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Fly Without Wings by Elaina Pate Bill and Carlos (the colt's trainer and groom, respectively) nod acknowledgement of my arrival at the barn. The anticipation in the morning air seems almost palpable as I watch Carlos bridle and saddle the colt. The colt's breath jets out in small puffs as he begins to feel the exceptional energy flowing through the barn, and he strikes out with a hind leg as the girth is tightened. After I secure my helmet and protective vest and take up my whip, Bill gives me a leg-up. Cold leather squeaks and gravel crunches as we make our way to the track. "Go a half," Bill says. "Let's see what we've got, but don't punish him." He removes the lead shank and releases us at the gap in the rail. I notice that the collection of clockers and other railbirds appears to be much larger than usual. The whispered rumors about this colt have been hovering around the barns all week, and many of the onlookers have awakened far earlier than is their custom in order to watch this first official work. The colt settles into a smooth trot as we begin the warm-up moving the wrong way, clockwise along the outer rail. I ease the colt into a canter, his hooves thudding in the sandy loam. We complete two laps of the one-mile oval, ending up back at the gap. The eagle eyes of Bill and the clockers belie their poker faces - their attention is riveted to us. As we make the turn, the colt moves into a seemingly effortless gallop. The cold, damp air kisses my cheeks as I position my whip in my right hand. The colt is already resenting the restraint of the reins as we approach the half-mile pole. As I fold into a crouch, he responds with a burst of speed that turns the kiss of the air into a banshee breeze howling past my ears. The pole blurs by as he levels off into powerful strides, reaching out and gobbling up the track. My world is transformed by the sound of pounding hooves and the feel of the powerful creature beneath me. My arm muscles are already feeling the strain of curbing a half-ton of eager Thoroughbred who wants to run faster! The three-quarter pole flashes by. The colt's breath is coming hard and fast, his snorts amplified by the chill air. Bill's instructions flit through my mind, and I let the reins out a notch as we round the turn and enter the stretch. The colt's hooves barely seem to skim the dirt as he gathers himself and moves into a gear that only the best are said to possess. Tears stream down my face from the stinging lash of wind and mane. The empty grandstand echoes back the siren call of our unearthly flight as we race down the stretch. My tortured arm muscles scream for release, and still the colt wants to run faster! The finish pole goes by in a red blur as I blink furiously and rise in the stirrups. The astonishment on the faces of Bill and the clockers is visible even through my tears as I struggle to throttle the colt down. A quarter-mile later, he deigns to listen to my hands and comes to an unwilling halt. I ease down onto the saddle as he prances and snorts proudly, his sweaty coat gleaming in the rising sun. Stretching and massaging my sore arms, I tuck the unneeded whip into the back of my faded jeans. We turn, and the colt takes me toward the gap at an easy trot. As I bring the colt to a halt nearby the mutterings of the bystanders build to a crescendo, like a Gulfstream jet passing overhead. The clockers are comparing their stopwatches to make sure they're not broken. Bill snaps the lead shank on the colt and looks up at me with a bemused expression. "Forty-four and four," he says. "He just worked faster than most normal horses race." The sound of gravel crunching underfoot helps bring us back to earth as we make our way to the barn. I slither from the colt's back in a puddle of tired muscles. Carlos exchanges the bridle for a halter, and I hold the colt as the saddle is removed. With practiced ease and a bucket of suds at the ready, Carlos gives the colt a bath. The colt shakes his head and tries to rear as the soapy water runs down his sleek hide. Carlos avoids a well-aimed kick and quickly finishes the bath, rinsing until all traces of soap, sweat, and dirt are gone. Excess water is removed with a scraper, and the colt is turned over to the hotwalker. Countless trips around the shedrow later, the colt is cool and dry enough to be put back in his stall. As I watch, he sniffs at the clean straw and, finding it to his satisfaction, lies down and rolls. Long legs thrashing, he rises and shakes off the loose strands of straw clinging to his body. Tapping into seemingly boundless reserves of energy, he rears slightly and squeals his enjoyment of life. He takes a sip of water and snatches at his hay, just a horse again, heedless of the animated buzz of comments and the question flying around the backstretch: Is he the one? |
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