"the start box"

Early morning, quiet except for the munching sounds: animal jaws closing around mouthfuls of sweet hay, stamping little rhythms on the bed of shavings beneath their feet. A low nicker, the scattered sound of grain splattering into the bottom of a bucket.

Then, an hour later in the start box: the slap of leather after triple-checking the girth. The familiar clink of spurs on the stirrup irons. Puffs of air from the horse's nostrils, air condensing into a fog. A whoosh and a snort, steady. The beating of your heart in your own ears.

"Five, four, three, two, one..." the start box attendant says, and at once the sound of hooves on the grass take over, and then the sound of your own breath -- all you hear is hooves and heartbeat and shaky sharp inhales and exhales.

Then the first jump: all sound suspends in the space in the air above the jump that you occupy. You hold your breath, the horse holds his hooves in mid-air and the silence is like all your sounds rushed out of your ears until the landing, when they all rush in again.