By Carol F. Lippa, M.D.
What I remember most is the rain. It fell in sheets, soaking through my shadbelly, and running down Bob’s neck. At seventy, drenched and struggling to see through the water, Bob and I rode down the final centerline, halted at X, and saluted. For a moment, everything seemed still: the judge’s booth, the rain, and the long road behind us. When the judge returned the salute, ten years of work came to a close—not perfectly, but with a feeling of deep satisfaction.
Like many amateurs, I wanted our journey to follow a plan. I believed that with enough research, asking the right questions, and disciplined standards, I could choose the right horse and take a logical path to Grand Prix.
Ten years earlier, I flew to Germany with my spreadsheet and vowed not to buy a horse if more than one performance criterion went unmet. For three days, I rode one horse after another, balancing hope with practicality. Some were impressive, some were kind, and some were clearly not right for me.
Then, north of Düsseldorf, I met a horse they called Bobby. His calm temperament and athletic promise stood out immediately. He checked every box, but more importantly, he felt like a horse I could trust. My trainer, who worked with an elite German dressage rider, reviewed the videos and supported the purchase. Now, he needed a name.
His sire is Bellissimo M, so a name beginning with B felt right. “Bella” means beautiful, but on its own, seemed too soft. He needed something stronger. From behind me, someone suggested, “How about Mondo? It means ‘world.’” I closed my eyes and saw it: Bella Mondo, beautiful world. He would be Bobby for short. With a name decided, the dream took shape.
Once back in the United States, our ultimate goal was clear: Grand Prix. I imagined steady progress, one level at a time, with each milestone being neatly checked off. A reality check arrived posthaste. Bob, a young warmblood, faced a new environment, routine, and partnership with an amateur rider still learning how to bring out his best.
With my trainer’s guidance, we stepped back to rebuild the basics: rhythm, suppleness, contact, and straightness. Six months later, Bob and I entered the sandbox at First Level, and earned 64% from a tough judge. It was not a spectacular score, but it mattered. Our foundation was taking shape, and I began to understand that the road to Grand Prix would not be straight.
As we advanced, the work became more demanding and precise. At Third Level, we qualified for the US Dressage Finals presented by Adequan®, where our freestyle earned us fourth place in a competitive Championship class—an unexpected thrill.
The climb to the FEI levels required sharper focus, so I adjusted my work schedule to spend more time riding and studying the details that separate a good test from a mediocre one. The tempis tested our timing and straightness; the pirouettes demanded collection, balance, and Bob’s power. Each new movement showed what we still needed to improve, and each improvement required me to become a better rider.
Then our luck changed. I woke up one night in a trauma ICU, learning I had been struck by a hit-and-run driver. The accident kept me bedridden for six months, and left me with permanent double vision and impaired balance. I missed Bob terribly and did not know whether I would ever ride again.
With the help of a steady horse, I began again on a lead line, slowly rebuilding my skills and confidence, even as COVID-19 shutdowns further delayed progress. A year later, Bob and I returned to work together. He tolerated my clumsiness and difficulty steering to the correct letters, and gradually we improved.
It was time to move forward. Our next FEI challenge was learning piaffe and passage together. These are movements that require strength, timing, and an almost invisible conversation between horse and rider. With both of us still developing, and with my double vision and balance issues, the work demanded focus, patience, and applied biomechanics. I had to think differently about my body: where my weight was, how quickly I could respond, how much support Bob needed, and how little pressure was sometimes enough.
Then, a second accident fractured my femur and hip. The orthopedist gave me a 50% chance of walking with assistance within a year. I knew I would be walking and riding in a few months. My greatest worry was Bob. He had witnessed the accident, and during hospitalization and rehabilitation, I wondered if he understood my sudden disappearance.
Months later, when I approached his stall with a walker, he recognized me immediately and pressed his head against my chest. That reunion deepened our partnership in a way no score ever could.
Returning to the saddle this time required a new physical strategy. My right side was shorter, weaker, and slower than my left, and my right core lacked stability. I could no longer assume my body would deliver the aids I intended to give. Step by step, we rebuilt the Grand Prix framework.
Some days brought real progress; others reminded me how much my body had changed. Bob had to understand asymmetrical aids, and I had to learn how to support him without interfering. We were learning to adapt together.
Nine years after my fateful visit to Düsseldorf, we entered the ring and traveled down centerline at the highest level of our sport, earning our first Grand Prix score together.
The final qualifying score for my USDF Gold Medal proved harder to secure.
At the next show, we “won the warm-up,” but our performance in the sandbox fell short. A low score and blunt judge’s comments made it clear that we needed to return to the basics. We withdrew from competition for six months to rebuild our training, improve reliability, and ensure Bob felt confident in the Grand Prix work.
When we returned, rain poured down. We scored a solid 62.5%, won our class, and earned our second qualifying score for my Gold Medal. At seventy, standing in a rain jacket with my hand on the neck of the horse who had carried me through trauma, broken bones, uncertainty, and rebuilding, the win felt symbolic.
The true triumph was fulfilling our decade-long vision. I had crossed an ocean to find Bob, helped him adjust to a new world, overcome my injuries, and trained with him to reach our goal. It is a beautiful world.
