Last Friday, I typed the following paragraphs into a naked Google document:
The first time I fell off a horse was in an outdoor arena in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. I was eight or nine. It was my first time ever riding outside, and I truly couldn’t bear the excitement. However, I wasn’t on Cutie, my regular lesson horse, that day. I was on some bay gelding instead. But he seemed amicable enough.
We circled the arena at a walk just fine. But when the young woman leading the lesson asked us to trot, the gelding threw his head up and tossed me. I had never fallen off before, and didn’t know I was supposed to roll out of the way. My helmeted head ended up underneath the belly of the horse, and I saw his hind hoof pass over my face with blue sky behind it, coming down just inches from my skull.
I just almost died, I thought. I burst into tears.
“This is the wrong bridle; we’re using the wrong bit for this horse,” I heard the instructor say. It wasn’t me; the horse was trying to run from the incorrect bit’s pressure and removed me from its back in the process. I felt so bad. I didn’t mean to hurt the horse. I didn’t want to fall off; how embarrassing. Embarrassing to cry on a step stool in the center of the arena while my friends trotted in a circle around me.
I don’t remember if I got back on that day or not. I don’t think I did. Either way, I remember walking the gelding back to the barn when the group lesson was complete.
The second time I fell off a horse was in the Appalachian mountains near the Maryland-Pennsylvania border. My uncle’s ex-girlfriend knew I loved horses and wanted to take me on a trail ride. My brothers and I called her Aunt Lumpy, but her real name is Lindsay and she isn’t lumpy by any means. She’s gorgeous, actually.
Shortly after the trail ride began, we had to cross a wide, shallow river. I’m sure the gray dude horse I was on had crossed in that exact location many, many times, but today was different. The horse spooked on the riverbank, swiveled on its hind legs, and bolted into the trees. Hanging sideways off the saddle, I gripped on for dear life as we ran past the pointy remains of recently cut saplings. The sharp, slender stumps could pierce through my ribcage, no doubt. I held onto the saddle horn, my left foot barely in the stirrup, until we cleared of the stumps and I could fall into soft, tall grass. As soon as I was off, the horse halted. I spoke calmly to it, taking the fallen reins in my hands loosely and walking back to the group.
“Where did you go? Why aren’t you on your horse?” said our trail guide. My horse spooked, it ran down there but I got off safely and walked it back, I explained. I remember her looking a bit bewildered, perhaps disappointed that she didn’t notice her client’s horse spooked and, even worse, her client was an underage child. I think her look also told me she was in disbelief that I had gathered up the horse and was unafraid to get back on. I didn’t know what had happened, but I didn’t get the sense that the problem was me. We continued on the trail ride as if nothing occurred.
Since I’ve started this day riding gig, I haven’t fallen off once.
Apparently, the universe took that as a challenge. The next day, I fell off for the third time. Since I already intended to make the day prior’s words into a Substack post, I cranked my sore neck upright and made an edit:
I haven’t fallen off onceI’ve only fallen off once: yesterday.
Here’s how it went.