A Silver Lining
I left Mr. Hinnemann’s suddenly on a Monday evening last month. This is the true story of how it happened.
The day before I left was a day like every other, not notable in any way, except for two details. The first was that it was a Sunday. On Sundays the stable is half-staffed, which is brilliant when it’s my day off. But that day I was working – and half the staff means twice the work. When my alarm went off that morning my room was lit only by the few stars I could see through my skylight. Dawn would break, unseen by me, usually around the time I finished my sixteenth stall of the morning. I would not have breakfast until I had mucked out ten more stalls, put in fresh straw, swept the barn aisles, and swept the driveway.
The second event irritated and troubled me enough to note it down later.
Around the time I started my twentieth stall Mr. Hinnemann wandered out, dressed in a conservative dark suit, with polished black leather shoes, and made his way through the courtyard to his Audi. I had been up already for almost two hours, but my arms and shoulders were used to the work by now and I felt fresh. With every day and every week, I told myself “stay positive, this will be when you finally start getting some more help”. I called out to my boss “good morning”. He looked at me, we made eye contact. And then he turned his fashionably clothed back to me and got into his new car. As he shut the door I thought I heard a reluctant “morgen” before he drove off, but maybe I was just giving him the benefit of the doubt. As his car wound its way along the tree-lined drive out to the road, I stood still in the doorway of the barn, pitchfork in one hand, staring after him in disbelief.
What bothered me was not that this was a surprise, but that this was the norm. I was not happy there, and though I tried to hide it, I knew it was only a matter of time before the establishment and I came to heads.
The rest of the day passed quietly, but monotonously, as did most of the following day. It wasn’t until Monday afternoon that my suspicions were confirmed. Mr. Hinnemann, his secretary, and his head rider were having a meeting in his glass fronted office that overlooked the indoor. I was riding a young horse, and I was taking plenty of walk breaks, I could see everything that happened. They were talking earnestly, hardly bothering to look into the indoor arena at all. Mr. Hinnemann glanced my way a couple times, but the other two studiously avoided looking at me at all. When they summoned me into the office after work I was not surprised.
For the last three weeks my motivation to work, without help or payment of any kind, was quickly reaching abysmal depths. I was not there to volunteer my time for the charity of Mr. Hinnemann and his manor; rather I was there to learn, and in exchange to work for him. Well, it wasn’t going to work out, that much was obvious. I anticipated some sort of discussion, (dialogue, argument?) about my role there. Before I went to the meeting I took some time to organize my thoughts and put some of them on paper. This is what I wrote: “…I think I will have to quit. It’s all I can think about. I am going crazy here. Every minute of every day I think about leaving. Right now my motivation is so low…”.
The meeting I realized, but was not shocked to see, would be conducted without Mr. Hinnemann in attendance. I am sure that he had more important matters to attend to. There was just me, Mr. Hinnemann’s secretary, and the head bereiter. The whole meeting lasted less time than it takes me to clean a stall, and with me talking just about as much. There would be no preamble, instead Julia (the secretary) just jumped right in, like a knight into battle. She seemed to take no small amount of pleasure in telling me I was not good enough to be there and that I wasn’t improving. “This is a professional stable” was what she wanted me to understand. And just to make her point crystal clear she added: “we can’t leave you alone on a horse for five minutes. …It would be better if you left”. Then she magnanimously offered me the chance to work till the end of the week if I so chose.
I left within two hours. Only taking time to pack (not much stuff really), arrange a place to stay (with a friend in Holland), and say goodbye to a couple friends. I left disheartened and disillusioned, in the dark, on a train, with not really much of an idea what I was going to do. I had stayed for ten weeks out of stubbornness and a desire to see my plans through. And now I was leaving early and not on good terms – my plan and my story seemed prematurely over. Ironically my exodus has proven to be the most important chapter of my stay so far.
It was only because of my unexpected exit that two weeks later I found myself working for Ingrid Klimke. I think it is not uncommon that the most traumatic event will bring about the greatest transformation. And like a colt being weaned from his mother, I was forced to find a new pasture for myself in the big, big world. Ingrid’s stable was what I had been unknowingly seeking all along: a chance to learn in a positive atmosphere that encourages questions and independence rather than blind obedience and anxiety, a stable that builds professionalism and self-confidence and fosters loyalty.
Ingrid is living and working in Muenster, Westfalia, a region I have come to appreciate for its good beer and great horses. On weekends in the summer there are often ten horseshows all within 100km of the city. And apparently there is no sacrifice of quality for quantity. (Of course the same goes for the beer.)
Ingrid has everything that I would look for in a trainer: the best classical knowledge available, passed on to her from her dad; a deep compassion and understanding of the horse, courtesy of a childhood and adolescence caring and riding all manner of horses and ponies; respect from her peers for her dedication to horses, and her open honest manner with people; and experience in dressage and eventing, including three Olympic Games and one Olympic gold. But most of all Ingrid really enjoys riding, and she spreads that enthusiasm like confetti in the wind. I can see it every time she is on a horse: her concentration and focus is matched only by her exuberance and smile.
On my second weekend in Muenster Ingrid went to a “really, really important and prestigious” dressage show (so says my roommate, dressage enthusiast and fellow Canadian, Eiren Crawford). Well, everyone thought it was a big deal, and she ended up second to Isabelle Werth (also a big deal). What impressed me though was a little footnote of the show that was not printed in the official results.
In the evening, the night before the show, Ingrid was out working Damon Hill, her top stallion, when she overheard some grooms casually berating the inability (or lack of opportunity) of dressage horses to jump. Well that was too much for her. She had to put them right. “My horse can jump” she told them. The grooms knew Ingrid, and were excited to see where this might lead. They eagerly – although somewhat nervously, considering the surroundings – challenged her to jump a bale of hay. “One bale” she replied with dignified scorn, as if that was not worth her time, “put out two”. (I love it! Euro-dressage trash-talking!) Well the grooms’ excitement did not go unrewarded; Damon Hill cleared it with ease. And then the duo, who were now attracting a crowd, jumped it the other way as well. The grooms were eating a little humble pie.
But it gets better!
A drunk guy (I’m not sure where he came from, or what role he had at the horseshow) appeared and in a tipsy German drawl asked if she could jump him as well if he lay on the bales of hay. (I’m also not sure if he was joking or not. And maybe he was not sure either). But Ingrid, who was feeling pretty confident at this point, said it was no problem. There was nothing skittish about Damon Hill as he boldly approached the makeshift jump. Drunk guy was surprisingly still as they easily jumped over him and landed lightly on the other side.
But Ingrid is not all guts’n’glory, rather that is a side that only complements her very serious work ethic. In her day to day training she is a relentless perfectionist, and she carefully plans every day of every week. She is structured yet flexible. She writes her goals in concrete and her plans in sand. She is careful to surround herself with competent and enthusiastic help. And she carefully keeps the number of horses at her stable to a manageable number, between ten and fifteen, so that she can ride every horse there and see to it that they are receiving the highest possible standard of care and training.
On my first day there I rode five horses. I think this was more a chance for Ingrid to evaluate my riding than a compliment to my ability. Nevertheless I did not let that deter me from relishing in the chance to ride such athletic and competition-proven horses. My last ride of the day was on FRH Butt’s Abraxxis, her eleven year old Hannovarian that had been her mount in Hong Kong. Braxxi and Ingrid placed 5th individually and also won team gold. This is surely the most accomplished horse I have ever ridden, and I was flattered that I got the chance to ride him twice more that first week.
I have another two weeks at Ingrid’s stable before I leave Germany for good. I am learning more here than I thought possible. At times I am still upset with myself for not being able to make my stay at Mr. Hinnemann’s more successful and productive, but as Eiren says “it is his failure as a teacher, just as much as it is yours as a student, that you were not learning and enjoying riding”.
While talking with Ingrid the other day she asked what my plans for the future were. I told her that I was planning on going to the O’Connors in Florida next, and from there, if possible, to find a top show-jumper to train with. I told her who my first choice would be, and to my surprise she said that she might know an owner who could get me a job there. Ingrid Klimke was willing to vouch for me, and put my name forward to an internationally known rider. For me, that was a compliment that made all the anxiety of the past few months just disappear.
