It was bound to happen. I hadn't taken a tumble in over a year, and circumstances (or the gods) plotted my demise. Take a still fairly new horse, a sleep-deprived rider fighting a sinus infection, and a trial saddle; put them together; and voilà: the unscheduled dismount.
As tumbles go, it wasn't the worst I've had, but a sore right hip and several bruised ribs testify to the momentum with which I hit the ground. Sometimes, though, life impresses on one forcibly what should be learned in theory. I knew that Flynn, a highly-trained, former show horse, was sensitive to seat and posture; that is, I knew this in the abstract. Yesterday I learned the hard way that if you want to canter 20-meter circles, then you need to look in the direction of the circle, not the trotting poles and jumps on the other side of the arena. I looked at the jumps, and Flynn reacted with his usual quicksilver speed. Beau, by contrast, would have done a cost-benefit analysis of the situation and then decided whether it was worth his while to change direction at a leisurely, kick-along, pace. Sometimes I feel as though I've gone from a secondhand Toyota Corolla to a BMW roadster.
Three days later, at the behest of my husband, I dragged my sorry self to the doctor where an X-ray brought my fears to light. I've cracked the sixth rib on my right side. The doctor and radiologist were both incredulous that I wasn't in the ER immediately after the fall, howling with pain. Honestly, I'm a bit sore but hardly in agonizing discomfort. Mainly I'm pissed that I can't ride for 4 - 6 weeks, although I'm tempted to test the waters after 3 - 4 weeks. We'll see.