Reprise: Riders Up!

It's that time of year again when I am distracted by funky names, post assignments, sound conformation and compelling stories and then subject you, dear readers, to it too! Today is the 135th running of the Kentucky Derby and the 25th time that I have reveled in Louisville University's rendition of "My Old Kentucky Home," thrilled to the bugle fanfare, crossed my fingers at the "Riders up!" and held my breath for two minutes minutes as fragile three year old horses and skilled jockeys hurtle themselves down the one and a quarter miles at Churchill Downs.

My favorite aspect of horse racing, aside from the visceral magnificence of the animals themselves, is the moving back stories of either horse, jockey, trainer or owner. It seems every year is a tale from knacker (horse meat man) to track or a 93 year old lady who has dreamed of having a race horse her whole life and finally gets a Derby colt. Call me a softie, but I love those kinds of stories. This year does not disappoint as it offers the combination of an everyman's hero of a horse and his tenacious owner/trainer. So indulge me. It's Derby time!

First of all, you must know that horse racing is big business. It is a commercial enterprise where horses are bred for speed, trained by folks who answer to wealthy owners. Trainers' careers rest on being able to land big purses in the right races creating horses that command even larger stud or brood fees. And if racing is a hobby, it is the pastime of sheiks, not school teachers, since Derby horses are bought and sold for hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars. They are more expensive than the finest cars, not the price of a Taurus. That is the backdrop for our story.

In 1955, a college student hopped a bus, went to his first Kentucky Derby, watched Swaps beat Nashua and a love affair was born. Since 1962 Tom McCarthy has dabbled in racing, a racket he loved, but that never loved him back. Retired as a high school principal since 1990, McCarthy has been racing in obscurity rising at 3 a.m. to go to the track, working his one or two horses, then leaving for school by 7, nobody paying him any attention. In all that time, he never won so much as a stakes race. None of McCarthy's horses have ever been very good and in the nearly half century he has been racing, he has only won a total of $229,020 in purses. That has all changed with General Quarters, the star of McCarthy's barn, the only horse in McCarthy's barn.

McCarthy saw him first in 2007, as a gangly one year old colt at the Keeneland Auction where the most expensive horse of the day went for $3.7 million. McCarthy had to bow out of the bidding when it rose over his ceiling of $20,000 and that was the last he thought of the leggy grey fellow with the white diamond splashed across his face. In fact their paths crossed again at a claims race where the winner could be purchased for the price of the purse. The winner? The grey colt now a little more grown up and dubbed General Quarters. The purse? $20,000. The luck of the Irish was with McCarthy that day because two other claimers wanted him, but McCarthy won the "shake" when his form was drawn. General Quarters was his.

McCarthy, 75, is nothing but patient. He is in no hurry. He is an unglamorous, old fashioned trainer in a fast-paced, glitzy world. He says that as a young trainer he lacked the finesse to be successful. With General Quarters, he was determined to rush nothing. "When he was a 2-year-old, he was very anxious," McCarthy says. "I just had to slow him down and begin to allow him to grow up and get away from all this fast and strenuous work. So I just let him go along and grow. I thought I had something that was fairly nice and I was in no hurry. That's the patience I've learned after so long. ... You've got to take your time, and with this one, I did."

And he still does. McCarthy is the hot walker, stall mucker, groom, masseuse, trainer, owner. He slips his pocket knife out each morning and slices a carrot into General Quarters' feed and an apple into his dinner rations. He is a throwback to the days of Seabiscuit where a small team brought an unlikely horse into the hearts of Depression-weary America. Rival trainers with dozens of horses to keep track of walk by his barn and see a horseman who lavishes attention on his lone colt the way they wish they still could. After the post-position draw, Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott, who's won more races at Churchill Downs than anyone else, introduced himself to McCarthy, looked him in the eye and said, "You're a natural. Good luck."

McCarthy stood there for a moment and took in the scene. Around him, the rich and the powerful milled about in suits and expensive cowboy boots, swapping stories about the vagaries of running operations he could only dream about. McCarthy was still wearing the while polo shirt he had on early in the morning, spotted with flecks of blood and mud as he massaged his horse, filled his own feed buckets and even raked the gravel outside a rented stall. "I've seen this race come and I've seen it go," he said finally, a note of wonderment softening the usual gruff tone. "But I've never been a part of it before."

In a cut-throat industry where trainers have eyes only for their own charges, McCarthy is a sentimental favorite. "Here we all thought it was just some principal who hit the lottery, and it turns out he was training quarterhorses with an uncle at Rillito Park in Tucson before I was even born," Hall of Fame trainer and three-time Derby winner Bob Baffert says. "How cool would it be if he won?"

How cool indeed. In a world where cash is king, McCarthy has been offered millions of dollars for General Quarters. He said he hasn't been tempted."I told one guy, I can't sell my dream," McCarthy said.

So this morning in the cool mists of the Churchill Downs backside, if you were to meander past Barn 37, you might see this: "There's only the hint of a shake in his hands as he pulls the leather straps up from under the belly and buckles them, before turning to the bridle. The colt's blanket lies folded to the side. It's not the typical garment of a Kentucky Derby horse. Worn thin, the orange wrap was red when McCarthy's kids gave it to him years ago. On each side is sewn a rectangular nylon patch to hide the name of a horse that wore it previously. A peek inside reveals the name, Silent Victory." Before this year, those were the only kinds of victories McCarthy knew.

So join me today to root for the longshot because today, millions of dollars worth of thoroughbred horses will go to the post in the 135th Kentucky Derby. And McCarthy will be there, too, with his $20,000 claimer and a million-dollar smile.

Other Derby News:

• In addition to rooting for General Quarters, I also like Dunkirk. "General Quarters" is the call to battle stations on a US Navy ship and Dunkirk was the site of an epic WWII struggle, so aside from the compelling Cinderella tale, how could I not root for those two?
• I think Pioneerof the Nile (correct spelling with the "of" not spaced-funky names, remember?) also has a good chance.
• Friesan Fire out of Eight Belles' stable will be the final Derby entry for trainer Larry Jones. He's had enough and wants to spend time with his grandchildren.
• There will be a brief memorial time to remember Eight Belles, last year's second place finisher who tragically outran her legs and died on the track.
• A new bronze memorial to Barbaro will be unveiled.
• The nineteen horse field is a big one and for that reason, dangerous. Track conditions are expected to be wet, so it could be anybody's race and a real nail biter. Fingers crossed for safe trips for everyone.
• I Want Revenge, the 3-1 morning line favorite, was scratched just hours before the run for the roses.
• All this and mint juleps, big hats and gorgeous horses too? And you ask why I love horse racing?

Full disclosure: Under normal circumstances writing on this blog is 100% my own (or credited otherwise). Due to this being my final day of the semester, with a large project due and wanting to post this before the Derby start time, I selected a few quotes from other sources. Since this is not a term paper, they are not cited. And since about five people read this, I don't think anyone will care. If you do, contact me.

Of Dinny Pids and Other News

I have been so devastated by Big Brown's Belmont loss that I have been in mourning and unable to write! Seriously, you don't think I'm that big of a nerd, do you? Oh, don't answer! It was an unbelievable loss for the favorite to come in dead last and the biggest long shot to lead the entire race. Amazing. As Big Brown's jockey observed, it just goes to show what “freaks” the previous eleven Triple Crown winners really were. The only good thing is that now you probably won't have to read about horse racing from me until next May! (Unless I decide to write up something about “Big Red” -- Secretariat. I just love that horse!)

So as my title suggests, there is a new addition to the ZamFam! We are all taken by the new critter Oreo who has taken up residence in the girls' room. I'm not big on using living creatures as bribes, but Bean was rewarded for her excellent report card and for finishing first grade with no discipline issues with a new pet, so we now have a “dinny pid” (Bear-speak – say it out loud if you can't figure it out!). He is the silky soft Peruvian variety, and I'll let you guess what color he is by his name.

El Guapo is both blessed and cursed by being incredibly busy at work these days, so the poor guy is pretty beat when he gets home at night. That hasn't stopped us from attempting to get some major yard work done, though. You might think that having a horticulturist-wanna-be (I was accepted to Purdue's horticulture program in 1991, but ended up going into English/ history/education instead) and a strapping, not-that-old Mexican living in the same house, we'd have the best lawn/landscaping combo on the block. Well, you'd be wrong! Just ask the neighbors. We decided this is the year to change that, so we have been tearing up planting beds, laying down weed cloth, installing edging, planting and mulching like crazy. I think we have finally struck a plan that will work, and by “work” I mean require almost no maintenance after this year and not look like a weed patch. We went with a garden plan we found online that is based on native prairie grasses and other low-maintenance options. We splurged on some solar- powered lighting, and I've planted up some annuals for color in Mexican terracotta pots we've collected. We even added a windchime. Now the bronze turtle I got for mother's day looks right at home out there!

With school out, I do a kind of summer camp for the kids each morning with a different theme each week. We start each day with a nature “hike” in our back yard. Bean documents our finds in a notebook, Bear is awesome at describing (with great enthusiasm) what we've seen and Bug mostly picks dandelions (maybe he'll be the lawn guy in the family . . . ). Some of this week's nature highlights were seeing a spit bug nest (to recreate our experience, spit on a plant –seriously, that's exactly what it looks like!), some giant spiders and their spectacular webs (think “Charlotte”), and black-winged damselflies up really close. (I also make the kids pick weeds. Shhhh, don't tell! I make a game, like “Who can pick the most weeds while I count to 50?” or “Who can pick 10 weeds the fastest?” I am so sneaky like that!) We then read books from our theme (being a librarian can be really handy that way!) and sing songs (Bear's favorite is “Three Blind Mice.” Ironically, she thinks it's “tyute.”) or do a craft. Bean is also working on some workbook-type stuff so that her academic skills don't leak out of her ear over the summer. We also try to exercise each day. Grandparents who take their grandkids swimming are really helpful in this department, but so are sneaky competitions, like “Who can run around the house the fastest?” -- except when they backfire and the kids come up with challenges like jumping jacks. We were all laughing so hard at ME that we almost fell over!!

And while this is not a “rant blog,” can you indulge me for just a moment? The weather has been really crazy around most of the country lately and here has been no exception. Last Thursday, Bear, Bug and I went on an adventure that started out, “Hey guys, did you know that our garage has a hole in it? Do you want to go down there and check it out?” We spent about 25 minutes hunkered in the crawl space with snacks, water, flashlights, books and blankets while some mean-looking weather blew through. Which brings me to the rant. The next day, I was at work and the tornado sirens went off. I'm not afraid of much, but bad weather freaks me out, so I pretty much just wanted to run and hide, but since I was at work, I was partially responsible for herding patrons into the basement. Even though we made an announcement over the PA and you could hear the sirens blaring, people were arguing with us about moving. This is the basement of a library that houses meeting rooms and a bookstore, so we are not talking about some dank, dirty place here. People actually thought that fifteen more minutes on MySpace or standing and staring at the DVD shelves was more important than getting to safety. I wanted to scream. Mostly just scream, but I also wanted to say something like, “I've got babies to live for! I don't know what your problem is, but I'm going to the basement.” Of course, we have to be professional and calm, so we must politely persuade the idiot patron to kindly come to the basement or LEAVE! Oh, the joys of working with the public!

And finally, I don't believe in karma, but if I did, El Guapo was the recipient of the instant variety this weekend. While we were standing on the front porch watching a howling rain storm, our cat scrambled out from somewhere caterwauling to come in. El Guapo thought that it was hilarious to toss him back out into the rain in the general direction of the overflow from our gutters. With no other shelter available, Scout's only option was to return to the porch, only to be unceremoniously dumped back out into the rain. (Sorry, cousin M, I know this is paining you!) Well, after a few times of this, the poor cat is drenched to the bone. (Please do not write to PETA about this, it was only water for goodness sake!!) Well, the final time, El Guapo's back goes out – total pain in his lower back from gently (I said GENTLY) heaving the cat into the rain. So, we all come inside, sopping Scout included. Normally he takes refuge in Luna's bed (which she hates), but that night he sneaked into our room, found a pile of towels on the floor (I know, I know) and buried a huge load in them. Fast forward to bed time and a room that smells worse than any cat box. Cue frantic search for aforementioned load, disgusting discovery, lovely white towels into the garbage. I think that's called instant karma, El Guapo. I also think that might put an end to the tormenting-your-pets-for-your-amusement episodes at Mustard Seed House. But maybe not.

King Filly

I was going to apologize for writing another horse racing tome here, but I've decided not to. The story I am telling today is so great that even if you are a smelly, unshaven Frenchman who eats horse meat, you will be moved. If you're not moved, well, check your pulse, you may not have a beating heart.

I mentioned Ruffian in passing in my post on the Kentucky Derby, and in light of the Belmont Stakes this weekend and the hopes that our hero Big Brown will be winning a Triple Crown title, we'll talk about another champion who never felt the dirt on her face.

Foaled in 1972, Ruffian was a spectacular, leggy, almost coal black racing machine, thought to be an even better horse than great-of-all-greats Secretariat. She won all ten races in which she competed, always in the lead, breaking or equaling every track record she ever raced on. As a two-year old she aced her maiden race in record time by 15 lengths. In 1975, Ruffian captured the Filly Triple Crown (now called the Triple Tiara) and was dubbed “Queen of the Fillies (that's a young girl horse for all you non-equine folks out there!).

Her eleventh race was run at Belmont Park on July 6, 1975, before a crowd of 50,000 and a television audience of over 18 million. It was a match race against that year's Kentucky Derby winner, a colt called Foolish Pleasure. This “equine battle of the sexes” was eagerly anticipated, and interest was compounded by the fact that the regular jockey for both horses was Jacinto Vasquez. He chose to ride Ruffian in the match race considering her to be the better horse.

As the starting bell sounded, Ruffian slammed her shoulder into the starting gate. Faltering for only a moment, she blazed ahead, completing the first quarter mile in a blistering 22 seconds, ahead of Foolish Pleasure by a nose. Never having a race so close, our big-hearted gal hammered ahead, pulling in front by half a length when suddenly her right foreleg snapped. Vasquez heroically kept her upright, but was unable to force Ruffian to a complete stop. So unaccustomed to seeing another horse in front of her, she continued running on three legs, pulverizing her sesamoid bones and grinding the gritty sand of Belmont into her open wound. In the age of the Internet, one can find film of her tragedy online, but the tape was deemed so gruesome that Ruffian's demise was censored by media outlets and never aired on public airwaves again.

She was attended to by a team of veterinarians and surgeons who labored for three hours to try to repair the damage. As she came out of the anesthesia, Ruffian attempted to win her match race, flailing around on the ground and thrashing wildly as if running. The intense movement smashed the cast against her elbow crushing the joint to bits, breaking off the cast and reopening the surgical site. Knowing that she would not survive a more extensive operation, her team decided to euthanize her.

Her spectacular performances in 1975, earned her the Eclipse Award for Outstanding Three-Year-Old Filly and in 1976, she was inducted into the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame. Since Ruffian's death, no match race has taken place at Belmont Park, where she is the only horse buried in the infield, near a flag pole, facing the finish line. Ironically, her trainer Frank Whiteley, Jr. died the day after Eight Belles went down at the derby. He was 93. To his dying day, he believed that Ruffian was the greatest horse he had ever trained and never allowed her stall to be occupied saying, ''There'll never be a horse worthy of entering it.''

Why do I love horse racing? Because tales of heart and heroism are not limited to the human race. So, again, fingers crossed for a safe race this weekend and go Big Brown!

Five Down, a Lifetime More to Go

Happy Anniversary to us! Saturday was our anniversary -- whew, we've made it another year! Five years already and it only feels like five minutes . . . . . underwater. (Just kidding! And credit where credit is due -- I stole that from my sister-in-law's dad!) Actually, we both feel like this is going to be our best year yet. We have plans and dreams and most importantly, each other. And that's enough of that -- I don't do mushy too well.

I'll just sign off with this little observation I wrote on 17 May 2003 after our outdoor ceremony was everything I hoped it would be. The day seemed like God's stamp of approval after a long road that wasn't very straight or smooth. “ . . . an azure dome spread out above us with trees as columns holding it up, their branches stretching like arms to the heavens; the sighing winds and rustling leaves praising God more sweetly than any chorus.”

I am no poet, but I am thankful.

Oh, and Big Brown won the Preakness! Woo-hoo.

Riders Up!

"And God took a handful of southerly wind, blew his breath over it and created the horse." -- Bedouin legend

This Saturday is the Preakness Stakes at Pimlico Racetrack (it's also our anniversary, but I'll write more on that later) and the ZamFam5 is rooting for Big Brown (named for the big brown UPS trucks!). I was born the year Secretariat won the Triple Crown, and there have only been two other TC winners since then (Affirmed in 1978 was the last), so we are hoping that this gorgeous guy will go all the way! I have been meaning to post on the Kentucky Derby since May 3, but have suffered from end-of-semester time crunch and severe writer's block, so here it finally is:

Anyone who knows me, knows what I will be doing the first Saturday in May. I've watched almost every Triple Crown race and especially every Kentucky Derby since 1984. I just love it. Which is kind of goofy – watching three hours of television coverage for a two minute race – but what a thrill when the race is on and fingers are crossed for a safe ride. . . .Which is why I haven't written on the derby until today, because as most will know, it had a terrible ending with the filly Eight Belles going down and being euthanized on the track. Now I still don't know what to write, but I couldn't let the moment pass and not comment at all.

I had planned to post on Saturday before the start of the race and list the ZamFam5 picks – we were of course rooting for Z Fortune (we love Zs!), and we liked the favorite Big Brown and were excited about a girl running against 19 boys especially on the the 20th anniversary of the last filly derby winner Winning Colors. But I just couldn't come up with anything witty or even that interesting to write. And then the tragedy. I'm not ashamed to say, several of us here were watching with tears streaming down our faces.

What is it about horses, dogs or ships going down that I find so unbearably sad? Well, that Saturday was absolutely horrific, and it's taken me this long to formulate some sort of coherent thoughts about it. Some might think, why care that much about some horse, and to be honest, I myself could not answer that question right away either. But here's my best try . . .

I think the tragedies of horses like Ruffian, Barbaro and Eight Belles are bringing to light the sad side of this sport. As with sports in general, where athletes are pushing for more speed and power even to the point of drugging, horse racing is suffering from a lack of vision. In the past (and even today in Europe), horse racing was a tactical event, where endurance and strength were prized over sprinting speeds. Now we see full-tilt suicide runs at breakneck speeds run by youngsters whose bodies aren't even fully developed. NPR's Frank Deford puts it best when he says, “Thoroughbreds are such incredibly fragile creatures, half-ton beasts born with a burning desire to run but on candlestick legs.”

Today's barns are pumping out horses that are expected to only run a few races and then be put out to stud; whereas in the past, horses had long careers, developed loyal followings and made the bulk of their money through purses, not stud fees. Tragedies like Eight Belles are also a symptom of the terrible inbreeding that has permeated American Thoroughbreds. All twenty derby horses had Native Dancer as an ancestor, a horse that only died fifty years ago – this is dangerous and foolhardy by any genetic standard. So there's my two cents. We are letting our greed and obsession with speed permeate and contaminate the “Sport of Kings.” These majestic animals deserve so much better, and so does the cadre of fans who for those two minutes hold their breath, cross their fingers, cheer their champion and revel in the visceral delight of seeing these creatures in such awesome motion.

So here's fingers crossed for a safe race this Saturday. Go Big Brown!

(And thanks for your indulgence. I know not everyone is that into horse racing. OK, I don't actually know anyone personally who is as into it as I am, but when you get your own blog you can write boring things about whatever you want!)