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As those who know me are aware, I am (sadly) a bit of a skeptic, regarding the good intentions of other human beings. My motto, "The more humans I meet...the more I love horses" didn't come into existence because I sought to be quoted 100 years hence, but rather because, in my experience--most people are not as trustworthy as most horses.
It's sad, but it's true.
Do you recall the Billy Joel song from 1989, "We Didn't Start the Fire"? In rapid succession, he barked out some 100 events and people that had passed through history between 1949 and 1989. The song's staccato beat and the seeming-cacophony of the music always made me anxious. I think that was the point: we heard and sang the names of some very bad people and events, accompanied by rat-tat-tat-tat music--and maybe, just maybe--we might think about the fact that the actions of an individual or of a nation can ripple to every living being on the planet.
Recent events in our sad, weary world have made me think a great deal about this song--and that things haven't changed very much since 1989, except that perhaps they've gotten worse. Greed, anger, prejudice, hatred--the majority of which are fueled by misconceptions, long-held myths or just plain jealousy--run rampant on our beautiful blue marble planet. One day Guy #1 wants to blow up Country #2; the next day, someone else wants to take over Guy #1's nation, and enslave his people.
It goes on and on, so much rage and unwarranted hatred--the names and locations may change, but the results are the same: we live in a fractured world, with imminent threat of extinction at our own hands. How very stupid are we?
I wonder how it looks from the perspective of One whose feet aren't standing anywhere on the planet? How does this bloated bickering look to God?...
Note: A version of this article appeared recently in a magazine. The article was edited, cut down to half its original size--and thereby lost the emphasis on the issue of racing's need for a Commissioner. I've tweaked the piece, because I really want you, my readers, to think about the fact that horse racing is in dire need of direction. It's the only major sport in the United States that doesn't have a regulating body--and that, as we've seen, has led to a mess. States regulate medications, race days and everything else--but there's no formal organization that represents everyone in racing--including the horses--to sit down at table with the states' various boards and talk turkey.
A fine example of how to run a governing body is Svensk Galopp, the Swedish horse racing authority. Svensk Galopp regulates all the racing in Sweden--both Arabian and Thoroughbred. With a Board made up of horsemen and -women at the helm--people who genuinely love horses, and the sport of racing them--Svensk Galopp successfully has run the business of racing for many years. And the Swedes know racing: they've been at it since 1810--a full 53 years before the first horse ran his first race at our beloved Saratoga.
 Until American racing has a Commission and a strong, savvy Commissioner--racing will always be at the mercy of the states. And some states, as we've seen, have it in for racing. For some puritanical reason, legally betting on horses is frowned-upon by many in political power. And that prejudice can become a vendetta. Unfortunately, we've seen, up-close and personal, what it looks like when a state takes it upon itself to make Life as difficult as possible for racing organizations.
Ironically, I'll wager that 90% of the politicians who'd like to deep-six horse racing--et illegally on...say...football.
Just sayin'.
So racing needs a Commission. And a Commissioner who knows the horses, the people and the sport, cold. Someone who wouldn't be afraid to meet in the office of any state regulating board, and tell it like it is.
My vote for Commissioner goes to...
Leroy Jolley.
The Hall of Fame trainer is admired by fans and his peers. There are ample reasons for the admiration: the blue-eyed genius knows more about horses than, well, almost anyone.
 Tra-lee, tra-la, 'tis Derby Day! The Kentucky Derby, the Thoroughbred horse race that comes packin' over 100 years of history, lore, rituals and fanatics. With many thanks to the owners of CDI, we acknowledge that this is the one day every year when we're guaranteed that, even those who don't care about horse racing--will at least turn on NBC to see the race, itself. You never know: a casual observer the first Saturday in May could end up a devoted fan of the sport by the Saratoga meet. One never knows what will spark the imagination: the flash of light in a horse's eye; "The Call to the Post," played with great pomp and reverence; "My Old Kentucky Home,"--for good or for bad, the song evokes something in almost everyone. It may be the view of a jockery, perched atop a gleaming Thoroughbred, the horse's muscles rippling in the Louisville sunshine...
I had coffee one day this year with an acquaintance, a businesswoman who's very good at  what she does. Educated, smart, sharp and seemingly in control of her emotions (not necessarily a good thing, mind you)--her outer veneer bespoke a woman who has no time for drivel.
And certainly not for the obsession with the lives of others with whom she is not acquainted.
And yet, this woman who might not cross the street to save a dying kitten was very upset about the pending divorce of two friends. Or so I thought.
"Isn't it sad? About John and Kate?" she implored.
"John and Kate." "John and Kate." I wracked my brain and my intercranial Rolodex for the names, scouring to conjur faces of people whom this lady thought we knew in common.
"You know. From the TV show. "Jon and Kate Plus 8!"
I had no idea about whom she was speaking. I must have had the look of someone who just landed on Earth from another planet, earnestly trying to figure out how to use a pepper grinder, for she kept at it until she realized that I was clueless, and could not therefore share her grave concern for this couple and their children. (Apparently I misspelled John's first name in my ignorance and mental scrambling, also.)
My coffee companion was angered by the fact that I neither knew nor cared about this couple and their current angst. I mean, she was sincerely upset with me. Maybe she knew them as friends who just happened to get a TV show?
Nope. The smart businesswoman had never met the two; she lived some 3,000 miles away from their drama and yet she was extraordinarily disturbed because apparently they were going through the throes of divorce.
For the record, I responded by telling her that I didn't give a tiny rat's patootie: if Jon and Kate--or any other celebrity--doesn't care about the status of my Life, why should I be obsessed with theirs? Not a satisfactory response, from the lecture I received about my "hardness of heart." (Her extreme reaction may have been the result of the gallons of caffeine she'd consumed during our klatch. She'd inhaled lattes like a man on Death Row....)
 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...
 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.
 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...
 On the eve of the 2009 Saratoga race meet, it's easy to get caught up in the cacophony because, while the pace is hectic--it's the most fun sort of hectic into which the human soul can be thrust. For me--and others of like mind--this joyous madness begins way back in mid-April, when the Thoroughbreds first start to move back to Saratoga from their winter "snow bird" perches.
Forget the First Saturday in May: each day that brings us closer to The Last Wednesday in July finds the decibels in our heads growing louder: every minute that ticks by, we become more and more crazy with joy. The horses are our rock stars: the Sallee and Brook Ledge vans, their buses filled with potential.
The weeks leading up to the meet is a time of wild planning, as NYRA prepares to move an entire corporation north for six weeks. This is a monumental feat--talk about being organized: basically, NYRA moves Belmont Park up to Saratoga for a month-and-a-half. In the midst of this packing frenzy is the necessity of being uber-together, to assure that not one paper clip or betting voucher misses its ride up the Northway.
The Saratoga meet is like a big, wild-eyed vacation for hundreds of thousands of people and animals who, just last week--may not have known each other. But if you're a fan of this sport, you trek to Mecca once a year to pay your respects, renew acquaintances and bow to the pari-mutuel windows. For six weeks every year, everyone is a friend or at least a potential temporary confidant. It's difficult to keep your head on straight...while this is good madness--it's madness, nonetheless. How to get Zen and stay there?
I have two friends of whom I am very fond, Bella and Madeline. Both are uniquely beautiful: Bella, a dark, sleek brunette, and
 Madeline, a beautiful redhead, have a lot in common. Both are professional athletes. Both are big, strapping girls with large, dark eyes. Bella is a bit older than Madeline, but both are equally fit, sculpted and perfect-of-face.
My two friends are very dear to me, as they're not afraid to express their emotions openly, to wear their hearts on their proverbial sleeves. They love deeply, give their opinons loudly and put their entire beings into their jobs.
Bella is better known as Bella Attrice; Madeline is Catty Madeline, and both are, of course, Thoroughbreds.
These two may very well know each other, but one thing I know for sure is that they share a life motto: "Stick Your Neck Out"...
 Horses can teach us a great deal about Life: all we need do is observe their lives and listen
to their words of Wisdom. The eyes of a horse are the windows into profound insight, if we humans can just slow down long enough to gaze into these deep pools of knowledge.
So every now and then, capital-W Wisdom comes my way, and I feel compelled to share. These insights usually come oozing in because I've been around a horse, or a horseperson (who passes on the knowledge, second-hand from her critter). Not that I fancy myself to be a font of Wisdom, but I catch glimpses of it in the breeze every now and then. I reach out, grab it, process it and pass it on when it seems appropriate.
Lots of the things that pass for Wisdom these days--isn't. Celebrities spout personal platitudes, often inane--but because they're famous and the words are written in exotic fonts--they get a book deal.
You won't get a book deal by participating in "Horse Sense" here on Saratoga.com, but you may make some friends who appreciate the Wisdom that you share here. Please do make comments about the column, and please share your own Wisdom! It's by reading and exchanging ideas that we learn about Life: we can create here a community of Horse Sensible People. How cool is that?
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THE ALPHA MARE, commonly known as M.E. Altieri, is a writer/editor/activist who lives and breathes the art and sport of horse racing—both Arabian and Thoroughbred.
In 19 -- (we're not sharing the year!), at age four, Mare first rode a horse—an American Quarter Horse—on her cousin's farm in Stephentown, New York. That same year her Mother took her to Green Mountain Park, a now- (sadly) defunct Thoroughbred track in Pownal, Vermont. Next stop, Saratoga Race Course. The seed was planted, and a passion, born.
While she does have other interests, none hold a candle to her passion for horses. She finds that horses are far-more intelligent, compassionate and kind than 99% of the people she meets.
Mare has just finished editing a beautiful history book, about Iraqi Purebred Arabians, and is eager for the western world to discover the book, its author and the history of this strain of the breed. Additionally, she contributes to several horse publications (racing and otherwise), including Arabian Finish Line, Desert Mirage and Galopp Magasinet. The Alpha Mare Series, a book series for children, will debut on Caballito Books.
An Alumna of Mount Holyoke College, Mare is a member of American Horse Publications, the Arabian Jockey Club and Arab Business Club. She invites you to read the blog—and to comment here in the Comments section. Become involved in the equine industry via whatever interests you most—and tell Mare about your passion for the horses, the people and the scene. In the words of the great Harvey Pack, Mare offers this benediction: "May the Horse be with you."
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M.E. Altieri
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