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.