June 6, 2026 
Shall I start with a shameful confession? I have never attended the show at St. Gallen.
It would not be a shameful confession if I had never had occasion to attend it, but alas I have. And I did not. I made the choice to drive from Rome right past it to La Baule last summer during my journalistic coverage of the European summer circuit.
This was because I was told it is always raining.
“It is always raining at St. Gallen, don’t go.”
These were the words of a five-star groom of my acquaintance, so I did as he directed—I drove right past. Well, ok—I spent a week in Venice, Italy before the drive.
So imagine my surprise when I opened the livestream and saw an inviting green swathe of a field under a perfect sunny blue sky.
“Where’s the damn rain?” I asked angrily, filled with regret that I was not one of the spectators sitting on that bright-green berm that skirted the arena.
Here’s another shameful confession: I have a framed historical poster of the St. Gallen horse show—this same St. Gallen horse show—in my living room here in Wellington, Florida. I did not put it there. I bought the house with all its contents, which included this poster.
Idiot that I am, or was, I had no idea the significance of the poster until a Mr. Martin Fuchs came into my house (we were doing a horse deal) and said, “That’s my horse show!”
“Huh? What?” I had never even looked at the poster before, not with any comprehension. I simply ate off someone else’s plates using someone else’s forks while sitting on someone else’s couch under someone else’s framed poster of St. Gallen because, as I said, I bought the house fully furnished and was too fully busy to consider acquiring my own stuff. (The situation remains largely the same).
Fuchs was certain I had planted the poster to ensure the horse deal went through. I had no idea what he was talking about, where he was from, or really who he was—ignorance personified.
I have since moved into a slightly more knowledgeable place—at least I know who Fuchs is, but I apparently have maintained my ignorance about the beautiful, rain-free days at St. Gallen.
But let’s get to the competition: The Range Rover Nations Cup of Switzerland. Here are our ten countries: Austria, Belgium, Brazil, France, Germany, Great Britain, Ireland, Spain, USA, and, of course, the home country of Switzerland.
The first round eliminated France and Spain and put Belgium in the lead, followed by Great Britain in second, USA in third, and Switzerland in fourth, followed by Austria in fifth.
Switzerland, on home soil, was not going down without a fight.
Let us not forget the legendary Swiss pikeman, who, between the 14th and 16th centuries, were feared as the most ferocious mercenaries in all of Europe. Imagine those 20-foot pikes charging directly at you. Everyone else chose to hang back, using their pikes defensively, like a porcupine with his quills. Not so the Swiss, who pierced armor and determined the outcome of battles with their aggressive and revolutionary tactics.
Did I mention their philosophy of “take no prisoners”? What is a motivational motto in the modern age was an absolute commandment among the legendary pikemen. Extreme brutality used as psychological warfare.
The pope himself took notice, and decreed that only the Swiss would guard him in Vatican City, a tradition that continues to this day.
So from a 4th place first-round placing, the Swiss fought back. Fuchs returned with a zero score in round two after an 8-fault drop score in the first round. Jason Smith was one of only two double clears of the day. (The other was Katrina Rhomberg of Austria). Alain Jufer unfortunately scored the second-round drop score with 12 faults, and that left the last swiss rider, Steve Guerdat.
At this point, remote reporter that I am, I was driving in my car, bringing my cat to her vet appointment, probably breaking several different laws while trying to watch the livestream on my phone.
I found myself begging for the emotional satisfaction of a Swiss win. I found myself driving while Guerdat was riding, biting my fist. It was all up to Guerdat. Great Britain was on 9—they started round two on 6, Ben Maher scored an unfortunate 2 time faults, Adrian Whiteway 1, while Harry Charles, third rider to go, earned the drop score with 13.
All Guerdat needed to do was give a nice clear with Albfuehren’s Iashin Sitte for the Swiss to stay on 8 and win the day.
He crossed the finish clear, the commentator announced the win and then—everyone realized he had gained a time fault and put the Swiss even with the Brits at 9!
I was pounding the steering wheel, because we still had a British rider to go and—if he could go clear—we’d be in a jump off and who knows how that would turn out!
I was scared because it was a Whitaker.
Lucky for the Swiss, lucky for the hometown crowd, lucky for the girl driving her cat to the vet far away in Wellington, Florida, Jack Whitaker took down two rails and handed the win to the triumphant Swiss.
Meanwhile, Austria had fought back from 5th place to 2nd on the podium, and Great Britain held on for 3rd.
The camera flashed to the kiss-and-cry, bedecked with the red jackets of the Swiss equestrian team. The camera flashed to the crowd, cheering. The camera flashed to the warmup, where Ben Maher, in gentlemanly fashion, shook the hands of his rivals, the victorious Swiss!
