July 18, 2025 
“How do you get all these quotes?” I ask my editor, who I know is sipping coffee with a view of a rocky shore, a place where the blue of the sky exactly matches the blue of the water and isn’t anywhere near an equestrian facility.
I had just read an article, a beautiful thing, not written by me (of course), the text interlaced with words of riders forming a tapestry like a fine lace, as if the author were onsite, not far away, as if the author had a direct, almost psychic connection with the protagonists of our sport.
Press conferences, streamed online, were described to me, as well as press releases, official articles from the FEI website, and a pattern of online “creeping” that was, in many cases, more effective than being there.
I was skeptical. “Oh well,” I said. “I’ve always preferred my own voice to anyone else’s. Who needs quotes?”
And that’s where I left it, satisfied with my own ridiculous ramblings, until, mere hours later, I found Olympic Gold Medalist Christian Kukuk on Instagram spouting off like a poet of pessimism on his less-than-perfect round during Day 2 of the European Championships in A Coruña, Spain.
“I would honestly like to forget about it immediately,” he spoke to the reporter outside the ring at Casas Novas. “It was really embarrassing.”
So used as I am to tuning out riders, this being, for me as an owner, both a professional necessity and a well-worn habit, I hardly think to listen when they speak. And when they do speak, it is usually in grunts or else to say the same things over and over: “Thanks to the show organizers,” “The course was great,” “Buy me horses.”
Rarely do I feel that a rider’s monologue matches my own inner one, if not in substance, in tone—riders, in general, are a self-satisfied bunch.
Owners, like me, are not—and writers even less so. It is a constant interior barrage.
“I really cannot remember when I rode such a bad round the last time,” Kukuk continued. “I’m nearly a little bit speechless—I had a really bad blackout I have to say. It’s absolutely a miracle that the horse jumped a clear round. I don’t know how that is possible honestly.”
Kukuk’s disappointment came after a day of only clear rounds for the German team, a convincing team performance that obscured any less-than-perfect riding. But that doesn’t mean he was satisfied. Who is, ever? Definitely not me.
“The clear round for the team is the best we can take out of this round honestly. I hope that she didn’t lose too much of her trust in me for tomorrow.”
This part touches me. The trust the horses put in all of us, the trust they are forced to put in us, because what other choice do they have?
“We definitely will try again tomorrow and fight again and I will hope I will give her a better ride tomorrow.”
What happened?
“It’s hard to explain. I honestly lost my focus, my concentration. After number 3 in the turn to number 4 I suddenly saw a distance which wasn’t there and then I saw a distance which wasn’t there to the water and then again to number 6 and then I kind of organized everything a little bit but—ugh!”
I review the round, and I see his point. The commentator, not prone to in-depth analysis, simply says, as Kukuk misjudges his distances, “Oooo. This is looking quite exciting.”
“The worst round I can imagine, honestly, in the last years and like I said, I would like to forget about it.”
Ok, let’s do that. But let’s not forget that we can all take the time for a bit of self-criticism. We can all become subsumed by self-loathing. We can all decide that we hate ourselves passionately and that everything we do is, ultimately, totally fucked up.
I’m not saying it’s healthy, I’m just saying it’s accurate. There’s way more to life than thanking the show organizers!
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