Sean Clancy

I started running again in Saratoga this summer. Well, running might be overstating it. More like slogging, plodding, bumbling.

Joe and Tom revved me up the first Sunday, three papers down, our first night off, we hit the 5-mile trail at the state park. Not having run in months, I pleaded for them to slow down (they didn’t) as I took short cuts through the woods, turning squares into bends, walking for moments when I was out of sight, trying to quiet the pain of my old friends. Spiral fracture in my right ankle, plate, seven screws – Beetleman, Saratoga, 2000. Torn lateral collateral ligament in my right knee – Abacus, Morven Park, 1992. And other ailments. I know how old horses feel, the injuries never go away, they are the first things to nag. I survived that first run, that’s all, just survived. There was no runner’s high.

Quint Kessenich coined the phrase back in 2002 when we would send the all-American-lacrosse-goalie-turned-cub-reporter loose on Saratoga.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” we asked.

“Root for obscurity,” Kessenich said, as he ran out the door, waving folded-up paper and a pen (he refused to use a tape recorder).

I love the emails. The tips, the touts, the rants, the “I’ve got an idea for you…” notes that come across my screen. Once in a while they are mean-spirited, but most are good-natured, a suggestion, a thought, a story, a shared laugh, a shared anecdote. I received one from Kate and Jeff Harris about a decade ago, hell, maybe longer, about a woman who had been coming to Saratoga since the 60s. I jumped on it and met her. It filled a page.

I got another email last week, this one, from Jim Schaefer, a retired Ph.D who works mutuel window 1526. It was about a woman who had been coming to Saratoga since the 60s, he included a scanned copy of her hand-written letter about her upcoming trip to Saratoga.

The jockeys have always intrigued me the most. Flat or jump, doesn’t matter. I’ve been there, I guess that’s part of it, trying to control adrenaline, normalize risk, temper hunger, stymie pressure, quell fear, stave off the simple march of time that gets all jockeys in the end. 

I’ve written about their good days, their bad days, their good sides, their bad sides, all of their good rides, a few of their bad rides. I’ve written about some of their beginnings and most of their endings. I’ve written about their crescendos and their crashes, their stakes and their suicides, their favorite horses and their least favorite races.