Hanging on with my knees
In Ecuador, I rode a horse.
The saddle fastened with old rope, as were the stirrups.
Nothing was official about this make-shift opportunist.
No waivers were signed, no helmet or experience asked.
I'm not one for adrenaline.
Now, waiting for biopsy results with most certain removal of a breast in my vacation calendar, I feel again the desperate squeezing thighs.
Terrified, I have little choice but to balance and hold my back and to cling tightly to a moving foundation beneath me.
Again, no helmet, terror of falling. Penalised with anticipation, I wait till the horse is back at the finch and hands help me off to solid ground.