The fall was as significant as being carried triumphant on Champion Hurdler Honeysuckle.
Barely half an hour after cruising home in the pastel blue silks of Henry De Bromhead's unbeaten wonder-mare, with the Guinness powered roar in her ear, racing's tiny warrior was going head over heels after being scythed down on Telmesomethinggirl and there was no love in the air.
That's racing for you, one minute you are top of the world, the next, tasting turf and building bruises that last for weeks. Blackmore got up and dusted herself off, of course she did, but with a chastening warning of the delicate balance between adventure and danger in this sport of Queens.
It was apt that the true heroine of Cheltenham with its testosterone packed stands that could be made of Yorkie bars, is Blackmore, elegant, diminutive, yet tough as nails. They come for lads' days out but the boss is well and truly Blackmore.
For the County Tipperary raised rider it's always on to the next race, her achievements burn bright for minutes before the next story is being written, hers is always a fleeting glory in that ghostly window of all too short-winning queues at the rails bookmakers and punters queuing for a pint before the next.
"Look" she almost always begins her post-race interviews with, as if trying to ground herself for a single second before weighing in and going again.
She never presents herself as an idol, more someone that gets the job done, like a mate who disappears into a queue at the bar and returns with a well earned round. You're alright, you are Blackmore.
Her temporary glories are what we yearn for, from bumpers to Gold Cups and she's racing for us all in the moment, in this game of vanishing victories in between blinks.