The first fall is an inevitable milestone for any serious rider. It’s something you try not to think about but you always know it is going to happen. It has to happen.
My first fall was off of a flea bitten gray horse named Cotton. Well, technically he was a pony since he fell just under 14.2 hands, but he was taller than me which made him a horse in my book. Now cute “little” Cotton had a secret habit: He would hold in all the air he could when people put his saddle on so it wouldn’t be as tight on his stomach.
Clever not-quite-a-horse-horse.
I didn’t notice Cotton’s scheme until it was too late to do anything about it.
We had made it through the pleasant group trail ride and had managed to make it back to the outdoor ring where we were supposed to cool down before calling it a day. Cotton and I were happily trotting to the far end of the ring to claim our space on the track without a care in the world.
But we never made it.
