Thanks so much for your stories. Makes me feel not quite so alone, though I haven’t ridden much since Covid. I once did a jumping clinic with a hot trainer (as in, very easy on the eyes) years ago. I was riding an Arab who was always great with kids, but an absolute jackass with adults, especially if you ride like a sack of ferrets. All the jumps were 3’, and I had never jumped that high before. We were cantering along to an oxer (and I’m terrified of oxers - I just imagine all sorts of cartwheeling leg tangling body crushing flips), when the horse decided I’m wasn’t committed enough, so he dodged out right in front to the oxer, raced to the back of the arena, banking a hard left where I thought he was going to go right, so I got yeeted off into the sun. My trajectory was stopped short by the arena fence, which I hit chest first, then peeled off backwards like a cartoon coyote, landing on my back. As I was lying there staring up at the sky and questioning my life choices, hot trainer sauntered over, looked at me and said, “That horse should have been named Comanche.” So my day ended in acute embarrassment and a board-shaped bruise extending across my right tit and forearm.
As if bucking you off weren't enough, Cucumber added a little "enjoy the dirt" kick at the end. Womp womp. Can't wait to see the "after"!
Thanks so much for your stories. Makes me feel not quite so alone, though I haven’t ridden much since Covid. I once did a jumping clinic with a hot trainer (as in, very easy on the eyes) years ago. I was riding an Arab who was always great with kids, but an absolute jackass with adults, especially if you ride like a sack of ferrets. All the jumps were 3’, and I had never jumped that high before. We were cantering along to an oxer (and I’m terrified of oxers - I just imagine all sorts of cartwheeling leg tangling body crushing flips), when the horse decided I’m wasn’t committed enough, so he dodged out right in front to the oxer, raced to the back of the arena, banking a hard left where I thought he was going to go right, so I got yeeted off into the sun. My trajectory was stopped short by the arena fence, which I hit chest first, then peeled off backwards like a cartoon coyote, landing on my back. As I was lying there staring up at the sky and questioning my life choices, hot trainer sauntered over, looked at me and said, “That horse should have been named Comanche.” So my day ended in acute embarrassment and a board-shaped bruise extending across my right tit and forearm.