While the title of this piece is factual, it’s not completely accurate: I do have a broken rib, and it’s rib number seven. It is not, however, the seventh rib I’ve broken. Why the broken rib? The easy answer is that I got thrown from my horse. The slightly-less-easy answer is that it was my fault entirely.
If you’ve followed my column at all, over the years, you’ll know that I’ve been leasing a horse for quite some time, now. You’ll also know that I devoted a considerable amount of time training him to (A) be a good trail horse, and (B) stop being so bloody skittish. Honestly, if the wind blew in China, this horse would spook!
I’m pleased to say that Bit improved a great deal with all of that consistent training. What I learned three weeks ago, though, is that without continued consistent training, Bit backslides to his formerly spooky self. I learned this the hard way: as we were heading out for a ride, we passed a perfectly innocuous small boat lying upside-down in someone’s garden. The breeze caused a branch to scritch across the boat. When Bit heard that potentially horse-eating noise, he zigged a little too fast, causing me to zag right off his back. I landed badly and knew instantly that I’d broken a rib. Bugger!
Because I’m just as stubborn as my equine friend, I shook a finger at him and announced that we would be finishing the ride, broken rib be damned. The disappointed look on his face told me all I needed to know; he’d clearly been hoping that I would send him back to the pasture. The ride was not my best idea, though, and I paid for it by not being able to drive my car home from the stable; I was in too much pain to be able to shift gears.
Desperately, I rang the hubs, told him what had happened, and asked him to come and get me. I thought that I would be able to drive his lorry with little difficulty, only I realized, as I stood looking up at the driver’s seat, that there was no way I could hoist myself up into the vehicle. The hubs had to give me a heave-ho, after which he had to shift the thing into drive for me. At that point, tentatively, I drove the lorry home. Once we were both there, the hubs gave me a ticking off about possibly being “too old” for this riding business. Beg pardon? Old? Who are you calling old?!
It’s true that my bones seem to be breaking with startling regularity, these days, and it’s equally true that riding is a dangerous sport, but the Queen still rides, for heaven’s sake! If she can do it, then I certainly can, too! Or at least that was what I told the hubs.
The reason I claimed responsibility for being thrown from my horse is simple: I hadn’t kept up with his training. I hadn’t maintained a consistent riding schedule. I hadn’t taken his skittishness into account before I hopped into the saddle. It’s not Bit’s fault that he’s so skittish – he was born that way. It’s my fault for thinking that training we did four years ago, and haven’t regularly reinforced in the interim, would be sufficient to maintain a safe riding environment. Lesson learned, the hard way!
So while I continue to take things easy during my convalescence, I will also continue to think about getting back into some bomb-proofing training with my skittish steed. While one can never guarantee with 100% certainty that a horse will be completely safe, one can up her chances of staying in the saddle if she maintains a consistent training schedule.
Until next time, may you all stay safe and healthy!
