I have been riding and training horses for around forty years (yes, I’m that old.) Throughout this time, I’ve come across a wealth of traditional wisdom related to horses and horsemanship. Some of it is folk wisdom; some the product of antiquated tradition; some the remnants of old wives’ tales and taboos. However, much of this knowledge consists of practical advice that horsemen have trusted for centuries and which science has proven effective. While not all traditional methods have stood the test of time, the more modern “innovations” I encounter, especially in training, the more I appreciate the timeless classical approaches.
This isn’t universal, as mistakes were often made in the past as they are today, and we have better methods for evaluating the effectiveness of things like medical treatments and techniques. But overall, there’s something to be said for the observational wisdom gained and passed down over generations by people who often arrived at practical solutions through trial and error versus the detatched calculation that characterizes so many of today’s methods. Or perhaps worse, the mysticism that makes horsemanship into some new age cult in which horses become woo-woo props in their owners’ spiritual journeys, often for profit or the social media gaze. (But that’s a grumble for another time.)
A surprising number of odd-sounding old-time traditions turn out to be sound. Expensive modern hoof treatments are made from toxic formaldehyde. The cheaper, more effective, safer version is to apply Venice turpentine made from a natural tree resin to hooves in need of toughening. And I read in an old manual about a pretty gross prescription for treating horses suffering from diarrhea. Before the era of probiotics, it was recommended that the stable manager take some manure from a healthy horse and, placing it in a permeable cloth sack, pour warm water over it to make a kind of poop soup. A little of the broth that drained through the sack would be added to the sick horse’s feed. This traditional cure apparently works and inspired fecal transplants in humans.
In horsemanship, there are also tons of practices that don’t make a lot of sense on the surface. In English-style riding, we always mount the horse from the left side. We comb and, for competition, braid the mane on the right side. We also hold the bight of the reins (the spare loop) to the right side of the neck (bight on the right). All of this seems unnecessarily fussy until you realize that it’s part of a military tradition that was in use as late as the last century when cavalry horses and riders were still trained in this manner. They wore swords at their left hip for use in the right hand. The method of mounting, combing the mane, and carrying the reins helped the rider manage his tools and weapons. Since Kikkuli and Xenophon, through the masters of classical dressage and hunt seat beholden to the cavalry manuals of their respective nations, we still follow these protocols today because, I would argue, our Western art of horsemanship remains, after thousands of years, a martial art in the sense that it is one of many
codified systems and traditions of combat practiced for several reasons such as self-defence; military and law enforcement applications; competition; physical, mental, and spiritual development; entertainment; and the preservation of a nation’s intangible cultural heritage. (Wikipedia, Martial Arts)
I can respect a rule if I know there is—or was—a logical reason behind it. Indeed, knowing the roots of a tradition adds a layer of meaning to its practice far deeper than rote practice ever could.
Don’t Longe with Your Spurs On!
But many years ago, I came across another piece of arcane riding advice in a book that made absolutely no sense to me. It said that, when longeing a horse, the horseman should wear gloves and a helmet but remove his spurs.
For those unfamiliar with longeing (or lungeing), it means exercising or training a (generally riderless) horse from the ground, usually in a large circle, at the end of a 15-20’ long rein. The handler stands in the center of the circle and gives the horse commands, controlling him with a long line/rein. There are more advanced forms of this, but that’s the core of it.
Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that gloves are indeed essential equipment for this task. Considering how big, powerful, and fast a horse is, if it decides to test that line on purpose or by getting spooked, excited, or airborne, you can get one hell of a nasty rope burn on your hands.
Definitely wear gloves when longeing.
A helmet is also a good idea. I admit I often forget to wear one, but horses can be unpredictable and lively, and they can act up, especially when they have free rein or are young or pent-up. Hooves can fly, and catching one in the noggin is no joke.
Wearing a helmet when working a horse on the longe is solid advice.
But spurs? What could spurs have to do with longeing? I used to walk around in my spurs all day, every day. So did everyone I knew, and no one ever discouraged doing so. What was the big deal? Did the gatekeepers of esoteric equestrian wisdom demand spur removal as a purely symbolic precondition before embarking on non-mounted training? Was it presumptuous to wear spurs until the moment the horse was about to be ridden? Until the riding demanded them? Were they making an ethical statement? No one I asked could give me an answer.
I should pause here to mention that when I say “spurs,” I don’t mean those jingle-jangle jobs you see on cowboys in Westerns. English spurs have no rowels or barbs, and you couldn’t cut a pizza with them. No, the spurs I refer to are blunt, rounded nubs never bigger than the tip of your pinky finger and often about the size of a pencil eraser. Their purpose is to augment the rider’s leg aid, usually at critical moments while jumping a course.
You see, there are optimal places where a horse should take off in front of a jump, and it’s the rider’s job to set the horse up to make his best effort by getting to these optimal takeoff distances. Most horses don’t do this on their own. This positioning requires accordion-like adjustments to the horse’s length of stride throughout the course. But the course is also designed to both test this adjustability and distract the horse. And if the horse misses cues from the rider’s aids, he may miss one of those optimal distances and crash a jump. A distracted horse is a dangerous horse, whereas an attentive, willing horse is, well, everything. This combined test of communication, athleticism, and strategy is the essence of the sport. Spurs, when used correctly, are meant to be a subtle reinforcement—a friendly nudge to refocus the horse on the rider’s aids. This is not to say some riders don’t abuse them, but that’s not their intended role.
Anyway, when I’d read in a horseman’s manual that one should never longe a horse while wearing spurs, I thought, hmm, that’s excessive. And I just kind of ignored it. They’re a pain to take off and on, and who had the time with so many horses to train? My young and arrogant self assumed it was probably another one of those fusty formalities with origins in some unfathomably arcane tradition no one needed anymore. I did just about everything but sleep in my spurs, and I couldn’t imagine a scenario where they might be an issue. Nobody I asked could think of one either. It was one pointless protocol that could finally be discarded and that nobody would miss. Hooray for progress, right?
Genius!
That is until the day I brilliantly rediscovered its origins. I won’t say it was a proud day, but perhaps I deserve some credit for laying to rest the “no spurs while longeing” mystery that had plagued our small corner of the equestrian community for so long. And I can happily report that the wisdom imparted by the ancient tomes was not pure fancy or formality. The consequences of wearing spurs while longeing can be dire, as I discovered one day in front of an arena full of spectators.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming a mile away. I longed a young horse at a leisurely pace. I urged him on in trot and, he being exuberant that morning, kept my body language quiet to calm him, walking a small circle in the center of his, almost in place. In the center of the circle, holding my longe rein in one hand and whip in the other, I danced a little waltz as I slowly turned to follow his movement. Then, as I crossed one foot over the other, my spurs and spur straps, boot laces, whatever (it’s all a blur) locked in a fatal embrace.
After some awkward gyrations and much flailing of arms, I landed on my face. This spooked the young horse, who bolted, dragging me through the sand. Dangling a human from his head deterred him from running too far and he stopped after a few panicked strides to turn and look at me with confusion disdain. I tried to ignore the ogling spectators around the arena fence who had borne witness as I struggled to my feet, dusted myself off, my bra now filled with sand, and smiled. Eureka! An answer to my burning question. The old-timers were right about the spurs.
Truly, it’s a bad idea to wear spurs while longeing. You’re welcome.
Chesterton’s Fence
This incident reminds me of the concept called Chesterton’s Fence, named after writer and philosopher G. K. Chesterton. The idea essentially argues that before initiating some change or reform, one must fully understand the rationale behind the original decision or institution they plan to undo. In other words, before tearing down a fence, we shouldn’t assume ignorance on the part of those who built it, but remember that someone put it there for a purpose; at the time of creation, they possessed knowledge and experience we now lack. This doesn’t mean it remains necessary or valid forever; however, understanding this rationale is essential before undertaking any reform. The factors that inform past decisions may be different or more complex than we realize, and we must avoid reforms that may have unintended consequences. G. K. Chesterton wrote:
IN the matter of reforming things, as distinct from deforming them, there is one plain and simple principle; a principle which will probably be called a paradox. There exists in such a case a certain institution or law; let us say for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across a road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, ‘I don’t see the use of this; let us clear it away.’
To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer:
‘If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.’ (The Thing)
It’s especially trendy these days to shun tradition. All past things are bad, and all things new are shiny and good. Out with the old, in with the new! But it’s a mistake to assume all innovation is progress, all convention is backward, and that discarding the latter to embrace the former will usher in an age of perfected enlightenment. Very often, our predecessors already made the mistakes we’re trying to avoid through painful trial and error. They kindly left us signposts, guardrails, and instruction manuals on how to avoid those same pitfalls (though, frustratingly, they don’t always give their reasoning.) Yet, we choose to ignore them and stumble along blindly. I suppose a good deal of that is just human nature. We need to see and do for ourselves to believe. I can relate. But there is wisdom also in the saying trust but verify. There are often valuable kernels of truth in tradition that, if we take the care to rediscover them, might save us some hard lessons and a lot of pain—or at least some embarrassment.