My own private Kentucky Derby
Animated sequence of a race horse galloping. Photos taken by Eadweard Muybridge (died 1904), first published in 1887 at Philadelphia (Animal Locomotion).
I've never been to the Kentucky Derby. In fact, watching the thoroughbreds run at Ruidoso Downs in southern New Mexico is the only time I've ever been to a horse race.
I did own a thoroughbred horse once. She had papers from the Jockey Association and a silly name--"Spoon's Baby". Her horse racing career had earned less than $2,000, and while she might not have stacked up well against other leggy two-year-olds, I thought she could run like the wind. Unfortunately, her heart-racing gallops across country often ended in a few good crow hops and the occasional rear, which didn't make her very suitable for riding in the mountains. Even after we got her over those bad habits learned somewhere else, she was a handful. I eventually traded her for a percheron draft horse yearling. My thoroughbred mare's new owner is a wonderful horsewoman who appreciates all that thoroughbred spirit.
This weekend, I took my son's quarterhorse mare Pinon out for a spin.
Put a kid on Pinon, and she is the quintessential babysitter. I've written here before that her previous job included carrying two little boys into the mountains with their dad and occasionally their 79-year-old grandfather. She is as solid as a rock and can go all day long, crossing rivers, climbing rocks.
Put me on Pinon, and she becomes a jet rocket fueled athlete of epic proportions. All legs, muscle, sinew, spirit, heart. On our weekend ride, she chomped at the bit. Dancing, frothing, sweating, wanting to go. I'd ridden her already several miles at her long-legged, smooth-as-silk trot. But she was fretting and worrying, all of that good health and youth getting the better of her.
I was chomping at the bit a little myself with the type of craziness that only a new Spring day can give you. So I let her go.
The quarter horse leaped forward and took me with her. I bridged the reins and leaned over her neck like a cross country rider. She ran a good mile. And then further. Faster than that thoroughbred of mine, I think. So fast that I felt the breathe getting snatched out of my lungs by the wind as we raced along the old road next to the railroad track. The difference between Pinon and my thoroughbred horse, you see, is that she'll stop when you ask her. Overall, she is a very agreeable girl. I sat deep in the saddle and somehow found the breathe to say "whoa". The horse cocked an ear in my direction, listening, and eventually wound down to a stop for which I was very grateful.
I patted her wet neck as she blew through her nostrils and shook her head, looked back over her rump and began counting in my head, 1... 2... 3... 4..., and by the time I reached 6, here they came--my two young heeler dogs careening around the bend. The cattle dogs had done everything in their power to stay at the horse's lightning heels, and they'd nearly succeeded. They pulled up next to us on their short legs, tongues hanging out, all breathe and heaving sides, smiling with black lips, eyes shining with the glory of running like you could go forever.
I've never been to the Kentucky Derby, but I have ridden a fleet footed mare so fast you'd swear she was going to sprout wings from her shoulders and take you skyward.
