Saddle Old Bag

If you fall off a horse, it's important to get right back on. Luckily, I did not fall off the horse, so I never have to get back on again.

Not that it wasn't fun. And when I say that, I am not even referring to the steady back and forth rocking motion that had me daydreaming about putting a big leather saddle on my road bike to maybe make those long summer spins a bit more palatable. Nope, I have not even given that saddle heel a second thought.

Truth be told, almost everything about the horseback riding adventure was fun. It was a gorgeous spring day -- a bit crisp, but sunny, the skeletal, still leafless trees offering spectacular unobstructed views of the cloudless blue sky. The heavy blanket of winter snow had been kicked away, leaving in its wake endless stretches of robust green grass. It was a Wisconsin I had not even known to exist, with miles of glacial dips and rises overshadowing whatever fast food joints and tacky cheese shops were no doubt peppering the surrounding landscape.

When I had made the mistake of telling my mother that morning I would be horseback riding, she felt compelled to send me a screaming text reminder that I am fifty-five years old and should not be doing such things. As I did when I went scuba diving six months ago, I promised her I would just go along and watch. Back then I really believed that's what I would do, so technically it wasn't a lie. But horseback riding? How hard could it be.

Like the goody two shoes teacher's pet I always had been as a child, I listened intently to every instruction offered by my guide, who drew the short straw and had to spend most of the half day ride right behind me and pretending to be entertained by my life story. He kept marveling at how comfortable and completely at ease I looked up there. Yes, I felt comfortable and at ease -- except for the first time my horse started to trot without warning me -- but it took me a while to share with my new mentor my deep feelings for the saddle.

My comfort level was so great, in fact, that I stuck around with the more daring members of our group so I could take things to the next level and experiment with a fast trot. At fifty-five, I am a veteran jiggler, but all those years of gravity and increasing inelasticity couldn't possibly have prepared me for the exhilarating but jarring grand finale. My helmet (no, mom, I did not decline the helmet) began to pop up and down as if it had been propped upon my head with a Slinky. Internally, I could tell things were shifting, although a touch of fear helped keep the pain at bay. My guide assured me I would feel it in two days. Obviously he didn't know what good shape I'm in.

Well, not so much. It's been two days, and I feel as if my floating ribs have somehow floated to a different location, along with the rest of my bones and muscles and organs. I am walking like a drunken sailor and, even though I left the helmet behind in Wisconsin, the Slinky stayed with me. Now it seems to be all that is left to hold my head in place on my neck.

I did not fall off the horse, and so I do not have to get back on. But I hope I will soon. As soon as all the bones and muscles and organs float back to where they began.