Saratoga Horse Racing Blog: Mairzy Doats By The Alpha Mare Marion E. Altieri

Sophie Watts + Horse Sense = Filmmaking Brilliance.

2009-11-20T02:18:35Z

Upon meeting Sophie Watts, the challenge is on, to not like her or be impressed by her lengthy personal and professional resume. Tall, svelte, blonde and crisp, she epitomizes the image of the consummate equestrian. In black pencil jeans, black riding boots, black blazer and white Oxford-collared shirt, Watts is breathtakingly attractive. A fan of Thoroughbreds and the sport of racing them, she is as comfortable on the backstretch as in the Clubhouse. She's the kind of beautiful that makes insecure women want to hate her because they feel inferior, just by virtue of the fact that she exists.

But once she flashes her open smile and her eyes twinkle with glee at something that tickled her fancy--all such thoughts melt like the Spring snows. And because she's brilliant, genuine, caring and sincere--it quickly becomes impossible to harbor any feelings for Watts other than the strong desire to become her friend and colleague.

For those who judge a book by its cover, Watts may offer a challenge: perfect people are especially difficult to love for those with ego problems. And Watts does come across as being perfect, in spite of the fact that she's very real, and extraordinarily kind.

Once you get past her outward classic demeanor--it takes about one minute--you want to know more about this astonishingly accomplished woman.

]]> Watts came to America several years ago in order to work on the psychological thriller, 1140 Royal Street. She did not arrive here "...the wretched refuse of [a] teeming shore..." She brought a C.V. that shames those of others twice her age, and a desire to contribute to the American arts scene in a lasting way.

Summa cum laude from Cambridge University--at which institution she studied the arts in Europe--she quickly put that degree, insight and vision to work in her native England in the production of long-form music films for broadcast and/or DVD release. Among the list of her body of work are the Emmy Award-winning charity concert, Live 8 for MTV International; Madonna: Live at KoKo's (which was broadcast live on MSN) and Icon: The Cure.

These films are but the tip of her professional iceberg: Watts produced the acclaimed Edinburgh Festival Fringe run on rom.com, and is an active associate of Cambridge Filmmakers' Network, and a board member of Cambridge Filmmaking Society and the Social Documentary Film Society. A gifted and insightful writer, several of her articles on film have appeared in print.

Sifting through the volumes of Watts' work-to-date--she's almost painfully modest--her music film credits include the DVD of Keith Urban's concert at Earl's Court Arena in London, May 2005; Amy Winehouse: Live at the Bloomsbury Ballroom DVD and V Festival on Blink TV. Her production work has taken her on a virtual tour of the history of contemporary music, working with Pink Floyd, Paul McCartney, U2, Coldplay, Elton John and the Foo Fighters.

When approached to do 1140 Royal Street Watts' imagination took off into the realm of non-music, feature-length film production. She's inspired by the opportunity to work with talented new colleagues and concepts. Striving with directors, actors and the intrigue of working in a new facet of a familiar medium, Watts embraces the challenge of producing for its intellectual stimulation and creative satisfaction.

Los Angeles-based, award-winning director, Katherine Brooks (Loving Annabelle, Waking Madison) met Watts several years ago, and knew then that she wanted to partner with the brilliant Englishwoman to create films that provoke thought; pose questions and plumb the depths of the human experience.

Brooks' new film project will flash a stark light to the career and accolades of jockey Julie Krone, the first woman inducted into the (Thoroughbred) Racing Hall of Fame and the only female jockey to be enshrined thus to date. The film's title, Freak, bespeaks the negativity with which a horse of extraordinary talent is often strapped, as humans who cannot fathom otherworldly talent flail about in the quest to name the unnamable. Krone faced a world of jockeys and other racing industry insiders who neither understood nor welcomed women in the most natural place for a female: in the saddle, on the back of a horse.

This outside-ness is well understood by everyone who is disenfranchised in any endeavour. Freak's setting, characters and locations will tell the story of a girl whose grit and talent catapulted her into the stratosphere, morphing her into a woman who literally grew up on the track and into the hearts of millions. But the central theme of Freak is one which will ring true in the lives and experiences of many more than the throngs of race fans. Being on the outside, longing to be on the inside and knowing that you belong there more than those who rule the roost is painful. Victory is always sweeter when prejudice is overcome, but the road there is long and arduous.

Brooks has insight, life-born Wisdom and the drive to make Freak into a great film with worldwide appeal. And to do this, to assure that this film is alive with the creative spirit and production savvy that brought Madonna and her peers straight into the faces and laps of their audiences--Freak intends to bring Sophie Watts on-board in her proven role, in charge of production and all the details that go into that enormous job.

Watts' education, experience and vision have taken her farther in 26 years than many in the movie industry can fathom in twice that time. Her love of Thoroughbreds and racing will be immeasureably valuable as every detail is considered with her deep knowledge of racing and the subculture of the sport is wedded to her insights, instincts and professionalism that is second-to-none.

Whether under the shade of the big oak tree on the Saratoga backstretch or the blaring neon of Hollywood Boulevard, Sophie Watts brings to movie-making a vitality that is fresh and new. Her ability to drink in an environment and incorporate it into her creative essence has served her well since commencement from Cambridge. Exchanging ideas with the likes of directors Don Letts, Giorio Testi and Christian Lamb gave her a springboard from which to build her own filmmaking toolbox--to bring to pictures a glimpse into black, white and four-dimensional colors.

The American racing community enthusiastically claims Sophie Watts as one of our own--and Hollywood follows suit. Freak, directed by the gifted Katherine Brooks, has the potential to be one of the greatest films--racing or otherwise--of all-time. Award talk should begin even before production begins, for, with Brooks at the creative helm and Watts producing every other facet--the finish line is not only within reach, it's inevitable.

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[Photos:

1) Sophie Watts, black/white.
2) Katherine Brooks and Sophie Watts meet Julie Krone.]

BOOK REVIEW: "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: the Voice of Santa Anita" by Rudolph Valier Alvarado.

2009-10-26T02:48:22Z

What is the Story of Your Life? Who are you? Where were you born? Did you go to college? Which school can claim you as an Alumna/us? What was your family like--and were you happy? Have you found vocational fulfillment? Will anyone remember you when you die, or are you content to go unnoticed, and pass into Eternity, in obscurity? Will you leave a legacy behind, or is it OK if you don't?

These are questions that pass through each human heart at one time or another. Some of us are plagued by unsatisfactory answers, and so we set a course to assure that the direction from here-on-out is different, perhaps more exciting. Some of us embellish, because the story so far isn't up to some standard we secretly hold in our hearts. Others need not alter the tale, as it's already pretty darned fascinating.

Joe Hernandez was a Wordsmith, a man whose speech and writing talents were elegant, precise and beautiful. If he never accomplished anything else, he contributed to the lexicon and had the gift to string together words in such a masterful fashion that mind pictures were painted, leaving indelible portraits for all those who were blessed to experience the work of his heart...

]]> But destiny was not content that Joe should use his facility with language strictly for the printed word, for these God-given gifts led him to The Job of a Lifetime. Joe Hernandez, a Mexican-American in the prejudiced 1930s, was beloved by millions--for he was The Voice of Santa Anita. From the track's first-ever race on Christmas Day in 1934 until, almost four decades and 15,587 race calls later, our hero defined horse racing when racing ran neck-and-neck with baseball as America's Sport. More famous than all the talking heads of today's sportscasting, Joe was renowned before the Internet, Facebook, Twittering and ESPN. Radio was the vehicle that drew millions of fans to Joe's stable, in an age when imagination was necessary and media consumers were required to think.

These facts, alone, create a legacy that will live in record books and racing hearts for eons. These could be bulletpoints on a spectacular resume that shames anyone who would be a peer.

This, you'd think, is story enough.

But his backstory, the real details of his experience, heartache, disappointments and promises that Life made to him and broke--these were unknown until recently. Joe had created an autobio that, while interesting enough--was a soup of fiction and fact. For a man who made a name for himself telling stories, creating a history for himself was not a challenge.

The man with the broad, open smile, generous heart and ready word--a "character," as they'd say--whose lifestory seemed to be as open as his heart--in fact may have been an intensely private person. Whatever his inspiration to create a background that didn't necessarily jive with the Truth--it was his Truth, the bits of information that he dropped here and there, satisfying those with the craving to know--and keeping his private life, private. It may seem obsessive, to hold the details of one's life so closely to the vest, but it may have been what Joe needed at that time.

Whatever his reasons, whyever he was unknown to those who thought they knew him--his real biography is fascinating, beautiful, heartbreaking, joyful and compelling. And this real story, the book that grabbed me by the throat and forced me to sit with pen in hand and write notes in the margins, just so happens to be the tome that won this year's Dr. Tony Ryan Book Award, the most prestigious award in equine writing.

"The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: The Voice of Santa Anita" by Rudolph Valier Alvarado is so masterfully written, so meticulously and thoroughly researched, that I know it was a labor of love. I know this because I am a writer, and I recognize passion when I read it. I know this because I own a copy of the Special Edition of the book, and I feel the need to carry it with me everywhere I go--and I've finished reading it. And I know this because, precisely because I am a writer, I am jaded. It's not often that I pick up a book and attack it with such gusto, appreciation and verve that I tell everyone who will listen that they must buy this book. From a seemingly-chance reading of "Seabiscuit," in which Hernandez was featured, to the fascination that a Latino man played such a prominent role in 1930s horse racing--to the acknowledgement that he was destined to write the biography of this great man--the author poured an enormous amount of intellectual, spiritual, emotional and financial resources into this historic work of art. The creation of this magnificent book, every step of the way, was a gift from the author to the subject's legacy; to his children and to the very sport of Thoroughbred racing.

The six years that Dr. Alvarado put into ferreting out the real details and finding the crossroads at which myth intersects with reality--his tenacity at finding the facts and carefully documenting a life worth knowing--have paid off, in spades. This is the single-best biography I have ever read. The author has crafted a work of art that stands on its own: it cannot be compared with any other biography (racing or otherwise) because it is the only member of its species.

This book, this rectangle of paper and ink and words that carried me away--this is literature.

Caballo Press of Ann Arbor, the publishing house grown from Dr. Alvarado's literary garden, is the Seabiscuit of equine publishers. As in the story of the little horse who showed 'em how, Caballo Press is small by industry standards. They don't own a building on Lexington Avenue in New York--or Beaumont Circle in Lexington. In an economy that states, absolutely, that long-shot indie publishers don't stand a chance--this publishing house is proving that, truly, with God all things are possible. Other publishers--equine and other--have been around far longer than Caballo Press. They employ many more people, and foolishly turn down good authors with terrific story ideas on a daily basis.

But they didn't win the Dr. Tony Ryan Book Award for 2009, and receive the accolades at Castleton Lyons Farm in April. This book--this tome, this graceful, sensual collection of words and soul and promise--took the prize. Seabiscuit bested War Admiral. David slew Goliath. "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: The Voice of Santa Anita" grew out of an interest in the life and times of a man the author had never met. The words and intention of his heart prayerfully turned into a book that will grace bookshelves for generations to come, nestling into souls and inspiring others to achieve much.

Yes, I'm gushing. I love this book. When I am enraptured, I gush. (But you all know me by now--when I hate something--that's obvious, too.) I strongly urge you to buy this book, and get copies for everyone you know who loves horse racing. The Special Edition of the book, a copy of which I own, is a treat for the senses: beautifully hard-bound with a glossy, artful cover and bonus CD of 30 of Joe's race calls. A gift for the eyes, ears and spirit.

When Dr. Alvarado took on this project, he had no idea how much of himself would go into the baking of this cake. His personal involvement in the project is obvious, from cover-to-cover. I'm sure that he would not take back one minute of time, one ounce of blood that was required to run this race. Speaking as a writer, I'm tempted to be jealous that a first book can be this marvelous, this well-received and lauded. But as a reviewer of books and obsessive lover of books, of Thoroughbreds and of the sport of racing them--I am eternally grateful that Dr. Alvarado has graced the world with this uniquely gorgeous biography of a man who has long-deserved to be memorialized thus. I only hope that one day, when fame and fortune come my way--Dr. A. will find me interesting enough to write my bio. I can think of no more dedicated a writer to document a Life, or more committed to the project.

Joe Hernandez, I'm sure, saw this book break from the gate, and, smiling from his perch in the Heavenly Clubhouse, joyously announced, "There they go!"

As always--May the Horse be with you. :)

"The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: The Voice of Santa Anita"
by Rudolph Valier Alvarado
Caballo Press of Ann Arbor
Special Edition (Hardback) ISBN: 978-0-9824766-1-1

GREAT NEWS!
Dr. Alvarado will on-hand at the Borders in Arcadia, California [400 South Baldwin/(646) 445-1320] on Friday, November 6th and Saturday, November 7th from 10:30AM - 1PM, signing copies of the Special Edition of "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: The Voice of Santa Anita." If you plan to be at the Breeders' Cup--or if you didn't score tickets to the big show, but want to catch the excitement of racing at Santa Anita during its heyday--stop in Borders and say Hi to Dr. A. There's plenty of time to buy a copy of the book and get it autographed before the horses take to the field. Enjoy!

LINKS YOU NEED:

http://www.caballopress.com
Caballo Press

http://voiceofsantaanita.caballopress.com/
"The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: The Voice of Santa Anita," at Caballo Press. Ordering information and a peek inside the book.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTgCJDefFrE
YouTube video of Seabiscuit's 1940 win of the Santa Anita Handicap, Joe Hernandez calling.

http://horsenameographies.caballopress.com/
Win a copy of the Special Edition! Enter your horsey name--the name that would best represent you, were you a racehorse--and you may be a weekly winner of the beautifully-packaged Special Edition of the 2009 Dr. Tony Ryan Book Award-winning book. 

[Photo credits: book cover, logo and Dr. Rudolph Valier Alvarado, courtesy of Caballo Press of Ann Arbor. Thank you!]

"Horsenameographies": Who be You be if You be a Horse?

2009-10-16T16:01:20Z

"A horse is a horse, of course, of course.
But who would you be if you were a horse?
A horse who ran Life's Race on course?
What would be your name?

Caballo's the Press, pub-lish-ing source
That asks your race name if you were a horse.
A prize awaits, a book, of course!
Please tell us your name!"

(I offer my sincere apologies to Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, the composers who wrote the "Mr. Ed" theme song in 1961, for hacking up their beloved ditty.)

Most of us who adore horses, especially Thoroughbreds (or Arabians or Quarter Horses, for that matter--any horse who races, right?)--have at one time or another fancied ourselves as a sleek, gorgeous, well-muscled, shiny-coated steed. Running Life's Race, feeling the solid Earth (real dirt, thank you) under our perfectly-formed hooves. With the wind blowing through our manes, we cross the finish line first--at least in these fantasies, we are free and we always win...

]]> Caballo Press of Ann Arbor is an equine book publisher, but not just any publisher. Dr. Rudolph Valier Alvarado is the President of Caballo Press, and he happens to be an author. His first book out of the gate, "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: the Voice of Santa Anita" is a spectacular homage to a pioneer in American racing. The book is beautifully-packaged, elegantly presented and thoughtfully written. And, oh, yes: this first book just happened to win the Dr. Tony Ryan Book Award (renamed in 2008 for the founder of Castleton Lyons Farm, and still presented by Castleton Lyons and Thoroughbred Times every April.) The 2009 recipient of the award was Dr. Alvarado, as his beautiful missive was acknowledged as being the best book in horse racing.

Pretty heady stuff, when you consider the competition in the world of equine publishing, and the authors whose works are nominated. Renowned mystery writer, Dick Francis and his son, Felix, were finalists this year. Alvarado is traveling in some pretty impressive company. He may be relatively new in the equine book authoring game, and perhaps its that newness, his utter lack of cynicism that often comes with involvement in this sport--whatever his formula, it works. He created a book that is more than a mere "good read"--and I will review it fully here in just a few days.

Yes, of course, I have a copy of "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez..." It happens that I won a limited edition version of the book, complete with CD, that of 30 of Hernandez' race calls. This gift is a treasure, I adore it--and, psssssssssssssst, I'm here to tell how you can win one, too.

Dr. Alvarado and Caballo Press want to know--they really do!--what your name would be if you were a racehorse. Seemingly-simple request, eh? But anyone who knows anything about Thoroughbreds, in particular, knows that pedigree, temperament, sentiment--many factors can come into play when naming a horse. It's not by mere random coincidence that great names that truly represent a horse--and that sound otherworldly when being screamed by a worshiping throng--are bestowed upon them by their owners after much serious thought and consideration of the horse's attributes.

"Alydar," for example, was given that beautiful, strong name by his owner, Lucille P. Markey (who happened to own Calumet Farm) to honour her dear friend, Prince Ali Solomone Aga Khan (known informally as Aly Khan). The Prince served the world as Vice President of the U.N. General Assembly, and died in 1960--but before he passed, he was loved and respected by many people, including Ms. Markey. Her affectionate nickname for her friend was, "Aly, Darling." "Aly, Darling" = "Aly, Dar" = Alydar. A sentimental, lovely homage to a great man and trusted comrade.

(I maintain that horses with goofy names will never become Champions. Emotionally stunted people who don't understand horses, who don't get it that horses are sentient beings who know when a human is making fun of them, go for the stupid name. Mark my words: if you want to doom your horse to insecurity and oblivion and absolute obscurity, register a name like, "Dummie" with the Jockey Club. A horse named "I'm a Moron" will never win the Dubai World Cup. Guaranteed.)

Your Life path may have taken you down some painful trails. You may be soaring like an eagle right now, and your relationship with horses contribute to that remarkable high. You may identify very strongly with your role as a woman, a man, a Mother, professor, pastry chef, midwife, engineer, vintner. Horses very likely played a role in you getting this far in Life--that is, still alive. You may not win a particular race in your Life, but you will go to the wire with all your heart, soul and guts.

Whatever your horsey name, Caballo Press of Ann Arbor would like you to visit their website and tell them your name, and why. And submit a photo, also. The names chosen will become part of "Horsenameoraphies: Life Stories in Race Horse Names by Horse Lovers Everywhere." This fun, fascinating book that will be released in 2010--and you can be part of the excitement. Your horsey name can be in print, preserved for time and eternity: you may never see your horsey name in the program for the Belmont Stakes--but you can be immortalized in a book that will be referenced and enjoyed for generations to come.

(I wish that the contest rules allowed us to enter a horsey name for another person, as an honor to that soul. I would submit the name, "Baker's Dozen" for Karen, my beloved friend of 41 years. The name fits her to a T because, from the perspective of anyone who knows her, Karen is an Alumna of the Culinary Institute of America. She holds a degree as a Pastry Chef: NO ONE on the planet bakes as well as she. But that's not the whole reason for "Baker's Dozen"--anyone who knows Karen also knows that she is generous, kind and loving above and beyond. She always goes that extra mile, for everyone in her circle. If 12 cookies are good, 13 is better. Karen is submitting a name to the contest, one that she created and loves. Besides being a gifted Pastry Chef, she's gifted with language and is witty as all get-out.)

Whether you are Alydar, OhMyGodSeven! or The Alpha Mare--your Life story can be summed up in one name. One perfect name that resonates with your soul and with everyone who knows you. I urge you to go to the website for Caballo Press, and submit your horsey name, today. And, oh, yeah, while you're there, scroll down to the bottom of the "Horsenameographies..." page, I'm there. Let's share this great opportunity, that of being brazen enough to trot out the names that we've always known define our identities. For some, it may take guts to say, "Yes, that's me." For others, this chance of a lifetime has been a long time coming. Muster all your intestinal fortitude--no colic allowed!--and play this version of Show and Tell. One name a week will be randomly chosen to win Dr. Alvarado's book, the best racing book in America. As soon as next week--it could be you.

As always, May the Horse be with you!

N.B.: LINK to Caballo Press and "Horsenameographies" contest: http://horsenameographies.caballopress.com/

Note Well! Those of you who will be at the 2009 Breeders' Cup at Santa Anita have the opportunity to meet Dr. Alvarado, purchase a copy of "The Untold Story of Joe Hernandez: the Voice of Santa Anita" and get it autographed! The Borders in the mall right in front of Santa Anita is hosting Dr. Alvarado for a book signing on November 6th and 7th, from 11AM to 1PM each day. What a great way to celebrate the long, storied history of Santa Anita Park; the horses who made history there; and Joe Hernandez, whose role as a prominent Latino in a sport that wasn't ready for his presence opened doors and changed history. If you're at Santa Anita on BC weekend and don't meet Rudolp Alvarado, you'll regret it. I'm tempted to hop a jet to California just for the privilege of having my book signed (again), at the very place where Joe Hernandez worked his magic. And to meet the man who captured the spirit of the man and the time--and picked up the most prestigious award in racing writing at the same time. :)

[Photo credits: SOULSAVER and OhMyGodSeven! (Dr. Rudolph Valier Alvarado), courtesy of Caballo Press of Ann Arbor. Photo of Karen with Show Me the Cash, The Alpha Mare. Photos of MommyMommyMommy and Airspace Goddess, courtesy of Caballo Press of Ann Arbor. Thank you!]

Horse Sense: When in Trouble, Look for the Light.

2009-10-06T16:39:32Z

I am constantly amazed by the ways in which horses choose to communicate with we mere humans: recognizing that we homo sapiens are the ones who forgot how to talk Horse--not the other way 'round--members of the equine species will go out of their way to get their point across to mortals, to get what they need or want from us.

And, being that horses are ultimately intuitive--intuition has kept the species around for over four million years--even the smallest, quietest flicker of a candle in a window can signal salvation for a horse. We humans are so busy striving to stay alive in this dog-eat-dog world--that of the predator--that we forget that the best way to survive and thrive actually is quite the opposite. Rather than looking to predators for advice, we should observe instead the quiet ways of the prey, whose powers of observation must, by necessity, be more finely-tuned than those of the aggressor.

I'm thinking about a mare I met at a party, 20+ years ago: the Wisdom, calm and trust that she exhibited that dark Winter night and my first experience with the real mystical properties of The Horse left an impression with me that has informed many of my thoughts and relationships in the two decades since the encounter...

]]> The beginning of our story: Christian, a Swiss friend who was working on his Ph.D. at RPI (Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute), shared a house with a friend from Switzerland. This house was out in the middle of West Stephentown, New York, a long "driveway," as it were, off a county route usually frequented only by pick-up trucks and Baptist church buses taking the faithful to Sunday meetings. The house was beautiful, old and filled with gorgeous, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, antiques. Rolling hills and outbuildings, including the expected Red Barn, made the picture, well, rather like a Grandma Moses treasure. The place epitomized my rural dreamscape: I envied the two then-young lads who resided in this oakey, musty, creaky farmhouse, whose ghostly residents' presence could be felt, and whose current inhabitants filled its rooms with talk of artificial intelligence and architectural wonders.

The Europeans had cut a deal with the woman who owned the house: in exchange for caretaking and a minimal rent, they lived in the pastoral environment while she soaked up the sun in Florida or some other clime that was more suitable to her delicate sensibilities. Hearty Upstate New York winters were not her thing, but for two men from the Alps--well, the Taconic Range in a blizzard was no challenge.

One winter night the gentlemen hosted a party--dismiss, right now, thoughts you have about college parties. The hosts' personalities and tastes dictated that this soiree was destined to be a quiet, intimate affair, populated by international graduate students; contradancers and folk musicians. Christian had discovered contradancing and the lovely, neo-Hippie community that traveled in packs in the pursuit of the perfect partner: the young academic with European sensibilities embraced the raw simplicity of lifestyle and accepting nature of this group which embraced him right back.

To paraphrase Robert Frost's thoughts, I knew well the path to this serene, bucolic retreat, as I'd spent several Summer afternoons in the backyard, playing Trivial Pursuit against my two amply-armed opponents, and alternating Grappa and Kirschwasser shots when a question was correctly answered. (Grappa, I discovered, will kill you if it sees the opportunity. The word, "Grappa," in Italian, means, "Flame thrower that will cauterize your larynx." The Kirschwasser was created in Christian's Father's backyard, that is, made from the cherries that heavily adorned the patriarch's trees. It was a ritual of respect, to crack open the bottle of Dad's Cherry Likker when it arrived fresh from Switzerland, then dive headlong into a rapid game of wits-matching.)

[I regress. Those of you who stick with me on these verbal meanderings are truly appreciated: as you know, I always end up at the appropriate spot, it just takes me a while as my mind wanders 'round to find the most interesting path.]

As long-time friend, Patti, and I left civilization to drive to the party that Saturday night, a snowstorm commenced. I mean to tell you, the sky went from blue to black to white to White Madness in a matter of minutes. The farther from town we drove, the more intense Mother Nature's attempt to beat us to death with tiny, white flakes, which--taken one at a time, are innocuous enough. But a trillion snowflakes, joining forces and assaulting a human, car or house can bring on avalanches, falling rocks and--at the very least--a long drive during which one has adequate time to write one's will and contemplate Death.

We would not turn back, however. Pat, for one, laughs at inclement weather. I echo her disdain, and together we dared the cold, white, six-sided bullets to keep us from this affair.

If you're not a Yankee, that is, a New Englander or at least from the northern parallels, you might think that driving through a blizzard just to get to a party is a fool's errand. But, ah...if you are a member of the Chosen, a tough-hided Northerner...you understand. The threat of piles of white, battering the car and thickening the roads does not dissuade a true Upstater. My Mother always maintained that those of us who grow up in climates that feature below-zero temperatures and soul-freezing snow and ice are a heartier bunch than those whose spirits have been lulled into a false sense of security by year-round balmy weather. Mom believed that we grow up tougher: if you can stay alive long enough to become an adult, and decide to move to Florida--you probably won't. If Winter's annual assault doesn't make hash out of you--you'll stay into grown-up-hood, to your natural death, for by now you've developed a relationship with your nemesis, this frenemy. Like a lover who's bad for you, but who keeps you on your toes--Winter can be a teacher as she renders your skin raw but your spirit and brain, very-much awake and alive.

The snow intensified as we climbed the mountain road that led to Little Switzerland. By the time we were at the end of the driveway, the drive, itself, was almost indiscernible. In the true spirit of camaraderie that marks the contradance community, dancers and fiddlers alike were out hand-shoveling so that others may park their cars--or at least find a friendly snowbank into which to crash, headlong, leaving the vehicle until sometime, well, later. The anticipation of getting inside and curling up with a friend and a cup of real hot Swiss Chocolate was all the permission one needed to leave the car wherever it landed.

The farmhouse, itself, looked like a small gem placed on a field of clean, sparkling cotton. Huge and white, its many rectangular eyes were brightly lit by scores of candles that welcomed travelers into the warmth that awaited within. The night had an air of magic, even before we entered the building--the house invited us in, a beacon of hope for those seeking shelter from cold and the promise that Something Magical would transpire.

Inside, all was warm and toasty, as wood-burning stoves and the aforementioned candles provided ample thermal comfort. The most striking thing about the affair wasn't even that the house was so warm on such a blood-freezing night...or that the candles made the place look like a page from a romance novel, filled with hope and fantasy...but rather that, as each guest arrived with her or his offerings to the gustatory gods and placed them on the table...each person found her or his own niche. This party was so un-loud...each room seemed a nook, cozier than the one next to it...and each person found their perfect place, and the people with whom they would spend the majority of the evening. As if respecting the nature of the place, most guests spoke in hushed tones within the confines of their respective conversations. A few, like me, wandered from room-to-room, taking in the entire scene. A veritable Disneyland for the senses, I could not confine myself to one conversation or another. But I admired those who dove in with gusto and stayed in with serene, sincere connection binding minds over topics that ranged the gamut.

Which finally brings us to the point of this piece. I, a wanderer, found my way into the kitchen to refill my coffee cup. The hot, inky-black concoction was one of Christian's great talents. I loved this coffee, it warmed my soul as it tap-danced down my gullet, its heat emanating outward through my freeze-dried organs to exit again via my skin. This was World Class Coffee, and I needed more.

As I moved silently into the candle-lit kitchen--candles, alone, lit the dark, woody room--my reverie was broken by an unexpected sound. A nicker. Alone in this room in the house, the only sound I'd expected as I wove my way through the silence was that of my own breathing. But no, there it was again: a nicker, low and, well, grateful was the only aural image that came to me. There was no doubt, the gentle "Huh-huh-huh" of a horse was somewhere within my personal space--but it was impossible, because neither Christian nor his housemate had horses.

For a moment I assumed that my mind had conjured the sound, or wondered if a ghost horse, a resident of this farm 100 years ago, had come to share the evening with us.

I didn't have to process or think for long, for the second nicker caused me to turn from the coffeepot to the window above the sink. There, gazing at me with large, pleading eyes, stood a big, beautiful mare. And that mare somehow seemed to epitomize the concept of true Wisdom, although at that moment I didn't understand why.

I spoke to her for a minute through the window, then went outside to meet her in person. Rather, "to meet her in horse."

Whoa, Nellie! She was large--not Clydesdale-large, but a big girl, nonetheless. Definitely not a Thoroughbred, possibly a Quarter Horse. Big and bay, with a bit of chestnut in her lovely coat. She nickered again, and allowed me to approach her for a pat. Then I saw the wound: about three inches across, on the right side of her side. And blood. Not actively bleeding, but a bloody wound that must have caused her pain.

I ran inside to grab the attention of others--the only thing that should have broken the silence of the night was an animal in distress, and, while she wasn't acting crazily or even appeared to be anxious--clearly, this horse needed human intervention.

Lisa's husband, Darrin, and a couple other men came out to see our new friend, and to assess the situation. Darrin is a sharp observer, and quick at assessing a situation: he pronounced that some moron couldn't tell the difference between a buck and a horse, and so had shot our girlfriend and then left her when he realized that venison wasn't on the menu.

Someone called a local veterinarian, who arrived in short notice with a horse trailer and his bag filled with comfort. Much to everyone's surprise, the vet knew this horse--in fact, she was his patient. And he said that she lived seven miles away. We took her into the barn, where the good doctor removed the bullet that had fortunately only caused a shallow wound. He cleaned and bound the wound, and took her in the trailer back home to her owners.

Before they left, the doctor made a point of telling us that, while she lived seven miles away--and had no doubt wandered the woods and backroads trying to find home--at some point, she'd decided that she'd better get some help. And that, seeing the candles in the windows, she realized somehow that the humans within the house were the sort who would help her.

The entire experience was nothing short of miraculous, for all who became involved. I was blessed to be the first human who encountered her. I can't say that I was singled out to receive that experience, but I most definitely felt--and still feel--that I was singularly blessed to encounter that lovely mare through the kitchen window.

The way the entire piece played out all seemed to be ordained: the fact that good men like Darrin were on-hand to help, and to size up the situation in record time. The fact that, whomever called a vet "happened" to call the vet who not only knew this horse--but who was, in fact, the mare's own doctor. The fact that she lived seven miles away, and intentionally chose this house, at this time and this place, to find her salvation. It all came together, the wheels all turned in unison, to save this horse and get her home, safely.

That horse. Not a Thoroughbred. Certainly not a million-dollar racehorse of any kind. Someone's pet, perhaps a little girl's best friend. Not worth a dime in the industry of breeding or racing--and yet, God in His infinite Love for all His creatures, bent down that night, that night that became starry and black and crisp and magical--to conspire with some mere mortals to save the life of this beautiful, intuitive horse.

We were honoured, to play a role, however small, in the rescue of this gorgeous creature. But it was the horse, herself, who used her intuition to find the path to her own salvation.

And she stayed calm. She didn't rear up, or act out in any way. She calmly called to me through a window, then stood stock-still while Darrin and the other men handled her. She was stoic through the removal of the bullet. Not once during the entire event did she act in any way other than peaceful, and hopefully expectant.

The lesson I learned that night--that we all should take from this story--is that a calm head and following your instincts will save you, even in the tightest of spots. But beyond that, the Horse Sense lesson is that, if you get centered enough to listen to your own intuition, and look for the Light--you will find what you need. Wisdom is the key to making smart decisions based on intuition. If your intuition tells you to do something, take just a minute to do a Wisdom Check, to confirm that your intuition is instructing you properly, or if it is being informed by your desperation in the situation.

N.B.: (Solomon was given the choice of money or Wisdom by God. Solomon [wisely!] chose Wisdom, exhibiting that, like the four travelers in "The Wizard of Oz,"--he already had all he needed. He chose Wisdom over money--and God gave him both. Sweet.)

Our mare friend could have lost her mind, flipped out and run into the path of a truck or tractor. She knew, in the deepest recesses of her being, that panic would cause her heart rate to rise, and the bleeding to intensify. She knew that, if she plugged away through snow and ice, but kept focused on finding Light--she would be rewarded, and saved.

But our girl remained calm throughout her journey. Her body cooperated with her mind, and gave her legs the strength she needed for the trip. She was focused on finding that Light, single-minded and intent. Her prey instinct told her to keep moving, to stay alive. By following her instincts and seeking the Light, Miss Mare found what she needed.

Horse Sense for today: keep moving. Stay focused. Discard the temptation to panic. Seek the Light.

If a mare on a mountain can figure this out--why is it that we "superior" beings work so hard, and see much smaller reward? God grant that all we can learn to apply the Wisdom of Horse Sense to our own problems--from corporate downsizing to a 1" long bullet, like a metaphorical thorn in the side--it's all the same when you choose to dismiss pressure to panic, and take the high road of intelligent intuition.

--------------------

As always, May the Horse be with you.
--------------------
[Photo credits:
"Ice Storm" and
"Green House and Snow" courtesy of Lee Millett.

"Dakota" courtesy of Cathleen Duffy. Thank you both very much!]

Racing Withdrawal: Hunkering Down. Steeling One's Self. Constructing a Plan.

2009-09-24T19:58:24Z

The Summer of 2009 was spectacular--at least in Saratoga Springs, New York. Thoroughbred racing at its very best took place beneath the northern skies, as some of the world's most talented horses thrilled hundreds of thousands of hearts. The World's Greatest Thoroughbred, one Empress, Rachel Alexandra, made her Spa debut and made history, all on the same day. Summer Bird proved that he has The Stuff, and that he's not just a gorgeous redhead.

Many hearts and minds connected for the first time, as the sweltering weather gave way to the first cool breezes of Autumn. We laughed, we wined, we dined. We cheered 'til we were hoarse, and wept when the beautiful and talented Todo K broke down on the last race, on Labor Day. As we ran that last race of the Saratoga meet together--we all felt the pain of Todo K's connections, for in many ways, truly we are Family.

I attempted to document in this blog the horses, people and events that touched my soul the most during the summer of 2009. But I confess here that it was only an introduction, a passing thought that went through my mind and demanded to be written down--I would need the entire winter to go over each day in my Palm, and write everything and every being that affected my life this past August. And that may be my Winter Project...

And I will, indeed, take a bit of time to completely record this past meet, in a way that's respectful and that I can share with all of you. But as Summer gives way to Autumn--today is The Ultimate Autumn Day, and days like this make me wonder why every Season can't be crisp, the light filtered through red and golden/orange leaves. Why hot apple cider doughnuts aren't the National Food of the United States, and ice-cold river water not considered to be sacred.

]]> It is now Autumn, and I will dive into it, head-first, as if the season, itself, is a pile of freshly-raked leaves--an inviting mound that beckons me to come, destroy the handiwork of some fastidious New Englander who will shake his toothy weapon at me for my mischievous misdeeds. It is Autumn, and I am once again 12 years old, starting out for the first day of school. This time of year always sends me headlong into the LL Bean catalog, and Coldwater Creek, and I fantasize about wearing Tartan-plaid kilts with those big, gold safety pins holding it together at the side-fringe, and kneesocks and parochial school navy blue Mary Janes. I want a new sweater that says, I am as much a part of the landscape of Generic New England, where I live--Bennington and Berkshire Counties are just East of here, we share a border--I am as much as part of the New England landscape as are the maple trees, themselves, and those happy cows in Cabot's backyard.

I will somehow don the colors and fabrics and weights of Autumn's clothing as I prepare for the cold, blood-freezing blast of air that will come sweeping in off Lake Ontario, hell-bent on giving me a cardiac arrest--even though the weather, herself, knows that nothing she can do can frighten me away from my northern Home. I am as much a part of this place as is she, with her long, bony fingers, those tendrils of ice that hang from my rooftop, threatening to pierce my head or my heart when the weight of her hands becomes too much.

I will hunker down, I will deal-with, I will abide the long wait between this day and the last Wednesday in July, when NYRA once again throws open the doors of hospitality and we horse lovers and degenerate gamblers, alike, gleefully sweep onto the grounds like thousands of faithful swallows, returning to San Juan Capistrano.

How will I deal with the Winter? How am I coping with the Fall? After I get over myself and my pre-teen obsession with finding that Tartan-plaid skirt (which, by-the-way, has not revealed itself since my original kilt, in 1968)--after I get over the Snoopy-esque dance in celebration of the bliss of Autumn and the promise of a Winter full of contemplative time and quiet in which to write--after I breathe I will realize that, oh, my God, the Saratoga meet is over. And I, like so many others, will start counting the days until that last Wednesday in July, 2010.

But there are other ways, besides calendar-watching, to pass the time between our nights of freezer burn and the first Sallee Van rolls down Union Avenue in mid-April, the harbingers of Spring that breathlessly inform us that, yes, July is Coming.

We can still participate in the sport we love so well. We can still love the horses, passionately. We can still defend them with the fierceness of heart of a Mother bear. We can watch them race in other places; bet on them if we wish; get involved in the industry in ways we'd possibly not thought of previously.

There's so much to be done between today and July 28, 2010! It seems like a long, dreary Winter lies ahead, but if we each go within and take pen to paper, and outline the things we need and want to accomplish--the realization will hit that we have actually very little time in which to accomplish much.

[So, what is there to do during these Dark Days? Tuesdays during the Saratoga meet are "dark"--that is, there's no racing. But all the days after Labor Day are "dark" to those of us who love the Saratoga meet. It is Mecca, Jerusalem, the Ganges and Sonoma, all rolled into one. It is sacred land, because equine deities have touched their golden hooves to the very ground--and the ground, itself, is sacred by association. And horses--especially Thoroughbreds and their ancestors, the noble Arabians--are the messengers of God, Himself.

Ergo, to not be at the races in Saratoga is to be denied our daily fix of the Divine. We walk where God's very own companion animals have trod. Arabian poets and Englishmen, alike, have sung of the spiritual majesty of the horse. For thousands of years, horses have been revered--hence, the withdrawal experience of a Saratoga meet fan is not just that a "sports fanatic" can't get her fix.

Our dismay is the result of being denied access to the holy place, where our souls take flight every time we feel the primal rumble of the Earth beneath equine hooves--those steely/frail thumbs made sacred by virtue of their holy assignment. We are transported to heavenly realms by these angelic beings. It is their absence that we grieve. We must now find God on our own.]

We shake our heads as so-many fillies in a paddock, and decide that we can make it through the Winter. We will not only survive, we will thrive. We might create a checklist of things that we must accomplish, and equine-related activities that will shore up our souls as we "...do the work we have been given," to paraphrase the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.

Your checklist might include some of the following ideas. If not, I urge you to make your own list, to forge your own track through the wintry snows on your way to the Promised Land of next August. If your list varies greatly from this generic one, please send in a Comment and tell me what you'd add. You never know, your observations may help another pilgrim make it through to our next believers' convention in 2010.

However you spend this Autumn and Winter, do not allow the apparent absence of the objects of your passion melt the passion, itself. This season of cold nights and quiet days can be a time to reflect, create, write, paint--and find your racing fix however possible. The need to drive a few extra feet or miles in order to see a race--albeit, not live--is good for the soul. Anything that comes too easily can be taken for granted: strap yourself in. Take a roadtrip. Drive down that snow-strewn road, and find a place to celebrate the horse, and all that you love about the sport, with others of your same ilk.

We'll make it through the Winter. I'll write about anything my mind and heart can conceive that will bring a smile to your faces, maybe even a warm thought to help you hang on to Summer. The Summer of 2009 was singularly wonderful, it will never be repeated. Next year's meet may not have the jijj that 2009 provided--but at least we'll be there, in the sacred space, together.

Things to do Between Today and Opening Day, 2010

* Write about how you came into racing, and get your missive to Nancy Denofio, who will handle your story with great care and dignity.

* Write poetry! Have you ever tried to write poetry about racing, or horses? Do you know that you can't?

* If you want to be inspired, read "Thoroughbreds" penned by the late, brilliant horseman, Paul Mellon. The poem was read at his funeral. Will be read at mine. Cue the Irish music, and get out a hankie before you read it the first or 1,000th time.

* Buy some PrismaColor pencils, some blackboard and try to draw a horse using just light and shade. (Hint: show the direction from which the light is coming, and the horse will magically appear. Don't draw lines--let the light and shadow define the object.)

* Get a Palm, or at least a calendar featuring horses and lots of space for writing. Now, mark these things onto your new calendar. This is a very brief outline, just meant to get you going on that calendar, and to get you excited. Fill in the gaps with your own racing dates:

* October 3, 2009: Jockey Club Gold Cup. Belmont. Yay!

* March 27, 2010: Dubai World Cup!

* May 1 - June 5, 2010: Triple Crown Trail

* Think about this question: have you ever wanted a job working in racing, or with horses? If the answer is yes, spend some time this Winter thinking about how you might make that dream come true. You really can be living your vocation--the reason you were put on the planet. Just think about the gifts and talents that God gave you, and your passion. If, like me, your passion is those gorgeous horses and the sport of racing them--now, wed your talents to your passion. Whatever you come up with using that formula--that's your vocation. Winter is a great time to find your vocation, and make plans toward the realization of your dream. Or to decide that you really will spend the rest of your life stuck in that job that you detest, sticking hot needles in your eyes because you can't bear to look at your "superior" one more day.

It's your choice--and Winter gives you the time, space and quietude to make that decision.

* Think about another question: How Can You Help? By posing the question, "How may I help?" on a regular basis, our eyes and hearts open to new possibilities, as often as we ask. Well, that question should be posed in regard to the horses, who--as brilliant, beautiful and intellectually astute as they are--are incapable of helping themselves. Whether your passion is the anti-slaughter movement; the wild Mustangs of the Midwest and the West; rescue and retirement; injury and illness (veterinary causes)--there's a cause for you. If you really love horses, and if they changed your very life the first time you met one--you owe it to them to spend some time this Winter trying to make the world a better, more compassionate place for all equines, horses and burros, alike.

Go to Google. Type in a phrase, and you're bound to find an organization that fits your inquiry. Facebook has thousands of pro-horse, anti-pain organizations--if you have a Facebook page, you can easily find them. If you have an idea in mind, or just can't find an equine organization that fits your thoughts, or aren't sure how you want to help--please contact me through Saratoga.com, and I'll help you find the group or organization that will help you feel fulfilled as you speak out for horses.

* Away from the Deep Stuff! Now, to feeding our shared obsession. If you were in Saratoga this summer. If you weren't in Saratoga this summer, but aim to be here in 2010. If you watched live racing from wherever you live, at your local track, and that is now over. Wherever you were, if you're not leaning on a rail right now--you need not fret.

There are horse sports of all kinds, 12 months a year, virtually everywhere. In Saratoga, the harness track--Saratoga Raceway--offers live racing from March 1 through mid-December. You can sit in their gorgesous, Cirque du Soleil-esque restaurant, Fortune's, and have a beautiful dinner while you bet right from your seat on the racing action right in front of you. You didn't know that? Get thee to Jefferson Street, order the Prime Rib Buffet and place your bet with the nice lady holding the little computer in her hahd.

So we in Saratoga have 'til December 15th to get a fix of horse racing, live, in 2009. March 1, 2010 will bring harness racing back to town--and with it, the countdown to (Thoroughbred) Triple Crown season. Many other locations around the United States have harness racing (Standardbreds), and seasons that are similar to that of Saratoga Raceway. This should help you get a fix of live racing, and alleviate those jitters--at least for a while.

* If you can't get to harness racing or live Thoroughbred racing during the Autumn and Winter--there's always simulcasting. OTB parlors, racinos and harness tracks all have simulcasting parlors--which can be a blast. If you're a hard-core bettor (I am not), you might not think of this as fun as much as I--but then again, hard-cores think of handicapping and wagering as being work. But if you're anything like me--and the majority of Thoroughbred fans are fanatics about the horses, and love the sport--but aren't necessarily heavy bettors--then you'll have a great time at simulcasting. Whether you're at Keeneland's beautiful simulcasting rooms or the local OTB and pizza joint--it's great fun to be able to watch a dozen races from all around the world, all at once. You can place a friendly wager if you like, or just hang with your friends and look to see which horses have the best racefaces. At any rate, simulcasting is a great way to spend your Autumn and Winter when no live racing is available.

* What? No simulcasting options? By the supreme Grace of God--and the racing authorities--there's always racing going on somewhere on Planet Earth. If you have absolutely no way to see live racing for several months, and don't live within 200 miles of a simulcasting opportunity--please turn on the TV. If you don't have TVG or HRTV (Who does?)--local OTBs have racing. (Thank God for OTB-TV here in New York.) Someone, somewhere, will have racing on television, and you do need a fix, now and then.

* Stay in-touch with the racing community via our friends who publish The Blood-Horse, Thoroughbred Times and the Daily Racing Form. These publications have online presences, and Facebook pages, also, for those of us who don't have subscriptions or newsstands in town which carry them.

Whatever you do, you can make it through the Winter of 2009, and get juiced for the Saratoga meet, 2010. Yes, this year was one-of-a-kind. We may never experience another meet like it, in our lifetimes. But next year will have its own virtues, winners, losers and surprises. One of the surprises may very well be that you discover your own racing dreams, and move from Passionate Fan to a professional position within the sport. The Sport of Kings isn't just for royalty anymore. And it takes people from every walk of life, in every profession--including yours and mine--to make it happen every day.

The only one who can prevent you from being involved in racing, as involved as you want to be, is...you. Spend some time during the quiet stillness of Winter to reflect on this, then come charging out of the gate in 2010, determined to make a difference.

The mind you save may be your own.

As always--may the Horse be with you,

Marion

[Photos of Mother Russia winning at Saratoga and "Around the Turn"--Lee Millett. Thank you so much, Lee! Photo of snow on Taborton Mountain--well, I took it with my cell phone, but I need to thank Karen and Greg Messier for providing such a warm, nurturing environment in which I can just BE and watch the snow fly outside their windows. Your spirits make the mountain a haven, where I feel God and the quiet wonder of His Creation.]

Saratoga Memories: Sing a Song of Summer

2009-09-16T02:01:18Z

The last light of the last day of the Saratoga meet brought with it a brisk breeze that reminded me that Autumn was, indeed, upon us--regardless of the date on the calendar. September 7th came in quietly enough, but caught the last train out of town with a tailwind that served as warning that the Ontario Clipper winds would soon frost the tip of my nose and make me wish I had winter work in Ocala.

But, ah, the six weeks before Labor Day were among the sweetest of my Life. What a summer! Meeting new track buddies. Renewing warm friendships over a hot, thick cup of coffee at the "lemonade stand" on a misty morning. Impromptu sambas with strangers while walking between barns. Ronnie and her vivacious smile, and little scissors and their special mission. Susan and Sunny, setting up basecamp in the back. Cathy lugging her camera, reeling off 500 shots at a whirl. Carol, regaling me with horse stories that make me howl in delight, and wishing that I had one-tenth of her beautiful soul.

]]> I miss, terribly, Katherine and Sophie, my friends whose movie about Julie Krone will shatter the world with truth and the beauty of genuine grit. Those beautiful, brilliant supernovae, whose presence at the track touched everyone they met and charmed even the horses and hardboots.

How can I not smile widely when I think of Taliban, the unfortunately-named lead pony whose gentle heart and welcoming demeanor remind me that "Taliban" means, "teacher"? Common Currency, my darling nephew-horse who insists that all visitors hold his tongue. Catty Madeleine, whose girlish countenance and quietude of spirit invite all huggers. Meeting Summer Bird was a highlight of the meet--he's so painfully handsome, and regal. And he knows it.

Rachel Alexandra. That's all, it's not necessary to say anything else. The Ultimate Horse took up residence in my heart, and there she will stay for time and eternity. It was a blessing to be in the entourage of voyeurs who watched her workout, bathe and walk on Monday mornings.

And those Monday mornings! The faithful crew of looky-loos who joined me at the dew-covered Oklahoma rail, notebooks or cameras in-hand. I wouldn't get up at that hour for a man, or to take my Mother to the train station. But to witness the gliding of archetypal poetry, itself--she who personifies God's Perfection as she took command of that lake of dirt--for her, I dragged my sorry self and blurry eyes out of bed.

Bruce Levine's happy, respected horses, and his loving assistant, Tom Williams and Tom's wife, Carol. A beautiful barnful of critters of the two- and four-legged kind, working together in harmony.

Leroy Jolley, a warrior of the old school whose insight and Wisdom set him apart. Racing needs a Commission, and Leroy should be the Commissioner. No one knows more about racing, or cares more about the judicious administration of the sport--than the Hall of Fame trainer whose blue eyes melt the hardest of hearts.

The spotless, beautifully-groomed barns and critters of Godolphin, racing for my hero, Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. Oreo and Patches, the barn cats who reside in the barn of Joe Aquilino, a trainer whom I love simply because he's a classically Good Man, and brings that to his work and life.

Oh, and how I admire the kind hearts and pure spirits of the Race Track Chaplaincy of America/New York Division. Seeing "Rev," as I call him--Chaplain Humberto Chavez--and his golf cart, zipping around the main track backstretch gave my heart a sense that all is going to be OK, because God is riding the range with His good and faithful servant.

The paddock, and all the magnificent horses who were saddled in the sweltering Saratoga heat. Rearing their heads to let out a rebel yell, walking 'round trees in a ritual as old as the sport, their dark brown and bright red coats shining like three coats of shellac.

The backyard handicappers, angrily throwing their losing tickets to the ground, cursing the horse who "made" them lose--and causing me to shake my head in amazement. I still wonder why people bet money they don't have, then blame the horse for their own stupidity.

I love and miss, already, the fact that NYRA employees, from management to the lamp people, take this circus on the road and make it all look as if it's been there forever. As if you could dig down to the foundation, and see that the thing, itself, has been there for generations. There's no hint that this show was in Belmont just three days before, or again three days after. It's all so solid, and it's due to the professionalism of men who wear suits in 90 degree weather, and women who are the soul of grace in jobs that provide pressure I do not envy.

My heart craves just one more cheeseburger from The Morning Line, and Karen's chocolate chip cookies. Perfection in confection, the large disks that turn Assistant Starter, Butch, into a three-year-old boy who pilfers from Mom's secret stash. I love and miss all the Assistant Starters, and Roy, their fearless leader. Their very presence blesses my life, and those of the horses. I pray for them all, ten times a day. I will miss hanging with Cousin Ralphie and Lenny, two special gentlemen whose personalities and innate kindness-of-heart set them apart in the world of racing. In any world, on any planet, for that matter.

My memories of the Summer of 2009 take me to the rail a hundred times, holding hands with Karen and praying, "Be-Safe! Be-Safe! Be-Safe!" in-between commands to "RUN!" And to tears of sincere agony when a horse suffers in any way.

Already I miss the people, the sights, the scents, the music. I want to hear Mexican tunes blaring from a shedrow radio, and the low nickering of a new, long-faced friend who welcomes me to her barn, first-thing in the morning. I want to hang on to the big oak trees in the back, to wrap my arms around those silent watchers who have witnessed history and life and love and lust--the cellulose towers who see all, and yet make no judgments.

I will take with me into this Winter--surely of my Discontent--a soulful of memories of horses, people and experiences that changed my life for the good. I will wrap them around me as a big, soft shawl, and draw upon the warm thoughts when I need them to stave off the frigid winds and blankets of snow.

I will take Saratoga and the races and the thrills and the pain, I will draw this sacred place into my heart. And Saratoga, in turn, will take me to the Elysian Fields, where dreams and goals and hopes are within reach. For Saratoga indeed is a place where Anything is Possible; sheikhs and knights mingle silently with the crowd--and royal equine coronations bring ecstasy to the hearts of the citizens of our village.

This civilization built around the myth and the magic of the horse--this is my Home. The Saratoga meet of 2009 may be over, but the stories we tell, the glories we sing, the oral history we create every time we say, "Hola" or "Salaam"--this is the comfort of knowing that, while the meet is over, the Home we share, this sport of ours--will go on long after the last golden leaves fall onto the abandoned track. The sport knows no boundaries--a genuine reflection of our own imaginations, the love we've shared, the joy we've known.

A racetracker's memories far transcend time and space. We dwell in a sport that seems, to those on the outside, to be a frivolous pursuit. But to those of us who live and breathe this endeavour--it is far more than a mere "sport" or "game." This, in the most-real sense, is The Meaning of Life. And our memories are simple reminders when the "real" world tempts us to give up and give in--that we can, indeed, live with one foot firmly planted in the thick, rich, brown Earth. And with the other foot, we are partners in a dance with God, Himself--for God waltzes in ovals, running fast and turning left.

[Please share with me your memories of the 2009 Saratoga meet. From the frivolous to the soul-revealing--we want to hear it all. Please write to us in the Comments section, and give us your memories. Thank you.]

[Photograph credits: Royal Valentine with Pedro; Rachel Alexandra; Blue Destiny and Calvin Borel, Cathleen Duffy. Katherine Brooks, Sophie Watts and Julie Krone, courtesy of Gravity Films. Chaplain Humberto Chavez, courtesy of Race Track Chaplaincy of America. NYRA Starting Gate, courtesy of NYRA/Adam Coglianese.]

Mare's Musings: Rachel Alexandra, and the Requirement to Play Nice

2009-09-04T13:38:00Z

As I stood in the paddock at Saratoga Race Course on Wednesday following the post position draw for the Woodward Stakes, I could not but pick up a few words uttered to a couple of trainers by the one, the only, Tom Durkin.

Durkin, as you no doubt know, is the race announcer for New York's three racetracks, Saratoga, Belmont and Aqueduct. Mr. D. is a brilliant guy; has a fabulous voice--and he makes the most of it. His calls are legendary, as is his insight into this sport to which he's been privy for many decades.

Mr. Durkin acted as announcer for the post position draw, and made even the act of announcing that so-and-so had drawn position thus-and-such--sound fascinating. Following the draw of all eight positions, He interviewed several connections for we in the media who scribbled furiously or whose cameras whirred frantically to catch The Shot.

]]> It occurred to me that something Mr. Durkin noted more than once was that, in essence, Rachel Alexandra has a target on her back. That of course every other horse in the race is gunning for her. The horses themselves are innocent and pure of heart, but their connections--very nice people, all--may just be tempted to speak out-of-school to each other.

Now, the men and women connected to every horse in this race are good people. They love their horses and they love their jobs. They must: why would anyone voluntarily get up at 4AM to walk a shedrow and feed a dozen horses, if there's no love for the work? So these folks are all horselovers who are very, very good at their chosen professions.

Were they not very good at their vocations--their horses wouldn't be in the Woodward, in the first place.

One of the lovely aspects of the Thoroughbred industry, something that blesses my heart often (an aspect which, I'm sure, is true for every other breed of horse in the world, for horses make humans much nicer than we are) is that this is a very small community. Everyone knows everyone else, one way or another. The Six Degrees of Separation are more like One Degree. Trainers are friends with each other. Jocks hang out at night, after a day of doing battle on the oval.

So I understand that it's hard not to discuss anything and everything, especially when you're buddies off-track with someone who's your mortal enemy when you're working.

But the bottom line is that this race, this wonderful race, this competition of friendly rivals, will do more for the sport of racing--will bring more people into the Saratoga gates--than almost any other competition this racing year. And that these friendly rivals have the opportunity to play clean, to let the filly do her best without impediment and let the chips fall where they may.

A clean race, where every horse has the opportunity to prove her or his mettle in a genuine display of gladiatorial prowess.

And it's perfectly legit, absolutely allowable, for a trainer to talk to his jockey and plot the strategy that will take his horse to the lead in the effort to thwart the efforts of the mighty Rachel. A trainer/jock conversation is not only allowable--it's expected. It's business. It's the job of the trainer to tell the jockey how to ride his horse.

But a conversation between two of these trainers, or between the trainer of one horse and the jockey of another horse--any dialogue between two or more different teams--would be a violation of United States' federal anti-trust law. It's called collusion. Collusion occurs when the representatives of two distinct businesses plot to deep-six the business efforts or success of another, third business. Another description of collusion is, interference of enterprise.

In horse racing, each horse and her/his connections comprise a distinct business. Legally, every horse is a business--and so a dialogue between the trainer of Horse A with the trainer, jockey, owner, etc. of Horse B--would indicate that collusion may be in the works.

Unwittingly, horse connections may find themselves enjoying a cup of coffee with a colleague and utter, "Rachel's got to go." This phrase reportedly had occurred in 2004, when Azeri--a mare of great talent, Horse of the Year for 2002--was in the Breeders' Cup Classic at Lone Star Park. After the race, where--even from my perch in Saratoga, watching the race on TV--it seemed obvious that two horses intentionally pushed Azeri against the rail. They didn't touch her, so they couldn't be disqualified. But it was clear, from 1,200 miles away, that Azeri had been the victim of two horses working together to lessen her chances.

I saw it on the TV that day, and exclaimed to my companions that I'd seen this--and sure 'nuff, a couple of days later, a dialogue was reported in a magazine. Someone had overheard the trainer of one horse saying to the jockey and owner of a second horse that, "Azeri's gotta go," and that if she could be parked onto the rail--it was a done deal.

I called an attorney friend--an anti-trust lawyer from New York City, in fact--and he confirmed that, yes, if that dialogue indeed took place--that was collusion. And that it was illegal.

So I know, I understand--that this is a sport in which friendly enemies are willing to beat each other up mercilessly on the oval--then have a beverage and talk about the kids' new school clothes, an hour later.

It must be very difficult to draw that line, to assure that business is business and friendship is friendship. But trainers and jockeys are very smart people. They're savvy to the ways of the world, and so they know the rules, regulations and laws that dictate the business world and the sport of Thoroughbred racing.

I don't want to see Rachel Alexandra fare horribly on Saturday, September 5th because she was conspired-against. If the object of my wild affection doesn't win the Woodward--I want to see that it happened legitimately. That, for whatever reason, Queen Rachel wasn't the horse for the race.

If she doesn't win, it should be because some other horse felt his oats that day, and soared across the finish line with joy in his heart and adrenalin pumping in a heady moment of unbridled joy.

But if we see more than one horse trying to shove Rachel against the rail from her position in the three-hole--and Calvin's not the one who moved her there--or if she gets boxed in in a ballet of pre-planned choreography--we'll know that someone talked to someone else.

And that's not only not "nice"--it's collusion. And that's a nasty word, a terrible accusation. Our sport doesn't need any more scandal, or opportunities for those outside the sport to jump into our stuff. Racing needs good, clean racing and victors who win their spot the old-fashioned way: by taking a horse to the lead, and winning a clean race. Everyone can cheer for a victor who defeats the favorite, if the victory was achieved with a pure heart.

But no one can congratulate someone whose victory came at the price of their own soul.

Keep it clean, guys. Do battle against the mighty filly, do your very best. Take your A Game onto that track. And if it happens that you don't defeat Rachel Alexandra--well, there's no shame, at all, to coming in second or even last to the best horse in the country. Especially if you gave it your all, and played fair and square.

May the Horse be with every horse in the Woodward, and with all their connections.

[Photo credits: Rachel Alexandra, Cathleen Duffy, The Horse Whisper Photography. Photo of Unfinished Rachel Alexandra painting, Brian T. Fox, Brian Fox Studios. Thank you!]

Horse Sense: Rachel Alexandra and the Power of Serenity

2009-08-31T02:54:47Z

Worry not, I shall write a great deal more about Rachel Alexandra as the week goes on and we get closer to Woodward Stakes Day. Me, and every other racing writer in North America. The time I spent in the Queen's royal presence last Monday morning gave me ample material to write a book, or a screenplay. I wish Jess Jackson would love my writing, and ask me to document his big horse's life for the silver screen. Rachel is not only a feast for the eyes and food for the soul--she's worth her weight in printer's ink.

I'll whet your appetite for the whole story from last week by telling you tell you that, in the midst of the storm that surrounds her--the mighty, invincible, unequaled Rachel Alexandra is a model of serenity. On Monday morning I dubbed her, Her Serene Highness, for I believe that this is her archetypal name, the moniker that was written in the stars before she was born.

]]> With video cameras whirring and still cameras set on "continuous" snapping away; journalists and reporters standing cheek-to-jowl around Steve Asmussen and mindless chatter as scores of voyeurs watched her take a bath--how invasive!--she worked, hotwalked and bathed without any indication that she even knew she was surrounded by interlopers. Her space was seriously invaded by those of us who love her; those who were assigned to cover the story and those who saw the golden dollar signs hanging like a nimbus 'round her perfect, beautiful, gorgeously-marked face.

I have lived a long time, and been a racing fan for...ever--and I'm not sure I've seen such giddy, girlish attention paid to a horse, perhaps ever. I fully expect to see headlines announcing, "Rachel Breathes!"--stories documenting her every inhale and the psycho-sociological/historic implications thereof.

The psychic smothering by so many people--even when it's done in the name of love--could make a being, equine or human, a tad nervous. To say the least. Completely and utterly psycho would be more likely.

But not Rachel Alexandra. I was reminded of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. The truly powerful don't need to flaunt what they have, or can do. At the Fasig-Tipton Yearling Sales on August 10th and 11th, His Highness was very casually dressed and bespectacled, moving through the crowd with grace and quietude of heart. Unlike the flashy nouveau riche whose insecurities require that they don their most ostentatious designer togs and every diamond in the box--one of the wealthiest men in the world felt no such requirement. He knows who he is; what he has and how much power he possesses--and that no amount of designer flash was required to convince himself or others that he's OK.

The possession of genuine, personal power is very good for the soul. Whether the power is yours because you rule a country or just because you're confident in your own abilities and wholeness--power is very appealing to those who observe you in your peacefulness. Real power is attractive precisely because it indicates the acceptance of one's self.

Sheikh Mohammed didn't need to wear an Armani suit--and Rachel Alexandra felt no need to rear up on her hind legs, let out a blood-curdling scream and prove that she's an Alpha. She knows that she's THE Alpha--so no display of her physical strength or primal scream was required. Over and over in my mind, I thought about the fact that she hotwalked and stood for her bath, surrounded by so many human invaders--and the words of a poem came to mind:

"She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..."
- Lord Byron (George Gordon)

Unruffled, unflustered, even as the center of attention every waking second of her life--Rachel Alexandra, Superhorse--truly walks in beauty like the night. She carries her power within, and--having no need to act out, be a spoiled brat, lock herself in her stall or threaten those who would crush her with their adoration--moved silently around that ring and stood regally and calmly in a situation that would unnerve one who had not her peace of heart. The peace that comes only from within, from embracing one's own power--and only as a byproduct of absolute confidence and the ability to take it all in, filter it--and yet not be affected by any of it.

This past week has, for me, been a time that offered many opportunities to freak out, lose my cookie and worry until my dreams are plagued by dancing, demonic fish-faced modern dancers. Every life has its ups and downs, and this week threw some downs at me. The next seven days may tempt me to worry. But the potential for bliss is always present, too. And bliss, on the other hand, can carry us on its gentle wings to unexpected heights and places of new creativity. Bliss, as I understand it, is the unexpected joy that springs from a heart that is, like that of our beloved Rachel Alexandra--calm, serene and confidently strong, even in a maelstrom. The serene heart knows that nothing that Life throws at us--bad news or stalking by paparazzi--nothing can conquer or dismay the truly peaceful at heart.

Worry is the almost immediate response to the curve balls that life throws at us. We get tossed a curve, and we immediately kick into worry. And worry--as its companion demon, fear--never accomplishes a thing. Nothing is gained by being preoccupied by worrying about something. Worry never changed anything. Prayer changes things. Action can change things, if it's a situation in which we have some measure of control. Recruiting the aid of friends can help.

But worry? Fear? Running around like a beheaded chicken? Nothing good can come from losing my mind over a situation, regardless of how dire or unfair it may seem. Jesus said that not one minute is added to our lives by worrying. In fact, it's probably the opposite: worry causes stress, and stress is responsible for so much illness, thanks to that tricky mind-body connection. Worrying can make you sick, so the tendency to worry should be cast aside, tout de suite.

I'm going to take a page, instead, from a friend. Her Serene Highness, Empress of All Her Eye Surveys Rachel Alexandra. Well, OK, Rachel Alexandra isn't exactly a friend. We've never snuggled, or even touched each other. Yet. (Hope springs eternal.) But I love her, and we exchanged spirit contact last Monday--which truly, I promise to describe in detail, probably Tuesday.

But I consider Queen Rachel to be a friend--or perhaps I should say, mentor. I read her peaceful spirit, and wanted to integrate that knowledge into my own life. The Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) said that, "...if your neighbour owns a horse and you do not, open a window in the wall to allow the Blessings to reach you from next door." Another Arabic proverb observes that "...the wind of Heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears."

Regardless of the negative observations of naysayers who insist that horses are four legs, no brain and potential protein sources, they are, to those of us attuned to capital-T Truth--archetypal, spiritual, centered beings. They seem to know secrets about Life that we mere humans, if we manage to just sit still and listen--can hear and learn from our bemaned counselors.

If you get the chance to touch a horse--especially a horse as centered as Rachel Alexandra--do so. Do not hestitate. Do not wonder if the horse will think you're nuts. Always ask permission of a horse's owner or other connection, but, once that is secured: do it. Just let the horse sniff you, and s/he will take it from there. Thoroughbreds, while they have a reputation for being insane and prickly--are, in my experience, quite the opposite. Rachel Alexandra is a priestess of her sect. We can learn great truths from horses, and a being on the level of the Queen teaches us first and foremost that peace of heart--serenity--even in the center of a storm, good or bad--is possible.

Take a page from Rachel's book, and acknowledge your own inner power. Let that power connect you to yourself and to the Divine. Take that power, focus firmly on the future and let the peace radiate out from the inside.

Close your eyes. Open your heart. Hear the siren song of the horse, and listen to the aria that has but one lyric. When Rachel Alexandra is confronted with pressure to lose her nut, to panic in the face of the crushing throng, she arches her powerful neck, head toward her heart and moves through the crowd as if on a different plane from all others. Her response to pressure, her lesson for tonight, is the absolute refusal to allow the cacophony to enter her personal space. Rachel say, "Neigh" to the useless option of worry--and so should we.

[Credits: "Unfinished Rachel Alexandra," painting (work in progress) by Brian T. Fox. Photo of Rachel Alexandra racing, courtesy of New York Racing Association/Adam Coglianese. Rachel Alexandra headshot, Cathleen Duffy, The Horse Whisper Photography. Thank you all!]

Rachel Alexandra + Brian T. Fox + Siro's = Majesty, Power and Insight

2009-08-28T15:05:19Z

I've written about visionary artist, Brian T. Fox, in a previous column here on Saratoga.com. I know Brian as both a friend and as an artist. I first met him four years ago, at an event for the Jackie Robinson Foundation. He'd painted the late legend, and was present to show his work to a throng of admirers of the great athlete--including Mrs. Robinson, herself.

In the four years since then, I've been privy to the inner workings of the artist's brain and soul. I get to see his paintings before they're finished, and consider it an honour and privilege to see the process, first-hand.

]]> I just received an email containing the latest painting, a work still in progress. I am sharing this photo of the unfinished painting so that you can get excited about it, and be at Siro's on Shadwell Travers Day to watch Brian work on this very piece.

Brian will be working on this artwork, the most magnificent painting of Rachel Alexandra that I've ever seen, outside of Siro's, so that you can become part of the creative process. Imagine that. While many artists in the world of Thoroughbred racing are painting her--who wouldn't?--Brian is the one who captures the strength of the magnificent filly. He knows her, from a place deep within where both souls meet. He understands horses--intuits them--and understands the workings of Her Serene Highness better than any artist I've encountered.

Many of his paintings are done in black and white, some with a bit of sepia. This starkness finds not only musculature and strength, but goes into the very being of the subject. So it is with Brian's painting--even in "rough draft form" of Rachel Alexandra. I experienced her last Monday as I've never before experienced a horse--and will report on that on Sunday. To whet your appetite, all I can say is that a moment that transcended time and space occurred between me and the best horse in America. She's probably the best horse in the world, and I know this because...she told me.

On Saturday, August 29th, Brian will be outside the racing institution, Siro's, to work on the Rachel painting. We have the opportunity to see a genuine artist at work. Too many people throw around the word, "artist," when in fact they are very good craftspersons. Brian T. Fox is an artist whose name in the future will be spoken in the same hushed tones as those of Picasso, Miro and Ver Meer. A contemporary artist, someone we can experience first-hand in our generation--but whose talent and access to Divine instruction goes far beyond that which we may have encountered in our everyday lives.

This opportunity, to see Fox paint outside of Siro's, is far more than a sideshow: this is an invitation into the al fresco studio of a genius.

Please consider this your personal invitation to be outside of Siro's on Shadwell Travers Day, (perhaps before the race, definitely after), and meet Brian T. Fox in person. His eyes may take you aback when first you meet--but your soul will connect with him. You'll see his hands bring to life the power and majesty that we know as Rachel Alexandra. And you'll go home talking about the experience, for this magical moment will be a highlight of your Saratoga Summer--perhaps of your life.

Peace to you, and as always--May the Horse be with you.

Feel-Good Opportunity of the Week: Help Rescued Thoroughbreds via Columbia-Greene Humane Society Booth at Saratoga Race Course!

2009-08-25T15:21:59Z

On Wednesday, August 26th, we'll have the opportunity to thank the good hearts of the Columbia-Greene Humane Society (henceforth, CGHS) for all the work they do, day-in and day-out, year after year.

But the work for which we who love horses are most grateful is their tremendous work on behalf of the nearly 200+ horses who were neglected, sick and starving on Ernie Paragallo's farm in Climax, New York.

Unless you've lived under a rock for the last half-year, you know the story. Paraneck Stables, the racing arm of Paragallo's dysfunctional empire, has a farm in Upstate New York. On this farm lived Thoroughbreds who somehow fell through the cracks. How an 1,nearly 200-pound animal can fall through the cracks is beyond me. How over nearly 200 of them can go unnoticed is absolutely unfathomable. Somewhere along the line, "benign neglect" was replaced with "intentional, passive-aggressive murder attempt."

And so the CGHS stepped in in April, and confiscated the horses whose lives were endangered. All were treated, pro bono, by a man I am dubbing, Saint Jerry--Dr. Jerry Bilinski, the equine veterinarian who could not let these horses suffer when he had the tools, knowledge and compassion to help. Ronald L. Perez, Jr. (Ron Perez), the dedicated and compassionate Director and Investigator of the CGHS, would not tolerate these actions: his team of Board members, volunteers, staff and enforcement officers snatched the horses and got them to Dr. Bilinski for Phase I of their rescue.

The next step, that of adopting them out once they were healthy enough to be weaned from medical attention, is in process even as I write this.

This piece is not intended to be a downer, in any way. Inasmuch as I have very strong feelings about the events, I am neither the judge nor the jury. I needed to provide background so that you can know what good has been done so far, and that you may realize that more help is needed in order to assure that each of these horses are loved and safe.

]]> And now a piece of Really Good News--the opportunity is presenting itself on Wednesday, the 26th, to step up to the plate and do a kindness for the horses! On that day, Mary Anne Macica, who, with her sister-in-law, adopted three of the orphans, will join the crew from the Columbia-Greene Humane Society at the Saratoga Race Course to raise funds and awareness of the need for our entire racing community to participate in the continued nurturing of these horses. About 70 of the horses have been adopted out so far, but there is much work to do in order to assure a bright future for these gorgeous, loving animals.

[NOTE: I originally instructed that the information booth will be set up near NYRA's info kiosk ("May I Help You?"), inside the Clubhouse entrance of the track. I passed on incorrect info, folks--sorry! BUT: I realized, after receiving an email from Susan, with different info, that they'll be outside the Silks Room (opposite side from the Jocks' Room), near the path to the paddock, close to the Union Avenue entrance. Blood-Horse confirmed this, this morning. Check there first--that's the spot reserved for non-profits.]

We'll be there to offer moral support to these wonderful human souls who look into equine eyes and see sadness and are determined to bring the light back into those big, soulful orbs.

Please make a point to stop by the booth to say hi. Please give a donation--or arrange to help however you can. Here's an idea: instead of doing that expensive wheel (bet) on Wednesday, how about taking that money and dropping it into the coffer? Or if you can't bear to part with that cash, commit to tithing your day's winnings? A tithe is 10% of your income--ten percent of whatever you win tomorrow, whether you win $2 or $2,000--will go a long way toward assuring that the horses find loving homes and are provided with food, medicine and all the other essentials to live a peaceful, healthy life from this point-on. You're not going to miss 10%--but the horses will be blessed immeasurably by your kindness.

I commit to giving 10% of my winnings to the Columbia-Greene Humane Society on Wednesday, August 26th, earmarked for the horses. I challenge you all to do the same. Not only will we help the horses find warm, safe homes where they'll sleep well at night--but we'll sleep better, ourselves. The knowledge that we've done this one thing for these beautiful creatures and the people who've worked 24/7 to save their lives--well, that's reward enough. Being able to participate on any level, however small or large, is a blessing and a balm to our weary human souls.

And God knows, modern life does make us weary. I call horses, "Valium on the hoof," because they calm my spirit immediately upon contact. The exhaustion of living in contemporary America can drain us of all our resources, including our compassion. Tithing and other giving to such a worthy cause can only help re-humanize you, and put the spark back into your eye.

It's a win-win situation. See you on Wednesday. And be prepared to feel good about yourself--I joyously anticipate it, myself.

[For more information about Wednesday at Saratoga Race Course, please contact either Mary Anne Macica at (518) 469-3578 or the Columbia-Greene Humane Society, (518) 828-6044. Thank you, and...May the Horse be with you!]

Happy Birthday, Nicholas Bachalard!!!!!

2009-08-24T17:11:43Z

If I were Gio Ponti, I'd run like a lunatic, too. Straight toward the finish line--if the impossibly handsome and gifted Nicholas Bachalard was standing next to the pole.

;)

Gio Ponti is rockin' the races: his win in the Arlington Million was a beautiful thing to see. Watching from the Saratoga backstretch TVs (at the proverbial Lemonade Stand), we cheered as the crazy-good, two-millionaire grandson of my beloved Alydar blasted across the finish line first. I'd love to meet him in person. It's not for nothing that Gio Ponti is the top turf horse in the United States--he's earned his chops, and has a great team guiding his career.

I also wouldn't mind meeting Bachalard, Clement's gifted, intuitive and much-beloved Assistant Trainer. Many people admire and respect Bachalard, for myriad reasons. My friend, Beverly Sinclair, wants to make sure that the Fabulous Frenchman (my term, not Beverly's!) has a GREAT birthday.

So...if you see Nicholas Bachalard on Tuesday, August 25th--please wish him a ridiculously Happy Birthday. Let him know that he's appreciated--and that this sport, horses and humans, alike--are better for his presence and commitment.

Happy Birthday, Nicholas Bachalard--God bless you, and continue to gift you with compassion, insight and wisdom as your career grows to accommodate your tremendous talent.

Horse Sense: The Odds Mean NOTHIN'.

2009-08-21T17:45:01Z

Many people make a healthy living handicapping horse races. Math, science, statistics, pedigree and workout times all play a role in the determination of a horse's odds in any given race. The handicappers who hunker down over the papers and come to conclusions as to Who Will Take the Day have at their disposal the aforementioned arsenal of ammo with which to make their prognostications. The odds help bettors decide how to place their wagers, and the sport of racing Thoroughbreds thrives--or doesn't--according to how well the bettors fared on any given day.

The only variable, the one that no one in the game of handicapping ever seems to take into account, because it is totally unpredictable, and therefore cannot be factored in--is the wild card fact that horses are sentient beings. Living, breathing, thinking creatures who don't care about the odds. (I wouldn't say that they don't know--horses know when a tornado is coming, long before the humans in its path are aware. I believe that horses know about the odds, and no doubt have their own sidebets. When you hear whinnying down a shedrow, it's probably the horses placing bets on which handicappers will almost get it right that day.)

Horses, as sentient beings, have good days and bad days. A 5-2 favorite may get into the paddock on a particular day and decide that s/he simply isn't doing it this time. S/he doesn't care that Joe from Hoboken has bet on that race, and needs the cash to pay the mortgage. Or that Judy from Syracuse has a sidebet with her friends, that she will once again win the most money at the track on Girls' Day Out...

]]> Horses have feelings. They can wake up in the morning with a headache, a bad mood or the desire to sleep in that day. They don't care, one iota, that they may be the favorite--and that a lot of people will be disappointed if they don't win.

The flip side of the coin is that horses also don't care that they're the longshot. Sometimes the odds on a horse go so high that one wonders if the horse is actually in a coma, and the connections intend to prop her up and send her out there connected to an IV drip.

It occurs to me that the horses' attitudes toward the odds is the ideal way to feel about a human construct that's intended to curse or glorify another species.

And that, the horses' utter lack of concern about odds is an attitude that we humans should adopt. Too many people--especially women and girls--care way too much about what other people think of them. Some people are actually paralyzed if they're not liked by everyone they meet. That's very sad, for no has the right to tell another person how s/he ought to be.

Our culture has created a monster of insecurity. We're bombarded daily with the information that, if we don't wear/do/eat/botox/think/work at something that's sanctioned by someone else--we are failures. That someone who set the standards is just an average person, and has no clout if we don't give it to them. No one has the authority to tell us how we should operate, except we, ourselves.

Eleanor Roosevelt advised us that no one can hurt our feelings unless we let them.

It drives me 'round the bend that so many brilliant women and girls, in particular, are frozen in place when the proverbial odds seem to dictate that they're a "loser."

Horses, on the other hand, are consummately Zen. Have you ever seen a horse on Valium? (Ace notwithstanding--and the Ace is administered by a human.) Horses, in their natural environment, may be skittish--they have a long history as prey animals, skittishness saves lives--but they never doubt the validity of their actions.

So a horse on the racetrack who is pronounced as being a longshot--doesn't believe it, for one minute. Every single horse in every race knows that, regardless of what the silly humans think--the variables that really go into determining a race's outcome is, ultimately, in the control of the horses, themselves.

They know that a longshot has as good a chance as the Big Horse on the track--if that longshot believes in herself, and refuses to let the large, black type on the program get to them--a longshot can become a Champion in the blink of an eye.

Case in point: Saratoga is almost famous for being the stomping grounds of longshots who win resoundingly. I recall in 2003, three longshots took the first three positions in a race. The exacta paid $18,842. You read that right: Eighteen-thousand, eight-hundred and forty-two dollars. A $2 exacta ticket paid an astronomical number, simply because two longshots decided that that day was their day.

On August 15, 2009, Two Notch Road went off at 99-1 in the Continental Mile at Monmouth Park. Ridden by Shannon Uske (a woman, please note), owned and trained by Glenn R. Thompson, the gelding started his day at 20-1. By the time the race went off, bettors had heavily wagered against him, and the guy left the starting gate at ridiculously high odds. The tote board wouldn't record anything higher, but his odds were really 107.20-1: when the handsome boy flew across the finish line first, he paid a staggering $216.40.

I'm all about pedigree, but not necessarily for the reasons one might think. I believe that genetics--and spiritual connection--to talented ancestors can pass on such things as talents, intellectual tendencies and physical weaknesses.

Two Notch Road has great breeding: the gorgeous two-year-old is a grandson of the great Danzig, and great-grandson of my beloved Seattle Slew. Slew is my all-time favorite Thoroughbred, and no one can tell me that, whenever one of his grands or great-grands is running--the old man isn't there, hovering just above and entwined in the very sinews and muscles of his progeny. Just as I have the insanely thick hair of my great-uncle, Milo, and the personality of my Grandmother--Two Notch Road carries the DNA of the only undefeated Triple Crown winner, informing every cell in his body.

For this reason alone, I would have bet on TNR.

But many did not. And those people were sorely disappointed when the gorgeous horse sailed to a 1 ¼ length lead over his competitors--including the favorite. Glenn Thompson knew he could win. Shannon Uske knew her mount could take it. Two Notch Road, himself, knew that the odds had nothing, whatsoever, to do with his own ability--his right--to stand in that winner's circle.

The horse knew that it didn't matter if he raced at Monmouth, Mountaineer or Dubai--the mighty Slew wrote a large chapter of his destiny. The venue had nothing to do with the horse's innate ability to win, because location has nothing to do with belief in one's self.

The odds mean nothing in the race of Life. A million people can say that you can't do something, it may be printed in The New York Times, and presented as Fact. The only person whose opinion of you matters is...you. If you know that you come from great stock, that you have the right to inherit the mantle of victory and success--you can do it. Ignoring the odds can only do you good. If Two Notch Road and his connections had paid any attention to that tote board, which became progressively more damning with every minute--the horse would have sat down in the gate and gotten himself scratched. Peppermints back at the stall seems like a far-better option to defeat and humiliation.

But no one who knew that horse believed the ridiculous odds, not for a single minute. Most importantly, Two Notch Road, himself, knew that the oddsmakers--and surely, the misled bettors--were wrong. So wrong, in fact, he determined to show them what it looks like, how it feels--how exhilarating--it can be if we ignore the odds, and listen only to the dictates of our own hearts.

The odds mean nothing. Ever. No amount of figuring, no speed figures, nothing, whatsoever, can stop a horse who knows in his very being that he has the stuff to win. And no one can ever tell any of we mere humans that which all horses have known, all along: that the odds of winning a race, equine or human, are determined not in the backroom of a racing publication or gossip girls' blog. The odds of us winning the Race of Life, as our horsie friends know, are made only of our own belief in ourselves--or lack thereof.

As always, May the Horse be with You.

[Photo credits: Two Notch Road and Tote Board for Two Notch Road's race at Monmouth Park, courtesy of EquiPhoto at Monmouth Park. Thank you so much!]

Going to the Races in Saratoga: What's YOUR Experience?

2009-08-20T17:25:02Z

Well...there are myriad experiences available for the taking when one makes the pilgrimage to the renowned Saratoga Race Course. Some prefer the Clubhouse. Others like to picnic with friends, camped right outside the paddock.

One fellow on YouTube documented his entree to the track for the first time--and hauled himself out of bed to be outside the Union Avenue gate for 4:30AM. God bless him! I wish I could relate to this experience, but I can't. I've never gotten up that early for anything other than to watch a horse workout at the track!

But many people DO get up at a beastly hour, to run through those gates when they open at 7AM, to get their preferred picnic spot. As said the gentleman, himself, it looks like the running of the bulls.

Please watch the embedded video, and send in your comments. We'd like to hear about your preferred way to go to the races. If you're a 4:30AM, outside-the-gate runner--because those folks DO run like mad to get to their favorite spot--or perhaps you're a Clubhouser. Or you arrive just before the first post at 1PM, and take your chances.

Whatever your favorite way to go to the races, please tell us. As many people exist who are fans of racing--that's how many different ways there are of experiencing the racetrack that is unlike any other on Earth. Everyone has their own wonderful memories of Saratoga Race Course, and a Day at the Races. Tell us yours!

Oh, and...the poor fellow who did the vid must, indeed, be a newbie: he didn't realize that the Saratoga Raceway is NOT the Saratoga Race Course, whence run the Thoroughbreds. Saratoga Raceway is the name of the harness track on Jefferson Street. We love the harness track, but all racetrackers know the difference in the names, breeds and styles of racing of the two racing ovals. So cut the guy a break--we'll tell him if ever we meet him. But enjoy his video, and then please send in your comments to us at Saratoga.com. We want to know how YOU best enjoy your Days at the Spa!

Thanks, and--may the Horse be with you, as always!

P.S. Word to the Wise: If you ARE among the group of people who get there for 4:30AM, to run in at 7AM and get your favorite spot...you might want to consider going to the NELSON AVENUE gate, instead of Union. Clubhouse entrance and general admission there...and they open the gates for breakfast. Far fewer people with whom to compete as you cruise onto the grounds, to find your ideal spot.

Link to YouTube video:

[Photo of Rachel Alexandra credit: Cathleen Duffy, The Horse Whisper Photography]

Lights, Camera, Auction! Yearling Sales Generate Heat, Electricity in Showcase Venue

2009-08-17T18:02:05Z

Thoroughbred racing is the most exhilarating sport on Earth. Thoroughbred sales, contrary to popular belief, are far more than a shopping excursion. A night at the Fasig-Tipton Yearling Sales is the most stimulating, blood-pumping and intriguing night one can experience this side of the Casbah.

Fasig-Tipton, the world-renowned equine auction house, presented two days of spectacular racing at Saratoga Race Course the weekend of August 8th and 9th. This weekend was a brilliant way to highlight the natural relationship between the two industries: after horses are created, they are sold at auction at age one. At age two, those horses may be in training, and end up racing just down the street from the sales facility where they first made their debut. The Festival of Racing, presented by Fasig-Tipton and NYRA, was the first-ever wed-ding of these two facets of the sport--a brilliant idea, and a spectacularly successful weekend.

Creating a Buzz: World-Class Racing on the Oval--then Outstanding Sales in the Ring

The weekend of racing built up the excitement, and that wild enthusiasm culminated in the two days of the Fasig-Tipton Selected Yearling Sales on Monday night, August 10th and Tuesday night, the 11th.

Fasig-Tipton recently went through a multimillion-dollar facelift, upgrades sorely-needed after many years of wear and thousands of horses. Synergy Investments, Ltd, of Dubai, had purchased the auction house in 2008, and in so doing gave to the equine industry a boost in the arm as they presented us with the world's most elegant, important and prestigious facility for the sale of exquisite Thoroughbreds--and it's in Saratoga Springs, New York. Not in England. Not in Hong Kong. Saratoga. This is an amazing fact, that the brilliant and insightful people from Dubai who own the company recognized that this place, this Mecca of racing, should be the location of the world's most important horse sales...

]]> (I hope that, sometime on the horizon, they plan to sell Arabian horses--the founding breed of our beloved Thoroughbreds--in this same auction ring. To deny the importance of the Arabian breed in the world of Thoroughbred racing is to deny the genetic, spiritual and emotional relationship of the most primal, organic and original connection between horse and rider. Selling Arabians of high birth through the Saratoga facility would not only make sense--it would help wed the communities of our two breeds and the traditions, in much the same way that the Fasig-Tipton Festival of Racing married racing and breeding/sales. A natural connection, which should be marketed to help advance both sports and benefit many people and horses, in both arenae. Note that I saw a Thoroughbred coming back from a race yesterday, whose Arabian roots was very pronounced: her nose was almost concave, not fully straight. Her eyes were slightly more forward than the traditional Thoroughbrd, and her eyes were slightly thinner, longer and pricked forward. It was a most amazing thing to see, a filly whose great-Grandfather, whether the Darley Arabian, Godolphin Arabian or Byerly Turk--was so clearly visible.)

The facilities: Unlike any Other, Anywhere on Earth

The renewed Fasig-Tipton facilities wed form to function in a fashion that is heretofore unknown in the world of equine sales. The beautiful new buildings and rejuvenated grounds sparkle under the best-possible, exquisitely-engineered, non-invasive lighting. The horses shine as never before as they make their debuts 'neath copper roofs in freshly-painted walking rings, their juvenile hooves treading gently on a bed of rubber "cobblestone" walkways.

As was reported first in Saratoga TODAY newspaper in March, Fasig-Tipton, aimed to create in Saratoga Springs a facility unlike any other on the planet. In the effort to make the Saratoga property a truly-world-class, welcoming and gracious environment, they gave to the city and the industry a space that is not only functionally far superior to the previous incarnation--they conjured an atmosphere that is reminiscent of a Peter Lorrey film.

The Brightest and the Best, Under a Canopy of Stars

The first night of the Yearling Sales was electric with anticipation as patrons and rubberneckers alike breathlessly took in the lush Boston ferns; fresh, green barns; new walking ring; second-floor lounge and waterwall which seemingly flowed from the feet of elegant patrons.

The lighting was perfect, the result of studying the psychology of appropriate lighting for every square foot of the buildings and grounds. The Adirondack skies reflected back the light of equine and human stars on East Avenue. The wonderment of this amusement park for horselovers and the uber-rich inspired the question: how could a place to serene and quiet in its design could generate enough watts to light up Giants' Stadium?

Convening with friends was as easy as in previous years: the patio remains essentially the same. The tables and chairs provided for those not in the sales pavilion are consistently beautiful, comfortable and convenient, and easily accessible to those who desire to dine al fresco. Man O'War, the five-star dining gift to the community, is elegant, crisp and surprisingly intimate.

Old Traditions Share Space with New Neighbors and Fascinating Colleagues

Some things will never change about yearling sales, regardless of the location or ambience: the baby horses will always endear hearts with their baby whinneys. The khaki-clad grooms who work for the consignors will always look back twenty years hence to reminisce about how they came up through the ranks. The auctioneer will always confuse newbies with his lightning-fast recitation of prices, and buyers and sellers will never breathe until they have achieved the purchase of The Horse, and shut the door on the trailer containing their million-dollar babies.

The first night of the 2009 sales was alive with anticipation, as patrons of all stripes buzzed about the gorgeous work that had been done in so short a time. The fascination with the achievements of Synergy Investments, Ltd as the new owners of Fasig-Tipton dissolved quickly as the first year-old Thoroughbred took the stage in the Humphrey S. Finney Pavilion on the expanded and beautiful new stage. Bernardini was the hot property sire, as his progeny--especially the fillies--got the highest prices. In grocery terms, Bernardini babies were flying off the shelves at prices such as $1.2 million and $1.4 million.

Economic Indicators and Cause for Optimism

In an age when "recession" as keyword has plagued many hearts and minds, there was no sign of an economic downturn at the Fasig-Tipton facility on East Avenue on August 10, 2009. If horse sales are any indication of the state of the economy--then the American financial stage is about to host a major upswing.

A Setting Fit for Royalty. Really.

Saratoga Springs offers more than any other small city in the nation, and on that first night of the Fasig-Tipton Selected Yearling Sales--the city played host to some of the world's wealthiest people; most prolific business minds; celebrities and Kentucky gentlemen of great grace and style.

Celebrity chef, Bobby Flay, was in the center of the walking ring, cheek-to-jowl with Vanderbilts and--the highlight of the evening--the man whose contributions to our city are beyond description or understanding of depth.

His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the Ruler of Dubai--and dedicated horseman, brilliant businessman, visionary and poet--was on-hand to buy a few horses, reacquaint with colleagues and, surprisingly, blend in with the crowd. Clad in a white shirt, light blue jeans and dark blue sneakers, His Highness was testimony to the fact that the truly powerful don't have the need to display all they own. While the nouveau riche are compelled to wear every diamond and designer in their wardrobe, simultaneously--creating visual cacophony--one of the most powerful men on Earth was moving through the crowd in comfortable clothes, laughter and the air of one who feels no need to flaunt his wealth. There are so many reasons to respect His Highness: his laid-back presence at the Sales added more fuel to my admiration.

If Monday the 10th was a sign that the recession is over and that Americans--at least in Saratoga--can exhale. Horses played an irreplaceable role in the forging of America and the culture thereof. Once again, the horses are leading the way, pointing toward economic growth; renewed spirit and encouragement for anyone within the glow of their sparkling coats.

Fasig-Tipton and the insightful owners have faith in the future of the sport of Thoroughbred racing--and of Saratoga--and is poised to lead the way to the growth of the sport. On Monday night, August 10th, the gavel hit the desk 118 times, and the verdict was, "Sold!"

[Photo credits: Fasig-Tipton Company, for Festival of Racing logo. Cathleen Duffy, The Horse Whisper Photography, for photo of Charitable Man. Embassy of the United Arab Emirates, photo of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum.]

Women + Thoroughbreds = Power: Women's Day, 2009.

2009-08-15T05:18:06Z

It is a supreme joy to be able to report that on Wednesday, August 19th, Saratoga Race Course will host the fourth annual Women's Day to honor the gender that is the majority of the fanbase of Thoroughbred racing. The event it co-sponsored by NYRA (New York Racing Association) and B95.5 (Albany Broadcasting). Enthusiastic moral support is offered by Saratoga Publishing (Saratoga TODAY newspaper; The Saratoga Experience magazine) and www.Saratoga.com.

2009 is the first year that the event will offer the Racing Vocations table, a booth womaned by females of all stripes who work in and around the magnificent sport of Thoroughbred horse racing. Jockeys, trainers, farriers, veterinarians, owners, grooms, hotwalkers, exercise riders, pari-mutuel tellers, writers, artists and administrators of the female kind are invited come together to speak one-on-one with women and girls about the joys, frustrations and victories of their jobs. Horsewomen, Sara Dunham of All Play Stable, Kate O'Brien Veitch, Nina Miskiewicz and Ronnie Betor; Artist, Rumara Jewett; and Jockey, Maylan Studart are just a few of those who are expected to spend time at the booth and meet girls and women who drop by...

]]> The road to a career in Thoroughbred racing has not always been a walk in the park for women: many have had a rough time of it as they strove to carve out vocations in this sport. Others have been blessed to find no resistance to their (our) presence at the track. But too many had to fight tooth-and-nail for their rightful place in the shedrow, oval or boardroom.

Hall of Fame Jockey Julie Krone could tell you stories that will curl your hair--and her story will, indeed, be told. Two strong, smart women (Director Katherine Brooks and Producer, Sophie Watts) have been in Saratoga for several days, scouting locations for their film, "The Boys' Club." The film documents the contentious, often bloody resistance that Krone experienced on her path to history. She was the first female member of the Racing Hall of Fame, and the only woman therein until August 14, 2009. That statistic, alone, gives rise to many questions about continued outdated attitudes in the sport: the fact that only one woman was a member of the Hall of Fame until August, 2009--and she was inducted only in 2000--gives one pause.

Many wonderful men have been staunch supporters of females among their ranks, and we celebrate those gentlemen with gratitude and joy: Leroy Jolley, D. Wayne Lukas, Todd Pletcher, John Pricci, Steve Haskin, Allen Jerkens and Jean Cruguet are among the throng of males who have welcomed women into their literal and figurative shedrows over the years. Others were not quite as welcoming, and some still have a difficult time wrapping their heads around the notion of working shoulder-to-shoulder with females among their ranks. Others may be outright misogynists. I feel sorry for them, for they're missing fully 51% of the joy of life--and the camaraderie of colleagues who have much to offer.

We respect those men who love women truly, and respect us for what we bring to the table. We womyn who love this sport and who work within it choose to celebrate the great men whose level heads and egalitarian hearts, such as the fellows named above. These are the Real Men of Racing, and, even though they'll be in their own barns and offices on Women's Day at Saratoga Race Course--we know that they'll be with us in spirit.

The Racing Vocations booth will be open and ready for the business of making connections and shoring up alliances, between 9AM and 10:30AM, and then again from 11AM until after the last race. We'll share stories; build friendships and business associations and encourage those who may not-yet know that they, too, can find their vocational fulfillment in this sport. This sport, according to my reckoning, is The Only Sport Worth Watching. I have a motto: "If it doesn't have four legs and a mane--or ride something with four legs and a mane--it ain't an athlete." This sport excites, frustrates, blesses and satisfies as no other athletic endeavour in the world. Our athletes are strong, smart, loyal, generous of spirit and single-minded in their quest for immortality. We who are blessed to work in this sport, in whatever capacity, are evangelistic and eager to share our experiences with those who may join our ranks.

Please come to the Racing Vocations booth on August 19th, and meet women who want to help you find your vocational bliss. If you're a female who works in the sport in any capacity--we need you! Your time and energy would be greatly appreciated, as we strut our stuff and work together to grow our ranks.

We adore the horses; we love the sport and we want very much to meet everyone who comes by, one girl and woman at a time. (Men are very welcome, of course!) We want to shake your hands and introduce you to our informal sorority, the Sisterhood of Racing. No one will try to force you to take on a job--but no one on that day will tell you that you can't do it, either.

Women + Thoroughbreds truly do = Power, and we want to share that power with you. Who knows? Maybe next August, you'll join us as a professional in racing, and offer your time to encourage women and girls who need to hear your story.

I'm a writer, and God knows that I love a good story.

Who:    You. Us. Experienced women in racing, and those who want in on the fun.
What:   Racing Vocations Booth at the Women's Day celebration.
When:  Wednesday, August 19th, 9AM - 10:30AM, and 11AM 'til after the last race.
Where: Saratoga Race Course.
Why:   Because NYRA and B95.5 are terrific, enlightened people.
            Because we're the majority of the fanbase of Thoroughbred racing.
            Because we want to introduce girls and women to the career possibilities.
            Because when women and girls get together--great things happen.
How:    Show up! If you work in the sport--lend us your expertise.
            If you're a curious or just jonesin' for some sparkling conversation--meet us there.

[Photo credits: Rachel Alexandra and Betor, Cruguet and Altieri, courtesy of The Horse Whisper Photography/Cathleen Duffy.]