This might just be a blast from the past, or may still be true for small one-day events. Nowadays, the commentators – yes, there are now relays of them - seem to be co-located with Control and to be aided by or be totally reliant on a wonderful system of named pegs in boards representing horses at fences. Dear me! Yet it can be effectively done single-handed; then the adrenaline rush for the commentator comes neither from spectator reaction nor from the speechless admiration of Control but from the need for absolute and total concentration.
This is an account of an exhilarating one-day event at Tweseldown in Hampshire. Perhaps slightly lonely, however far less so and without the many dangers that a single-handed yachtswoman (or man) experiences. Like them, I know I can’t leave my post, can’t dash back to the car – so everything I might need has to be brought up to the top of the tower at the beginning of the day.
The ever-efficient Secretary to the event has already posted me a copy of the programme; the list of fences has already been read, my timings scheduled and the riders reviewed to see how many I recognise.
My choice of clothes will depend on the time of year (usually Spring or Autumn), unwanted layers can always be stripped. The tower is known to be dry but unheated, so I bring extra layers in case. Stout boots are necessary for walking the Course, probably the Barbour and an old tweed cap for fitting in with the ambiance.
I make a hot thermos of strong black coffee, plus some sandwiches for emergencies and bring those out to the car. Already there are my faithful 12x50 field-glasses and a box of “Nigroids” in case I get hoarse (no pun intended!).
On arrival at Tweseldown I check with the Secretary for last-minute instructions or paperwork, then go up the tower to dump my stuff and test the PA equipment.
Now it’s time to walk the course, as I like to have better knowledge of the fences than the view through my field-glasses. Other advantages are that I immediately locate the Control caravan and that I can check sightlines to the tower from each of the fences. I pay particular attention to those fences which will be hidden from me so as to guess how long the riders will be out of my sight. It’s too early for most of the fence judges to be in position, no worries as I’ll have a telephone to those at the “hidden” fences. Many of the riders are also walking the course and I enjoy hearing them discussing the fences.
This course is three miles long and has thirty fences, four of which are out of my view; there will usually be five horses on the course at any one time. For each of those horses my task is to say when they started, what they did at as many fences as possible and when they finished. Simple.
Back in the tower there are some announcements to be made reminding competitors and timings; I also spend a while familiarising myself with those fences which I can see from the tower and setting the focus of my field-glasses.
Now is the time to complete the preparation of my information feeds and to test that my telephones work. From each of them I ring the fence judge and say this is the last time they will hear my voice on the telephone until everything’s over – and tell them not to bother to say hello or goodbye whenever they call me, all I then want to hear is the fence number, the horse number and the result; I will not reply as I will be too busy on the big picture.
My worktable has the telephones, a map of the course, a copy of the programme (gives riders & horses in numerical order – if I get a chance), clipboard loaded with squared paper (gives me a sense of order) and my thermos of coffee. As starting time approaches I make the welcome announcement and briefly describe the course, and then watch Control to see which number starts first.
As the first horse starts I write its number down however it does get star treatment: number, name, rider anything else that seems interesting and progress it “safely over” the first five fences or so – all the time I’m watching for the second horse to start. More or less the same for the second horse, now I’ve got two on the course & am watching out for the third horse to start. The telephone from the first of the hidden fences rings, I listen without interrupting my commentary and then smoothly incorporate that information into my commentary …
And so the activity level builds up until I’m saying that the first horse has completed the course (crossing it off my sheet), listening to a telephone, probably watching for the seventh horse to start, and reporting the progress of the other five all at the same time.
The pattern has now reached steady-state (a misnomer for something so alive and fast-moving) and will stay at this intensity for most of the day. This is an adrenaline-drenched landscape: each of those rider-horse combinations are giving their all, their families and friends want up-to-the-minute news of their progress, each deserves a commentary over every fence. See what I meant about the need for my absolute and total concentration?
From now on horses and riders are mainly shortened to numbers in my commentary, so are many fences. Some riders may overtake others and so will reappear in an unexpected order. One or two riders may retire and walk home. Hopefully there’ll be no calls for the ambulance or loose horses; if there are then I’ll need to change my tone to a suitable mixture of reassurance and urgency. One or two may retire and walk home.
Only after the final competitor has completed the course can I come down from the high (literally as well), think of other things, ring the hidden jump judges to thank them for their brevity, then check with Control that that is that. Finally, to relax, be at the prize-giving and then enjoy a quiet drink and chat with the ever-helpful fence judges and others.
I’m both emotionally drained and happy, sorry I couldn’t see the dressage and show-jumping phases of the event, hope I’ll be invited back next year.
© 2006, Roy Law.
