One thing we all know to be true across the many disciplines of equestrian sports: riding horses asks every equestrian to adapt. But, for riders with disabilities, adaptation isn't an asterisk to our training—it is the training. In fact, the labor and process of adaptation starts long before we step into the ring, and trust me, it demands the same precision, creativity and hyper-awareness that has become known to define any great horseman.
Adaptive riding at a professional level isn't a simplified version of the sport—it's an intensified one.
-Lauren Reischel
The Process of Preparing for the Ride
When I start my daily process at the barn, after I tack my horse up, I then have to tack myself up. I wear custom orthotic braces that are fixed into a 45-degree, heels-down position, which are not particularly comfortable, so I wait to put them on until I’m about to mount my horse. First, I fix the straps of the orthotics tightly over my breeches. Then I wiggle my braced foot into my tall boots, which are 2.5 sizes too big for my natural foot (to accommodate the brace). Finally, I then finesse the zipper up. After my braces are on, I reach for the newest addition to my tack trunk, my Helite air vest, and buckle myself in. Even though my braces are uncomfortable, without them, I cannot put my heels down on my own whatsoever, nor keep my feet stable in the stirrups.
Even before my ride begins, the logistics of access demand their own kind of strategy. Simple tasks like tacking up can take me double the amount of time it takes another rider, or frankly, may require someone else to help or do it for me altogether. For example, carrying a saddle from the tack room down the barn aisle to the crossties isn't doable for me, and I don’t have the balance to wrestle a horse’s head down to bridle if he decides not to cooperate.
Mounting is probably the hardest part of my riding routine--I don't have enough flexibility in my legs to swing my leg over the horse on my own. So, I climb up on my extra-tall, extra-wide mounting block, place my left foot in the stirrup and then I require another person to help push my right leg over the cantle so I can land softly in the saddle. This step in the process can tell me everything I know about that ride: How easily my leg can clear the back of the horse usually tells me everything about what kind of ride I’m about to have.
Riding with CP
The main "symptom" that I deal with as someone with Cerebral Palsy is stiffness. To put it simply: my body feels like a plank of wood. The hardest thing for my body to do is to manipulate and move each limb and joint independently. My body naturally moves like a single unit. For example, if I put my hands forward and reach for the mane, my whole body leans with them. When my body leans forward, my lower leg slides back. Here’s another example: when my body rises out of the saddle during the posting trot, my arms and hands tend to rise up with the rest of me.
When I first get on, my first few laps at the walk are diagnostic. I assess how my body feels:
- How tight are my hip flexors
- How stable my core feels
- Will my right leg (which is slightly weaker) cooperate on the flat?
- Then, I check my stirrups: is my right stirrup too short, or is my leg just tight?
- I wiggle my pelvis around in the saddle: am I sitting in the middle of my saddle? Are my knees sitting comfortably against the knee rolls?
None of these details will ever show up on a judge's card, but they're the foundation for everything that happens once I pick up my reins.
What is Adaptive Riding?
Adaptive riding at a professional level isn’t a simplified version of the sport—it’s an intensified one. The same principles of balance, rhythm and straightness still apply, but they live in a far more complex physiological ecosystem.
How do I adapt? Some examples include:
- If my right leg is feeling extra stiff, my horse may start leg-yielding off the rail (or drift off my straight-line approach to a fence) due to the added pressure he feels. My left leg may not react quickly or firmly enough to correct the drift, and I immediately need to compensate with my voice or seat to keep my horse in front of me.
- If I were to miss a fence and lose my balance, my muscle tone spikes, and every joint clamps up. I need to soften my lower back and elbows and literally breathe away the stiffness before it travels down the rein or I get stuck with my legs straight out in front of me.
- Throughout my ride, I am constantly editing my aids and calibrating what my body can do against what signals my horse needs in a given moment.
This process is invisible to most people watching from the rail. It should be—that's the point, isn't it? The best rides look seamless. But what's hidden is the depth of technical knowledge and self-awareness required to make it look that way.
Part two of Lauren's blog talks about the mental load of adaptive riding.
You can read her first Tough1 blog: POV of a Disabled Rider: Partnership, Pride and Breaking Barriers in the Saddle
