That was the summer I turned 16, and true to her word, Mom let me go work at the farm, just as I’d always dreamed. There were no illusions about the work that was expected of me, and the meager pay, nor about the dust and dirt and grime and smell of horses that followed me everywhere. Some days I felt like “Pigpen” from the old Peanuts cartoons, sensing the cloud that must even be visible in a sort of penumbra. But even with all that, I loved what I was doing, because this was the first step towards becoming a jockey.
It wasn’t long before they let me hotwalk the racers coming off the track after their morning workouts, and soon after that, I was boosted into the saddle to take my first ride as an exercise rider. In training, anyway. For the sake of education, they didn’t put me on one of the real race horses, but a steady old lead pony so that I could learn balance with short stirrups without having to control a fractious colt. Green riders and green colts do NOT mix well.
And indeed, I had a few moments of imbalance. As a little back story, most exercise riders come to the job having already gotten used to the back of a horse, and often very precarious positioning. Stories abound about riders having learned their trade by balancing on the backs of running hogs. No kidding! For myself, it was a lot more, well “normal”. I’d been riding since I was a child, just on neighbor’s horses, (although Mom did have a tale about my ride on a St. Bernard when I was a toddler) and for years, the riders at the farm had let me ride some of their own horses on the sly. I could bareback with the best of them, and one rider, who had once done trick riding in the rodeo, taught me a few of those same tricks. Of course it was great fun, so by the time I began riding with short stirrups, my sense of balance was very well developed.
Although I’m completely amazed I ever survived growing up, when I consider what could have happened had things gone wrong. That’s one of those things Mom was never supposed to know about, and as far as I knew, she never learned about those trick-riding lessons.
Anyway, that morning, the trainer told me to take the horse to the training ring and gallop a half mile, watching for the marking poles, working both on getting used to riding in this manner and rating the horse’s speed by use of the poles. As soon as I was boosted into the saddle I placed my feet into the irons so that all of my weight would be poised just on my toes, balancing in those precarious pieces of metal attached to thin leather straps. I was so excited to finally be doing this, even if the horse wasn’t for “real”. I did as directed, understanding that I had to be ready before they would put me to work for real, so I put my heart and soul into riding, really wanting to prove I had what it took. We were flying along, I was beginning to find my rhythm, get the feel for the balance needed, and even though my thighs ached terribly, I couldn’t remember a single moment of such pure joy. I became caught up in a little daydream in which I was a real jockey, and the lead pony I was riding magically transformed into the Kentucky Derby winner. And that’s how it happened. The accident, I mean.
To this day, I don’t know what spooked my mount, but one moment I was rushing the finish line to the music of my imaginary roaring crowd….the next moment I was in mid-air, observing in astonishment as my mount ran away from me, riderless. Time elongated, allowing me to idly wonder whose horse that was, and why I was floating, and then I crashed hard to the dirt track which jolted me back to the grim reality of race riding.
Sheepishly I stood up, brushing myself off as the trainer ran over and someone else caught up to the lead pony who had stopped long enough to reach over the fence for a nice bunch of crabgrass before prancing away, thrilled to have dumped his rider. It was a badge of honor for that sly old codger.
“What were you thinking? Are you all right?”
I just shrugged and brushed myself off some more. There was NO WAY I was going to tell ANYONE what I had been thinking. Especially given that my little fantasy would not be so likely to come true if I couldn’t keep my head in the game.
Lesson one: Concentrate!
Lesson two: Stay On!
Lesson three: Daydream later.
As it was, they decided I wasn’t quite ready to be an exercise rider, but then again, no one ever learned without falling off at some point. So there was more time for practice, it was causing delays in my own personal schedule, but in the meantime I was still serving as a hotwalker and a groom, and so I was perfectly happy. As it was, Mom wasn’t going to let me head off to the races anyway, so there was time to perfect my abilities. One of the things that was often driven home to me over and over again was the need for riders to be humble. Those who exalted themselves tended to land face-first in the dirt, usually at the most inopportune moments. Which is what had just happened to me.
Mom had resigned herself to my goal to some degree, although she continued to notify me of her great displeasure. I suspect she harbored some kind of hope that I’d get sick of the life before it began for me, or perhaps I’d be a terrible rider and would never make it. In any case, she understood that the more she tried to push me away, the more I would rebel and seek out that which Mom did not want. So we came to an uneasy impasse.
But there was another reason for Mom’s tolerance of my future; she was sick. Real sick. During the night, I would wake up to the sound of her constant, hacking cough. She’d get up and go into the kitchen or the bathroom, and I could hear that she was leaning over the sink, coughing so hard she bent over, and at times I suspect she even went to her knees. I was worried. She’d been to the doctor, finally, and was awaiting results. Her fits always made me sit up in bed and listen. Did someone need to be called? Should I drive her to the hospital?
And just when I was about to go to her, her fit would end and she’d pad back to bed, so a couple hours later when I got up to go to work in the wee dark hours of the morning, she’d be sleeping peacefully, only to rise for the day’s work shortly after I had left.
The summer waned, and I prepared to head back to school for my junior year. By then, I was somewhat of a “seasoned” groom, at least as far as the farm was concerned. And I’d continue to work as able even during the school year. There wasn’t a lot of time to go and visit Nickers, but the Bryski’s were kind and had given the now-healthy gelding a job at their own farm, as a stablemate and lead pony to some of their more fractious animals. Even with his Arab blood, he was a steady horse in comparison to the couple racers they had, so they had taken him to Canterbury for the summer, and he’d likely head down with them to Arizona if they headed off to race at Turf Paradise for the fall meet. Between work and school, and their travel schedule, I wasn’t around Trinity Creek much anymore, and sadly, I realized my own career aspirations would take me even further, for their horses were just the garden variety claimers. Like most owners, they had never found that “big one”. They didn’t have the money to purchase the multi-million dollar animals at the big auctions, they didn’t have the money to pay the exorbitant stud fees to Coolmore and other big stables, so they did what they could with what they had.
The Bryski’s both had grown up as racetrackers; their families had always been in the biz so it was natural they would continue. But it was a hard life; the work was never done, the bills were always ridiculous, and more and more, the oil Barons from the Middle-East were purchasing the best America had to offer. Even as the most wealthy American owners put up large bids, the barons would step in and double the cost. Even the richest Americans couldn’t blow their budgets just to make a point. Just because a colt or filly carries a large price tag doesn’t mean that they’ll be good on the track or, if they do succeed, there’s no guarantee they’ll pass on their genes.
On the other hand, the “Dubai’s” ranch where I worked…well, they were the very oil barons putting Minnesota racers out in the cold. Their main operation was actually in Kentucky, but when Minnesota racing was showing promise, they purchased the land, threw up the buildings and brought in the big studs. It was just a type of “satellite” ranch, but it put most Minnesota racing operations to shame. I felt guilty working there, as though I was supporting the enemy. If the Bryski’s had been able to hire me, and everyone else at that farm, I think we would all have defected.
But it gets in the blood, and so we get our racing fixes wherever we can, even if it means being employed by the enemy. Because, not just as Americans, but as Minnesotans, we had hope in miracles, and that our way of life would prevail even if we DIDN’T have all the money on our side.
Mom knew how that worked, having admitted to me that, once upon a time, she’d been a racetracker, too. But she would say no more, no matter how much I pressed her. It was both the reason she understood the draw, and the reason she didn’t want me to go. But she wouldn’t define her feelings to me, because, for some reason, she didn’t want to talk about it. Every time I tried to bring it up she’d change the subject, pretend she didn’t hear and walk away, or, if I was especially tenacious, she’d snap at me and put an end to the conversation.
I tried to ask around, but was met with blank stares from those at the Dubai farm, and when I asked the Bryski’s or Dale, they told me to talk to Mom if I wanted to know her secrets.
That year, Mom made me go to religious education again, as I was to be Confirmed as a Catholic. So in addition to all my riding, all my work, all my questions, I had to read a bunch of stuff, and meet with our Pastor, and go on a weekend retreat. But this meant a lot to Mom, and I didn’t want to add to her suffering by revealing that it meant nothing at all to me.
Mom was going to a specialist by then…she had cancer. Lung cancer. We didn’t really speak of it. Someone would bring her to the hospital for her chemo or radiation, and the first couple rounds didn’t have the unfortunate side effect of causing hair loss. But if this treatment didn’t do it, that was the next step.
And yet, she continued to work, even as she wasted away. She went to the diner on schedule, as much as she was able, and pretended nothing was wrong. Everyone knew about her illness…but she didn’t want to discuss it. She wanted to live her life, but both she and I knew what was coming. She was doing it slowly, but was preparing for the inevitable. So I found, as I went to classes in preparation for my Confirmation, I also began praying more. I’d kneel in front of the tabernacle after our class on Wednesday nights, just praying for Mom. Begging God for a cure.
It seemed that God answered when Mom went into remission. That spring, when the Archbishop came to our little church for Confirmation, Mom was right there, beaming as I was anointed with the chrism, crying when the Archbishop slapped my cheek gently, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”
She was definitely healthier then, was still thin but at least not as much so, and at the reception in our parish hall, she was beaming, roses blooming on her cheeks. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy or alive. Of the many pictures taken of me that day, the one in which I stood next to her in front of the stained glass windows by the altar was my favorite by far, and years later, it’s the one I carried with me, every time I raced.
