The Art and Honour of Teaching.

I have never considered myself a teacher.

Every single lesson, I am sleepless the night before, worrying about all the ‘what ifs’. What if the student is disappointed? What is something terrible happens? What if I forget to say all the important things? What if I teach something that is flat-out wrong? What if I’m found out to be a sham? What if I forget to show up?

 

Always, in these scenarios, I am letting someone down.

 

So, I am left feeling that teaching, sharing my knowledge, doesn’t come easily. I am embarrassed when in the company of other, better, more gifted horsemen. For who am I to presume to know it all?

 

I have been teaching since I was a teenager and yet, by current guideposts, I am unqualified. My insurance premium, as such, is through the roof. While I am appreciative of new horsemanship, I choose to keep one foot very carefully, very firmly, in the past. I don’t want to forget, or to move on, entirely. I know that this, along with my disinterest in competing, does nothing to make me current, or give me a sale-able name.

 

Follow me, if you will, on a recent day of teaching ladies to ride sidesaddle.

The facility is about an hour’s drive from my home. I am usually careful about travelling to riders, not having them come to me, as I’m a bit ashamed of my facilities. We live In cow country. There are few barns, fewer arenas, and no rail fences. It somehow always feels better if I travel ‘out’.

 

In the car – and I have just purchased a small, used car to curtail my soaring fuel expenses – are five sidesaddles. These are treasures and together, represent a lifetime’s collecting and a value of over ten thousand dollars. Regularly, I have to stop people from throwing them on the floor or knocking them about, just because they are old. I am learning that the word ‘old’ elicits different responses from different people.

 

 

Each saddle has a pad, a cover, a breakaway stirrup and a selection of girths and cinches to fit a multitude of horses. These extras are stored in a large rubber tub. In this tub are all my notes, folders for the students to take home of print material on sidesaddles, sponges and vet wrap to ‘beef’ up the saddles in a pinch, to get them fitting their riders. No matter how well I try and be ready, there will always be one horse and one or two riders who I just can’t find a saddle to fit. This always stresses me.

 

There will be a timeline, a schedule of the material I want to cover, as well as a list of the classes and a spare block of time between each for assessing the horses, saddling them, talking the students through the fitting process, then getting the riders safely mounted. I know that no matter how well I’ve prepared, there will be horses that are lame, riders who don’t show, others who bring friends that want to ‘give it a go’. If I am too quick in my scheduling, the clinic goers will feel rushed and unsatisfied. If I run late, they will be tired and hungry and there will be complaints to come.

 

I get dressed in the dark, hoping that the colours I’ve thrown on will look all right in the light of day. I grab my coffee, a bit of cheese and an apple, then I hit the trail. Distances in western Canada can be long; it’s nothing to drive for three or four hours one way.

 

With good luck and Google, I find the barn, park the little car and start lugging saddles and stands in to the arena. By the time I’m organized, there are usually one or two dozen people, both riders and auditors, sitting and standing in tense groups, waiting. We eye one another nervously. Will they be hard to teach? I wonder. Will I ask them to do something that is dangerous? their eyes plainly ask.

 

There is a lot of trust in the student-teacher relationship.

We fill out our name tags. ‘Hi, I’m Lee’, I scrawl with the sharpie. I pass on the donuts being handed around but take a good shot of coffee. This is a decision I’ll begin to regret in the last ticking hour before we break for lunch. The facilitator gets the ball rolling, stops the scattered conversation that is known to all horse owners… and I am left to start.

 

This next bit is about as close as I’ll ever come to being a stand-up comic. I want people to feel that they’ve spent their clinic fees wisely… but I also want them to settle in, knowing that this will be fun. Humour, it is, then… and I do my best to condense six hundred years of sidesaddle riding into one or two little quips.

 

We’ll gather around the saddles and I introduce each one to the crowd. Each saddle represents either the height of design – of form following function – or, when it does not. We have something to learn from the disappointing saddles, too. I try and instill an appreciation of the workmanship and quality of days gone by. This is a rare opportunity, finding a number of different horses and different sidesaddles in one spot. Such a day is ripe for learning!

 

Long before we understood how different people processed information, I’ve known that I learn best if as many of my senses are involved as possible. I’ll watch. I’ll listen. I’ll write it down or read the handouts. Most of all, I need to feel something in order to really understand it. This is why auditors and bystanders to my clinics are welcome to get out of their chairs and take part in the group. With the saddle fitting, especially, I want everyone get close up to the action, to take their gloves off and run their hands along the horse’s backs, underneath the saddles. I want them to soak it in.

 

We’ll talk about good fit and poor fit and what we can do to make a so-so fit better. We’ll talk about how we want the seat of the saddle to approximate, as closely as possible, a bar stool. We don’t want to be learning one way or another, forwards or back. We want to be balanced and poised in just the right spot. Just like the calendar girls on the tire shop wall. We make sure everyone understands that the saddles need to sit behind the shoulder and not on top. We try different girthing methods to stabilize the saddles as best we can.

 

Before we get anyone actually riding, I go over the two mantras that will give them safety and security in the saddle: “Right shoulder back. Right heel back.” I’ve found that this sticks better if they’re not overwhelmed with the ‘Edge of the Grand Canyon’ sensation that comes with mounting up.

 

I explain that they will want to shift their hip bones as they throw their right leg over and to ignore the urge at all costs. I show them how to line up their buttons with the horse’s mane, their pants’ seams with the saddle gullet and spines of the horse. We stand on one leg like bulky, awkward flamingos and practice the concept of ‘purchase’. We talk about ‘lefty-loosey’, which is the counter-clockwise twist that a moving horse can put us in. All the while I’m presenting these new concepts to experienced horsewomen, I try and keep it lighthearted and fun. I don’t want to talk down to them. I must teach as an equal, if I want to hold their attention for long.

 

And then, we ride.

I feel strongly that the lesson in which we start something, is the most important lesson that we will ever have. This is why beginner riders should have excellent, experienced teachers. I prefer early sidesaddle lessons to be private, so that I can give my whole attention to one rider. In a clinic setting, this isn’t always possible, so classes are limited to three, at most. Even then, I’m watchful, scrambling to keep things safe and to avert any bad habits that are rearing up.

 

The ‘emergency grip’ is one of these and I teach it right off the bat, then warn the ladies to forget about it. I assure them that when necessary, their instincts will kick in. Too often, though, we see sidesaddle riders clenching with every stride. It’s purgatory for the rider and uncomfortable for the horse.

 

We work on our basic position and ride mainly on the right rein. I explain that a sidesaddle horse must be ridden regularly astride, also, so that he straightens his body and equally strengthens both sides. When we’re learning, we ride mainly in a clockwise direction, on the right rein, to counteract the left-hand twist… and it can come at a price to our horses. Later on, we’ll be riding both ways, with straightness and confidence.

 

I’ve found that most of what I teach goes in one ear and out the other because a day of sidesaddle riding is like drinking out of a fire hose. If I want something to stick, in particular, I sell it as a way of keeping our horses comfortable, of not soring their backs. The well-being of their mounts matters far more to most riders than the actual nuts and bolts.

 

There’s always a balance in any group lesson.

Sidesaddle or astride. I want to respect the fearful, cautious riders in the group but I want to push their limits, just a little. This is the crux of being a good teacher, recognizing what is an absolute limit and what is a little negotiable. Always, the fearful riders will have a bold and brave one in their midst. This person must be invited to excel a little bit above the others, to be invited to get the canter out of the way. Let’s face it, all the while everyone is sitting on their sidesaddles, the canter is looming large overhead, like a menacing storm cloud. It’s good for the whole group to see that the canter poses no threat.

 

If I’ve done my job, the majority of the ladies will be sitting correctly at walk and trot. Their saddles won’t be shifting. They will be a little uncomfortable in the core muscles and along the right thigh, if they’ve been paying attention. I’ve invited them at regular intervals to stop and throw their right leg back over, to sit astride and take some rest. None of us rides well when we are exhausted.

 

The riders will be surprised to find that an hour of unmounted theory, in combination with a half-hour riding lesson, is plenty long enough. They will be relieved to know that they’ve got their money’s worth, after all!

 

There will be ones beaming, knowing they have achieved another item on their bucket list. There will be ones who are tearful, having overcome a major fear or physical hurdle. There will be one or two that just can’t seem to get it, no matter how hard they try or I teach. Always, there will be one or two who have somehow, miraculously, discovered an obsession. It’s exciting stuff.

 

Always, always, I am humbled and honoured to have played a part.

 

After the horses are cooled out and loaded, after the last donut has been claimed, we help pack my saddles. After being ridden in, they are now gingerly, lovingly handled. It is as though the ladies and old saddles have become new friends.

 

Now, the group is chattering, laughing, promising to stay in touch. Some of us will, I know. We hug, then we all hit the road, tired but very happy, settling in for the long drive home.

 

Thank you for reading and taking the time to join our blogging community! If you have a clinic memory to share with us, please do… it takes only a moment to log in to WordPress and once you’ve done so, you’ll not have to do it again. I hope to hear from you. Cheers, Lee.