It's not just hype: True greatness walks among us, and the ground thunders 'neath her mighty hooves.
For those of you who can't get enough of Rachel Alexandra, fear not: the media frenzy is only beginning.
Not a day goes by in America that the spectacular filly isn't featured somewhere in print, electronic or CyberSpace: she wins big races by big margins. She breaks records. She shoots bullet workouts. She ripples with power, authority and self-actualization.
Her every movement is documented by someone, somewhere--and she almost single-hoofedly brings a sorely-needed shot in the arm to the industry of racing and breeding Thoroughbreds.
Virtually every racing media outlet--and non-racing alike--has featured the sparkling daughter of Medaglia d'Oro. We're inundated with images of the great filly at every turn. Even Vogue will feature the long-legged beauty with the Betty Davis eyes.
This star--this goddess--is royally bred: the daughter of Medaglia d'Oro--a great Champion, himself--upped her sire's stock almost immediately this past spring. Darley America acquired the Gold Medal in June: the stallion's future is so bright, there's a nimbus 'round his head.
All the media attention might lead an outsider to think that perhaps fans of racing are just getting googly-eyed, once again falling in love with just another pretty face.
I spent Monday morning in her presence, and--as a fan of the sport for nearly five decades--can testify that, not only is she in her own category--Rachel Alexandra may well be in her own species.
A healthy, although not oppressively-large, crowd gathered in the dark grey Saratoga mist at 5 a.m.: Rachel doesn't go out before sunlight, as well she shouldn't. The usual crowd, a mix of racetrackers and media reps, greeted each other, drank coffee and speculated about when The Great One might emerge from her cocoon-like environment at the Oklahoma Training Track.
Later than expected, and sans fanfare, the bay filly moved through the gap, and stepped one platinum hoof onto the dirt surface that has hosted the greatest horses in the history in racing. As if on cue, the mist rose, the skies became brighter and, to those attuned to the Song of Heaven--a choir of angels began the aria. She was in good company: the essence of those who wore the mantle of greatness could be felt. The celestial Pantheon was palpable as the newest member of their elite club glided with supreme grace through their hunting grounds. She floated past her admirers and the clockers' stand as she made her way clockwise to the place where she'd turn around to start her jog, then full-out gallop.
This singularly-talented filly whose species numbers one, is not only ridden by a human--but is driven by Destiny as well. This was obvious moments later when, on the Fifth Avenue side of the track--she lowered her mighty head, heaved her chest and powered around the track. The clockers' watches may well have anthropomorphized and voluntarily broken into shards from the pressure of trying to define a creature who is not tethered to the temporal, cultural construct of Time.
As she barreled past the clockers' stand, I felt the crackle of an earthquake as I realized that I was standing on the epicenter, the place at which the ground splits in half with the absolute, untouchable power of God.
In that moment, we knew that this ground-shaker--this being which is capable of moving the Earth, herself, to bow at the knee--is far more than a runway model or flavor du jour. Rachel Alexandra is truly a singular sensation, a being whose greatness will be retold 100 years hence. And today, this sweltering Saratoga morning, we participated in her story--if only for a moment in time.
Not a day goes by in America that the spectacular filly isn't featured somewhere in print, electronic or CyberSpace: she wins big races by big margins. She breaks records. She shoots bullet workouts. She ripples with power, authority and self-actualization.
Her every movement is documented by someone, somewhere--and she almost single-hoofedly brings a sorely-needed shot in the arm to the industry of racing and breeding Thoroughbreds.
Virtually every racing media outlet--and non-racing alike--has featured the sparkling daughter of Medaglia d'Oro. We're inundated with images of the great filly at every turn. Even Vogue will feature the long-legged beauty with the Betty Davis eyes.
This star--this goddess--is royally bred: the daughter of Medaglia d'Oro--a great Champion, himself--upped her sire's stock almost immediately this past spring. Darley America acquired the Gold Medal in June: the stallion's future is so bright, there's a nimbus 'round his head.
All the media attention might lead an outsider to think that perhaps fans of racing are just getting googly-eyed, once again falling in love with just another pretty face.
I spent Monday morning in her presence, and--as a fan of the sport for nearly five decades--can testify that, not only is she in her own category--Rachel Alexandra may well be in her own species.
A healthy, although not oppressively-large, crowd gathered in the dark grey Saratoga mist at 5 a.m.: Rachel doesn't go out before sunlight, as well she shouldn't. The usual crowd, a mix of racetrackers and media reps, greeted each other, drank coffee and speculated about when The Great One might emerge from her cocoon-like environment at the Oklahoma Training Track.
Later than expected, and sans fanfare, the bay filly moved through the gap, and stepped one platinum hoof onto the dirt surface that has hosted the greatest horses in the history in racing. As if on cue, the mist rose, the skies became brighter and, to those attuned to the Song of Heaven--a choir of angels began the aria. She was in good company: the essence of those who wore the mantle of greatness could be felt. The celestial Pantheon was palpable as the newest member of their elite club glided with supreme grace through their hunting grounds. She floated past her admirers and the clockers' stand as she made her way clockwise to the place where she'd turn around to start her jog, then full-out gallop.
This singularly-talented filly whose species numbers one, is not only ridden by a human--but is driven by Destiny as well. This was obvious moments later when, on the Fifth Avenue side of the track--she lowered her mighty head, heaved her chest and powered around the track. The clockers' watches may well have anthropomorphized and voluntarily broken into shards from the pressure of trying to define a creature who is not tethered to the temporal, cultural construct of Time.
As she barreled past the clockers' stand, I felt the crackle of an earthquake as I realized that I was standing on the epicenter, the place at which the ground splits in half with the absolute, untouchable power of God.
In that moment, we knew that this ground-shaker--this being which is capable of moving the Earth, herself, to bow at the knee--is far more than a runway model or flavor du jour. Rachel Alexandra is truly a singular sensation, a being whose greatness will be retold 100 years hence. And today, this sweltering Saratoga morning, we participated in her story--if only for a moment in time.
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