THE REAL MANE EVENT

Every summer, as August burns itself out and Labor Day looms like a threat to linen pants everywhere, the Hamptons Classic Horse Show gallops into Bridgehampton—and with it comes an elite stampede of high-society posers, passive-aggressive riders, champagne-sipping nouveau snobs, and a parade of influencers who wouldn’t know a fetlock from a French manicure.

Some may say the Classic is one of the most prestigious horse shows in the country. Many would not and most wouldn’t know the difference. In reality, it’s less about horses and more about who’s seen pretending to care about horses. Behind every grand prix jump and Hermes saddle pad is someone angling for a photo op. It’s where horsemanship takes a backseat to handbag placement.

The vibe? Imagine a Ralph Lauren ad gone feral. The tents are pristine, the hooves are polished, and the social climbing is Olympic level. Women totter around the VIP tent in 6-inch heels (a brave but foolish choice on turf), clutching flutes of rosé while pretending to know who’s riding in the amateur jumper classic. Spoiler: they don’t. They’re just here to say they were here.

Inside the VIP tent—that holy grail of social validation—is a spectacle of its own. It’s guarded more tightly than a Manhattan doorman’s feelings, and the only way in is to be rich, adjacent to rich, or really good at pretending you’re both. Inside, the overflowered tables look more like a hostage situation staged by the entire floral department of Versailles. The food is catered by someone with a Michelin star and never very good, and the seating chart is designed with the precision of military strategy. Heaven help you if you end up at a table behind a tent support pole—that’s social Siberia.

Typical overheard conversations are full of one-liner banter made for Park Avenue:

• “Let’s do brunch at Pierre’s—I’m so over Nick & Toni’s since they started letting in people from Westhampton.”
• “We’re heading back by chopper—traffic on the LIE is for civilians.”
• “The rosé’s warm. Who catered?”
• “We skipped the beach yesterday—Chloe’s aura reader said the tide was emotionally volatile.”
• “I told the staff no more hydrangeas next year. It’s giving ‘2007 hedge fund wife’ vibes.”
• “We did Dry July... except for Sundays. And Saturdays. And, well, you know.”
• “...spoke to Randall, he said Brad's fund is cratering, yet Brad is still using NetJets.”

If you squint past the aviator sunglasses and Botox, you’ll spot a few actual horse people. The riders? Many are brilliant athletes. But not all. The junior divisions are teeming with nepo-riders—trust fund teens with personal grooms and imported ponies named after designer labels. These kids have never mucked a stall, but their Instagram captions will say “hard work pays off.” Hard work, in this case, being defined as not spilling your iced matcha before the schooling ring.

Parents are worse. Clutching double-shot lattes and seething with thinly veiled competitiveness, they scan class lists like they’re Wall Street tickers. Whispered insults fly faster than a hunter round:

• “Did you hear her dad bought the horse for $130K?”
• “She’s still in the 3’3”?”
• “I mean, she’s sweet, but not Classic quality.”

The brand peacocking is next-level. Gucci belt buckles the size of dinner plates. Chanel riding boots worn by people who have never actually ridden. And then there’s the perennial favorite: the woman in head-to-toe ‘Collection’, walking through the stable aisle as though manure doesn’t dare stick to her soles. Selfies abound.

Influencers descend on the Classic like moths to a ring light. Armed with DSLRs, drones, and desperation, they strike carefully curated poses in front of show jumps they’ve never jumped, pat horses they’re terrified of, and wearing more gold bangles than a Bollywood backup dancer at a bachelorette party in Dubai. Their content? Filtered, sponsored, and entirely fabricated. “a perfect day ringside at #TheClassic,” they’ll caption, as if they weren’t whining about the heat and the Wi-Fi five minutes prior.

Then there’s the sponsors. They’re not really here for the sport—they’re here to sell luxury watches, Range Rovers, and wrinkle cream to an audience willing to drop $1,800 on a cashmere throw for their dog. A pop-up tent for a five-figure mattress sits next to a booth selling diamond-studded stirrup leathers. Nothing says elite horsemanship like Browse spa packages while someone flies over a triple oxer in the background.

Amid the façade, there are a few authentic equestrians—gritty, horse-obsessed folks who came to compete, not pose. You’ll find them in the back rings, double-checking tack, wearing sun-streaked polos and not caring one ounce about being seen. But their presence is muted, overshadowed by the circus in stilettos happening under the VIP tent.

By Sunday’s grand finale—the Grand Prix—the show is more theater than sport. The champagne is flat, the tan lines are crisp, and half the crowd has already left for the City. The ones that remain applaud politely, not entirely sure what they’re clapping for.

So here’s to the Hamptons Classic: a majestic blend of actual sport and relentless performance art. It’s not just a horse show—it’s the stage where society’s fakest clip-clop in designer heels and the real horsemen try to ignore the din.

As the last ribbon is pinned and the tents come down, everyone heads for Blade or Heliflite, already plotting next year’s outfits. The snobs will brag they were “in the loop,” and somewhere, a tired groom will finally get to eat lunch. Beneath the glam and gloss, The Classic remains what it’s always been: a horse show. Just one with a very dramatic supporting cast.

Benson Reid is a writer and former Grand Prix competitor, living in western Virginia. He attended the Hamptons Classic twice in his life. Once as a young groom, and again as a guest in the VIP tent. He enjoyed it more as a groom.