Periodic columns from our staff and the occasional guest.

Remembering Jim Stevenson

If Jim Stevenson read this, he’d probably say I overwrote it. Something like that, anyway. But, here goes.

Early spring?

There’s an old saying out there that the cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears or the sea. Someone needs to come up with one about sunshine, too, because as winter set in for good in the Northeast the last few weeks a little bit of the bright stuff is undoubtedly a tonic for anything that ails.

Going for Gold

Ski Friday. Yes, ski Friday. Off to the slopes with Miles for the finale of the ski season at Bryce Resort. The Ski Olympics. Miles goes at 11:30.

Last week, we arrived at the slopes, found our rental equipment, hooked up our lift ticket, pulled our goggles down and stared up, well, not exactly up.

Goodbye Kempton, Thanks for the Memories

Kempton Bombshell. That was the headline in the Racing Post as Britain plans to bulldoze another turf track and build another all-weather. As John Gorka sings, “They’re growing houses in the fields between the towns. And the Starlight drive-in movie’s closing down the road is gone to the way it was before. And the spaces won’t be spaces anymore.”

Many Clouds made me think

I was in a Starbucks, sipping a too-hot, venti Earl Grey and recovering from a Saturday morning spin class. That’s what we do on Saturdays. Nolan swims, Sam and I spin, go to Starbucks, get him a hot chocolate on the way out and head back to the YMCA in time for the end of swim practice.

Smith comes full circle with Arrogate

The first was Bat Prospector.

Mike Smith had arrived in New York earlier that year. I hadn’t arrived anywhere. It was 1990. In the jocks’ room to ride a no-hoper in the opening jump race, I worked up the nerve to introduce myself to Smith, who was due to ride Mike Freeman’s Bat Prospector later that afternoon. I had galloped the filly a couple of times, figured it was an icebreaker, a conversation starter. We shook hands, talked about the filly and became fast friends. I was in awe of the New Mexico kid who had come to New York with finesse and flare.

Pegasus takes flight

You ready for Pegasus World Cup I? The Roman numeral is mine, but if ever a horse race deserved the Super Bowl designation it’s one named after a statue of a mythical winged horse stomping on a fire-breathing dragon. But there’s more to the Pegasus, which is harder to type than I thought, than a gimmick.

So you want a new website...

Our first website was supposed to be a steeplechase portal, before anybody knew what a portal was. We called it horsesjump.com or some such thing. It was awful.

The Close Calls of Life

One of my resolutions is to write more, well, write more well. That sentence definitely doesn't suffice. Ah well, we'll keep trying.

So far in 2017, I've been diving into other forms, a book, a journal (for me now, for Miles later) and some other creative spots, they probably won't see the light of day. As I was toiling and tinkering and looking for distraction today, I checked my friend George Baker's blog. A great friend, a horse trainer and a natural writer, his daily blog always provides a moment of escape. His entry from January 2, sadly, isn't an escape. I cut and pasted it below, it's good perspective on a world gone mad.

Read him daily, you never know what you're going to get.