Chapter One

I grew up in a little town called Byron in Illinois in a rambler-style ranch house on an acre of land. My earliest memory, although fuzzy on the edges with the advancement of time from that critical point, was of my mother telling me excitedly that there was a horse passing by our house. She lifted me up so I could see through the engraved-glass of our livingroom door and observe the prancing steeds passing by in capricious nobility.

I exclaimed, "Ohhhhh! I LOVE horses!"

Mom told me, "Yes, I loved horses when I was your age, too. You'll grow out of it."

She set me down, but whenever the horses went by, if she could she lifted me up so I could take a good look.

On top of a hill near our home, some neighbors owned a couple of riding horses, and one day my Mom asked them if she could bring me over to experience a horse close up. They agreed, happy to assist in passing on their love and knowledge of horses to a little one. My Mom was really secretly hoping that I would be less impressed by seeing them up close; they can be dirty, sweaty, and even mean; and the smell of the manure in high summer! Her real goal was to impress upon me that horses were work because I had been hounding her to get me a horse.

When we arrived, the neighbors already had the mare saddled up, standing nose to nose with her colt. Both of them appeared to be enormous to me, and the sheer size of the mare frightened me. I shyly asked if I could ride the smaller horse instead. They laughed and explained that the smaller horse was just a baby and couldn't be ridden.

I was gently lifted aboard the mare and lead around the small dooryard. Never in my life had I seen the world from such a position, so high in the air! I was taller than everyone on this massive animal!

Reluctantly, after a very short ride, I was assisted back to my humble position, feet on the ground, but far from being dissuaded from getting a horse of my own, I was even more deeply infatuated with them. Somewhere deep inside of me, I realized that horses were my destiny, although I had no idea what tragedies would befall me as I followed that path along with I was inexorably to be drawn.

Sometime during my elememtary school years my parents divorced and we moved due to a mysterious financial problem called "foreclosure". Dad didn't live with us anymore...it was just Mom and me, and she had to work really hard in order to pay the bills. I only got to see Dad once in awhile.

Happily, though, there was a HUGE horsefarm just down the road from our Minnesota home, apparently owned by a Sheik or two from the mystical land of "Dubai". I didn't care about any of this; I only cared about the horses. We'd moved in the summer and so I filled my days by walking or biking by the farm, to stop for hours at a time to watch the horses in the distance. The farm had a small training track and sometimes I was there early enough to catch some workouts, and became smitten with the idea of flying aboard one of these magnificent creatures.

The farm had a security gate, and a guard, so I was never able to enter or approach anyone, and truth be told, I was a very shy child. I would no more have asked someone if I could enter the farm than I would have robbed a bank. Both ideas were abhorrent to me.

There was another little issue...in my shyness, I learned to be invisible, and sometimes, I FELT invisible. Dad wasn't with us, Mom was working, and so often I was left to my own designs. And let's face it..in our society, children are often ignored, and children are killed in the womb so as to avoid the inconvenience of them. I had once been told by someone who knew my family, a cruel child, that I had been a "mistake", my life was "unplanned", and while I pretended to shrug it off, the barb hit home and hit deeply. One day I'd gotten the courage to ask about it, and Mom admitted that I was "unplanned", but that did not mean "unwanted." She hugged me and assured me that I was a gift to her, but yet, I could not shake the thought, especially as I got older and no one semed to pay attention to me anymore.

It was this sense of invisibility that perhaps gave me also a sense of adventure, for I had a child's imagintion in full force and with vivid color! One day I saw a few horse vans near the gate of the farm and I approached, curious, pretending to just be walking by so as not to attract notice. When one of the vans entered, I just walked right alongside, hidden from the guards, pretending I belonged there. Because the guards were busy with another van, they did not notice me walking along the exposed area between the driveway and the long, low stables.

I enjoyed an excursion around the barns, trying my best to avoid people. If people were present, I just pretended I knew where I was going, avoided eye contact and pretended to be looking for someone in particular...such as a parent. In this way, I maintained my anonyminity and my presence went unquestioned for hours.

The barns were fascinating...I came to realize that one barn must be a foaling barn, for the broodmares and their foals...there seemed to be a stallion barn, then some other type of barn, nearer the track. I was able to sit back and observe some training in the various paddocks, and even ventured to pat a few friendly noses, cautiously, and only if no one was present.

Eventually, I just headed out to the track and watched the various workouts, wishing I could hear the trainer giving instructions to the riders. As they passed me by, not noticing me, I studied their faces; where they looked, how they balanced (this was a wonder to me), how they managed to control the pace of the huge mounts.

Before too long, I was daydreaming that I was a jockey...I was crouched above my mount's neck, leading the field...winning...

"I don't believe I've ever seen you 'round here young lady. Which one of these yahoos is y' daddy?"

I turned to see a tall black man addressing me, pushing back his hat to wipe his forehead in the hot afternoon sun.

"I...uh...my daddy..."

He waited patiently for me to get a story together, feigning a stern expression.

"Well, my daddy isn't here today but he said I could come down to watch...."

Finally, his eyes twinkling, "Darlin', you and I both know that your daddy don't work here. I seen you walkin' by the farm in t' mornin's, standin' at the rail, watchin' all the pretty horses..."

I knew I was blushing. The heat on my face was more than the sunburn I wore perpetually. I just prayed that I wouldn't start crying.

The man must have known what I was thinking, because he squatted down so that I wouldn't have to crane my neck to look up at him, although I had been staring at the ground for some time now.

I looked up, trying to read his expression, and just then, he winked at me. "I used to be jus' like you, and now I manage this here farm. I'll tell you what...I'll give you a tour tomorrow and tell you all about the horses. And jus' sos you don't havta sneak in next time, I'll even meet you at the gate. How's that sound?

I nodded, too surprised to speak. He suggested a time and I agreed, promising to be there on time. He sent me home with another wink and I don't think the soles of my nearly worn-out tennies so much as touched the ground on the way.

Prologue

I'll never forget the moment in time, the absolute suspense of time itself, the sound of nothing but hooves, the feel of the wind, the sense of flying. I'll never forget that for a few moments, I couldn't hear anything and in front of me the clubhouse turn, empty. I could see the crowds, and I knew they were screaming and in the background they were all actually ROARING. The flash of red before us was the outrider with a shank, and on the Quarter Horse, the customary reporter.

I didn't even realize until I was told by the reporter that I was screaming. I couldn't even hear myself scream, and I'm pretty certain that my heart was so full it actually stopped beating for those suspenseful moments.

The sound of the lead shank snapping on to Canyon's halter brought me back to the present and I was nearly blasted out of the saddle by the sound of the crowd's excited roaring, having witnessed an historic moment; finally, after decades, the world was welcoming a new Triple Crown champion, ridden by none other than..moi.

Listen; I'm not going to mince words here. The horse wins and you all must accept this as a foregone conclusion. When you went to see "Seabiscuit", or picked up the book to read it, you already KNEW that he won. His winning wasn't the story; rather, the story was in his redemption and in HOW he won, and how the people surrounding him came together for this wonderful historical series of events.

My story is like that, too. It's about the horse and how he won, but more importantly, this is a type of memoir. People like me don't usually write memoirs because we're not rich and powerful and so why would anyone want to read it?

So I won't officially call it a memoir, but let's just say this is a story about a girl and her horse and how they both found their way home. I'll let you judge for yourself whether to share my agonies over the years, my tears, and my joys.

But I invite you along for the ride, and maybe, too, you'll see how the world looks from the back of a racehorse at a dead run.

Author's Note/ Intro

This is a work of fiction, one I began when I was twelve. For years I buried it but it's a work that has continued to come back to me over and over again, and finally, I decided that it's time to do something with it. A few years ago I went out to Canterbury Park in Shakopee, MN, and with the assistance of the Press Office, I was able to do some research. God willing, I'll return and complete my work in more detail.

The funny thing, though, about epic stories written by twelve year olds is this; adults cannot for some reason accept the superficiality of the story and have to find a way to build the backstory and even change the details, which in the end, completely changes the story. I have literally agonized over this for years, now, in the back of my mind, and in all honesty, I have no idea how it will truly end up.

What you are seeing is my first draft of serious writing, unedited, unpolished, but with the formal goal of final publication if there indeed, a gem to be found in the idea of a twelve year old girl who has just witnessed Ferdinand, and then Winning Colors, take the Kentucky Derby.

My influences? Walter Farley, Marguerite Henry, and Lauren Hildebrand. And my Dad, God rest his soul, for his constant encouragement in my love of horses.