shouted at the TV during the Olympics for the first time. Well, I mean aside from all those times I’ve asked the commentators to just sh.., to just shh. Oh, and of course that other time I cried out: “What? We’re still only on ‘G’? Seriously?” during the flag walk in the opening ceremony. But everyone did that, surely.

I’ve noticed many, many people appearing to care a darn sight more about London 2012 than I do. I’ve been reading about their tears on Twitter, thinking, these people don’t half cry easy. And I’ve been wondering when the hell I was going to Feel something about these Games – other than joy unconfined at the very existence of Rowan Atkinson.

Anyway, today it happened – at the turn of our princess, Zara. I let out an entirely undignified: “Noooo! Zara. Gah. Miss. Argh!”  at the Horse-towers TV, accompanied by the sound of my palm slapping my sizeable forehead. She and the Amazing High Kingdom are perfectly capable of jumping an Amazing clear round, as they went on to prove a few hours later. It was Amazing, their second round – Sports Personality Of The Year defining stuff.

I tested my vocal chords further as the day went on – in euphoria at Mary and Tina’s team silver medal-securing rounds, and in woe as they slipped out of contention for individual honours. (Cue more forehead slapping).

But I still didn’t cry. Possibly because, as Zoe Williams points out in her utterly wonderful Guardian piece bit.ly/Okv8m7 , I’m British and I ride horses. But I did very nearly cry. Possibly – and again referring to that superlative Guardian piece – because, despite this Britishness and horseyness, I’m really not posh.

I digress – about the tears. The unfamiliar, light, burning sensation behind my eyes began not at the British individual misfortunes, but when Sweden’s Sara Algotsson Ostholt thought she’d won gold, only to glance back and see that evil rail on the last fence had fallen in cruel, painful slow motion.

I almost-cried because I love that horse – that she tries her wholesome grey heart out, that she’s a she, those wonderful big knees, the fact commentator Ian Stark said she’d never make the time cross-country and she proved them wrong, and the fact she’s home-bred and her dam was in the competition, too, ridden by Sara’s sister – I love everything about her.

And I almost-cried because Sara is also a she, and had that last, wretched pole not fallen down in cruel, painful slow motion, she’d have been the first woman to take the individual eventing Olympic gold medal.

And that would have rocked. Because you can throw a few “ism” complaints at equestrianism – it’s tough arguing it’s not elitist for a start – but you can never call it sexist, because it’s the only Olympic sport in which men and women compete against each other. And I’m really rather proud of that. As proud as I am that three British gals and their brave, adored horses earned us a team silver medal today – never mind that one of them is a princess.

Thank you, Greenwich

This article first appeared on www.horseandhound.co.uk on 30 July.

Readers will be relieved to know I’ve taken a few deep breathes and downed a cup of herbal tea to still my beating heart to the point I’m less likely to use any expletives here. But boy, that was jolly exciting, that cross-country at Greenwich there, wasn’t it.

First up, getting there. I vote we have the Olympics here more often, because never has the M25 Kent stretch been so quiet at 7am, never has my partner got a seat on the 8:30 into London Bridge, and I took a bus to and from something bigger than a football match in just 30min. Result. If you were one queuing for the tube at half seven tonight, I’ll give myself a slap on your behalf. But I’d still argue it takes longer to get into Badminton…

We were through security in a jiffy, too, and walking past the Maritime museum to reach the arena you get that, ‘yes, tourists, this is my hometown, damn I’m proud of it’, feeling.

If lack of queues and the initial view weren’t enough to convince you it was definitely the right decision to hold the equestrian events in London, trotting up the hill to the observatory and watching a horse jump over the moon into the city skyline would have broken you. That’s special.

The course was beautiful and apt, from the squirrels perched on chestnut logs to the luscious hanging baskets in the Rose Garden. The grass was like something out of Disneyland — unfeasibly green and soft and springy.

It turns out it was also sticky and slippery in places, with some horses losing shoes and others slipping to the point of elimination. Although perhaps they’d lost shoes already? I struggle to see how a studded horse would have slipped when so many before him hadn’t. I saw Miners Frolic slide, but then he was going at a lick round a corner with adverse camber… that’s physics. It was galling for Sam Griffiths to fall on the flat this way though.

Talking of Disneyland, they’ll be looking to recruit the Greenwich volunteers. Never have I met a friendlier and less officious group of officials. And not since my last visit to the States have I been told at such regular intervals to have a good/nice day.

This may seem irrelevant, but combined with the enthusiasm of the crowd, whether they were knowledgeable or not, it made Greenwich a truly happy place to be this afternoon. Yesterday I blogged in despair that an opportunity had been missed to enlighten and garner support from non-horsey ticket holders. Today, I take it back. Commentator John Kyle did an incredible job of both, calling for fans to raise the roof/sky, and they did. To the point I couldn’t hear him any more, but knew Zara or William were coming from the Mexican soundwave of delirium heading straight for me.

Among the joy, there was sadness. Yoshi’s fall from overnight leader to elimination, the Australians’ demise, pocket rocket Gin N Juice appearing at the crescent moon without his rider, and Camilla Speirs’ brave, diminutive Just A Jiff falling.

My heart went out to The Netherlands’ third and last rider, too, who was popped out the saddle at the water, putting herself and her team out of contention. She clung on like a limpet, way past the point gravity had beaten her, until relenting, she slid down into the lake, and rather than beating the ground in understandable frustration, went and patted her horse. It’s these Olympic heartbreaks that make the successes more poignant — there but for the grace of fortune go any of them.

It was a day I’ll never forget — Britain, forging silver, in my hometown. Thank you, Greenwich. Thank you very, very much.

Olympic inspiration. For riders?

In the past two weeks, Lizzie Armitstead and Bradley Wiggins may well have inspired a nation to take up cycling and experiment with sideburns. Bike shops around the country prepare for the onslaught while Gillette sales plummet. Meanwhile, should Britain’s eventers win medals on Tuesday, how many watching will be inspired to saddle up, let alone don a top hat?

No, horse riding isn’t cheap. By comparison, you can buy a bike in Tesco for 50 quid and hop on without the need for an instructor. (That said, whoever coined the phrase: “It’s like riding a bike”, doesn’t have a Boris cycle rack outside their office – watching Suits attempt to recall the technique is entertainment gold.)

I digress. About the money. In the current climate, you probably could pick up a horse for £50 – tragically. But, you’d easily spend £50 a week keeping him in food and good health. And of course riding lessons cost a fortune, too – it isn’t so in parts of Europe where governments subsidise riding schools rather than inflicting ludicrous rates on their arenas.

But where there’s a will there is a way – I wasn’t the only 11-year-old mucking out 10 horses of a Sunday to secure a lesson at the riding school. What worries me is the lack of inspiration for that “will”.

More non-horsey Brits rocked up to watch eventing dressage in Greenwich today than have ever seen the sport in the past. I know the Olympics are first and foremost about sporting excellence, but this was a mint opportunity to inspire future riders – not even to win medals, but for all the health (both physical and mental) benefits equines offer – and gain supporters – who wouldn’t go amiss given that there are plenty, Mr Jacques Rogge included, who wouldn’t be sad to see equestrianism drop off the list of Olympic disciplines.

I wasn’t at the Games today, but I know plenty of ticket holders attending who were there purely because it was something for which they managed to get tickets. They didn’t have the faintest clue what was going on. And it wasn’t made clear to them. Horse & Hound eventing editor Pippa Roome was asked things like whether seven was the highest score (read her blog here: http://bit.ly/MURcEu). Why wasn’t this, at least, explained to the myriad uninitiated? (It’s 10).

First impressions? “It’s all very ‘in’,” one friend said. “Like a private club. One you have to be royalty or double-barreled to get into.” Huge sigh.

At no other event are the audience asked Not to support the athletes, either. “Don’t cheer, it’ll upset the horses. Shhhhhh.” Come on! Can you really ask a non-rider to entertain that notion? It just adds to the unwelcoming environment, even when it’s coming from someone as lovely as Mary King. Keep stuffing that cotton wool in horses’ ears under those fly-hats – which, incidentally, should totally be allowed at all times, governing bodies – and get on. These riders are clearly of a caliber that they can instill their horse with enough confidence and ensure he is listening to their aids to the degree that he doesn’t notice mumbling or moving crowds.

As for those watching at home, well they weren’t told to pipe-down, but they were none the wiser for the commentary. I don’t know if the BBC’s policy is just to assume a knowledgeable audience in equestrianism, but whereas I’ve had archery and swimming explained to me over the past few days, non-equestrian pals are still at a loss as to what happens in a dressage test. At one point commentator Mike Tucker asked Ian Stark to explain what he meant by a comment. Ian replied, joking admittedly: “Ooo, you’re cruising there.” “Cruising”? You’re telling me that as a commentator, you believe your fellow commentator is being trixsy by asking you to explain a criticism of a horse’s movement? Shouldn’t it have been clear enough in the first place? If it weren’t, I’d be falling over myself to explain it.