September 26, 2016 
When I started riding, one of the first bits of information shared by the instructor was the principle of “natural aids.” In subsequent classes at the beginner level, she would review, asking us to call out each of the four aids, and we’d respond: “Seat!” “Legs!” “Hands!” “Voice!” (I know, some instructors count the voice as an artificial aid, or cue.) I began to learn, among other skills, to use my weight to ask the horse to slow down, to apply the correct amount of pressure to ask for a nice, forward walk or trot, and to maintain contact with the horse’s mouth without yanking on the reins. I learned to murmur words of encouragement or to cluck to urge on a less-willing horse, to intone a deep “whoa” to back up a command to halt, and to hold my tongue if I was tempted to yelp when a horse took a little misstep or I lost my balance for a moment.
I had dreamed of riding as a kid, but I never got the chance. Well, once, when I was very small, my father (who was a police officer in small-town Indiana) hoisted me up and handed me to a member of the local sheriff’s mounted unit, who let me perch on his saddle between him and the horn for half a block during a Fourth of July parade. If I remember correctly, the horse was a rather big paint and I was—however fleetingly—on cloud nine.
(flickr.com/lostinfog)
I devoured the Black Stallion series, and Marguerite Henry’s books, including Misty of Assateague and Justin Morgan Had a Horse. My elementary school library even had a how-to called Heads Up, Heels Down, which I studied as if I intended to put its advice into practice. (Recently, I ran across a 1946 edition of this book and was amused to see that over the decades, the basics hadn’t changed much… though I was appalled at its casual racism.)
Shortly after I turned 50, it occurred to me that it was actually possible to take the lessons that had seemed so impossible when I was a child. I found a stable within reasonable driving distance that offered weekly group lessons to adult beginners for a reasonable fee. We walked and trotted around the ring, following a “junior” while the instructor kept an eye on us from the center, jogging alongside to make corrections or to praise our improving skills. At the end of eight weeks, I “got” diagonals and no longer needed to grab the mane when we assumed the two-point position. The following autumn, as an advanced-beginner, I rode in a group without a junior. We took turns leading the line of half a dozen school horses and added short bouts of cantering into our repertoire. When it was my turn to lead, I was lucky enough to ride a small, steady blue roan who knew the lessons like clockwork. At the canter, I felt triumphant: I was riding, really riding. But it wasn’t always so easy.
Then a tumble from a tall gelding with Appaloosa markings bruised my confidence as much as my tailbone. After some missed lessons while I healed, I took myself back to the beginner level to brush up the basics and rebuild my nerve.
I continued to treasure every moment at the stable, but I didn’t feel quite so free, or quite so fearless. Still, I kept at it. Indulging in a private lesson after the group series ended, I performed almost flawlessly. I was familiar with the horse, and the instructor had taught one of the eight-week courses I had taken. In other words, I was right at home. She put me through several rounds of “up-up-down” posting to remind me that I have solid senses of balance and rhythm, and we managed a collected trot so smooth that it brought tears to my eyes. I was really riding again. And I was ecstatic.
On summer vacation, I found a stable not too far away and took a few private lessons.
The instructor urged me to give a little more leg pressure, but generally complimented my posture. I remembered to breathe deeply, from the belly, as I’d hear from my instructors back in New Jersey, as well as read in this column and in Sally Swift’s book Centered Riding. I beamed when the instructor noted that when I breathed deeply, so did my horse—how nice, she said, to see rider and horse in sync.
(flickr.com/ Roger H. Goun)
But while attempting a figure 8 at the trot, the horse and I were suddenly no longer a team. I looked at my mark on the fence; he nearly halted and meandered anywhere but where I wanted to go. We tried again—not much better. The instructor asked me to take a breath and try it at a walk. This time, we made the figure eight, if not too gracefully. I felt ready to pick up the trot and try it again, but it was time to head to the gate. The horse knew it, too. I tried to focus on the positive aspects of the lesson, but I admitted on the way back to the barn that I was a little frustrated with myself. Would I ever learn to put together all the parts of good riding with any consistency? That’s when the instructor said, “Remember, you’ve mostly ridden in a group.”
“The group. I think of it as the fifth aid,” I responded.
She laughed. “It is, in a way. You’re doing a lot of things well, but you haven’t always had to steer your horse because they’ve been so good at following one another.”
She was right. In group lessons, one horse or another might decide that he didn’t like his place in line, that the horse behind was following too close, or that it might be a good idea to cut the corners, despite what the rider wanted, and despite what the rest of the line was doing. But mostly, school horses know their jobs, and we were taught to get them back in line with more emphatic use of the aids. They would almost always acquiesce in gentlemanly fashion, as if it had been a little quiz all along, and the horse was now satisfied that rider was paying attention and knew what she was doing.
I knew that a private lesson presented a rider like myself with new challenges, but I hadn’t quite thought of it that way before. I can literally aid my horse by correctly using my weight, my legs, my hands, and my voice. Likewise, he helps me out, relieving me of much of my responsibility for telling him which direction I want him to go. Because mainly, as a student-rider at my level in group lessons, I want him to follow the horse in front of him, in the ring or on the trail. A horse’s instinct to stay with the herd, coupled with the reinforcement of training, keeps the line moving, most of the time, at the desired speed and in the desired direction. Isn’t that what the others aids do?
(flickr.com/RyC Behind The Lense)
This is not a takedown of group lessons. Far from it. I wouldn’t have started riding if I hadn’t found an accessible, affordable means of starting lessons. I’ve loved (and learned from) watching fellow riders, at my level and above, working on their skills, however basic or advanced. I admire each of the instructors I’ve worked with for their patience and their knowledge. I’ve enjoyed the human camaraderie of the group, too. And I intend to continue. But I now realize that to continue to grow as a rider, I’ll need to set the “fifth aid” aside and make sure that my horse is following my directions—not just the rump of the horse ahead of him in line. I’m calling the stable to book another lesson now.
Thanks to all the instructors and all the school horses who have taught me so much.
About the Author
Cynthia Chris is a college professor and author of Watching Wildlife.
