Love that song “The Race Is On”; it has been the ultimate live-by motto most of my adult life. Before knowing any better, I entered a few horse races as a kid. One particular little trot around the track was at the local county fair on the hottest August day ever recorded. I suppose there were around 20 of us idiots at the starting wire on horses of all sizes and ages. Only a select few knew the secret to the race start (a 12-gauge shotgun blast) and those guys were hanging on for dear life. The rest of us sat merrily atop mad and thirsty horses, planning our race strategy with an ice cold Coca-Cola in our dreams at the finish line.
“On your mark, get set…” and all hell broke loose as the gun went off! My neighbor’s horse to the right made two giant leaps, right into the grandstand, scattering beer and hot dogs. All I saw to the left, once a solid plywood wall, was now shaped like the back end of a horse with the rider nowhere to be found.
Little Merry Legs and I were about 10 lengths behind the leaders by the time she came back down on all fours, but off we raced. Back then, they didn’t have the fancy tractors and levelers to smooth out the track from the demolition derby the night before, and the ruts made for some fancy steeplechase jumping at 40 miles per hour. One by one, we passed not-so-great jumpers and flat-out, race-stumbling wannabes. Merry Legs wasn’t passing the other horses because she was faster; she was running from fear of the shotgun catching up to her!
Around the far turn as I let go of the mane with one hand to brush the bugs out of my eyes, I realized we had caught up and passed all but one of our competition. Looking at the home stretch was a mistake, as Merry Legs knew damn well there was a shotgun there ready to blast off again. Up and over the rail she went, running straight down the midway only to be stopped by the Merry-Go-Round. Half sliding, half falling off, I was checking to make sure all body parts were still intact when a little girl smeared with cotton candy dragged her mom up to us screaming that she wanted to ride “that one” and pointing at Merry Legs. That little girl learned a new swear word on that hot August day.
Sometime later, but before reaching adulthood, I entered another miraculous race without thinking clearly. The story of the 50-mile endurance competition has been told, and I won’t go back into detail, but the highlights were: Don’t ride fifty miles in an English saddle if you’ve never done so before. Never, ever eat like a pig when there’s 25 more miles of race. Bring a compass along; the geese fly around in circles, and “south” isn’t necessarily the south you thought it was.
Later on, a thoroughbred trainer of a friend’s friend asked if I’d “help out” for an afternoon at the track as his assistant had been under the weather since the day the horses arrived. That should have been my first clue, but oh no, we would never be that smart!
What fun, I thought, being on the inside of the fence for a change while lollygagging and rubbing elbows with some of the top trainers in the area. Three-year-old-colts. Emily, think fast back to kindergarten and remember the wide, scared eyes of all the kids that had never set foot in a school before.
Ol’ trainer Jake was friendly enough and cautioned me about two of his four horses being a little edgy. The problem was, all four were black, geldings, and identical!
So, thinking the odds were in my favor to pick the mellower two to wash up and lead to the hot walker, I hit the winners’ circle with the first horse as he lifted me right up off the ground by the end of the lead rope, swinging me around into his stall while kicking the door shut behind him. Someone yelled, “Loose horse!” and I hid in the corner.
Trying black magic number two after the coast cleared, the odds were stacked against me as that broomtail bugger dragged me right down the barn aisle and through the muck pile before I could blink.
Getting through the daily double of terrors, I figured the last couple beasts would at least be leadable, but oh no, I had picked the best two first and the track veterinarian had to bandage me up more than once.
Listening intently to the barn gossip, I had the world by the tail at the betting window as my little bit of inside information would win me a trip to Disneyland!
Half my paycheck on number three to win, please, counting all my hatched chickens at the betting window. They’re off! The crowd cheered and I cheered as I looked for number three to cross the finish line first. Every dang horse went by but my moneybags; he was munching grass at the first turn as his jockey limped around with a sore rump after hitting the dirt.
Remembering the gossip, the other half of my paycheck was boxed up on numbers five and ten in the next race as both were picked to win by my barn buddies. But then… “Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a problem at the gate. The five horse has broken away from his handler and is cruisin’ around the track clockwise without his jockey.” I sank in my seat as the starting gate opened; number ten just stood there wide-eyed and afraid to come out! Talk about having one’s pride stuck in the back stretch for an entire day….