On the Road
Road trip – Middleburg to Camden to Aiken to Mineral Springs to Middleburg.
The Whip
Whips. We have come to the crossroads on whips. Sure, we should have been here long ago, but, alas, here we are now. Sadly and strangely, whips (and Lasix but that’s for another day) have been thrown in the mix with injuries and fatalities at Santa Anita. The California racetrack has a problem, that’s obvious. Why that has become a whip or Lasix issue is unfathomable. Breakdowns at Santa Anita have nothing to do with whips or Lasix.
In Search of the One
Grand National morning. Wake up and for a moment, just a moment, it’s a regular day. Then it hits you fast, the realization, the expectation, the impending, the dread and delight of the impending. It’s the biggest race of your life, the biggest day of your life. See, riding is your life. Sure, you have friends and family, lovers and haters, but, for you, it’s a singular quest. You are a jockey.
Long Lost Tracks
Miles and I went to a birthday party Saturday. Atomic Trampoline. In Leesburg. I’m not sure what they call it, perhaps, a Contrived Community…there are houses and houses, shops and shops, sprawl and sprawl. Interesting in a way, certainly convenient, but a long way from the Leesburg I remember. Miles enjoyed the party, the pizza was decent, ice cream organic and the cleanup was minimal.
Welcome to England
The wind whips. The tea is strong. Wolverhampton replays on the telly. A jumper, an all-weather specialist and a couple of spring turf hopes canter past the window. A retired greyhound begs for a sausage. The butter sits on the counter. The bread, the milk, too. The door sways in the wind. The Aga warms the room. Racing Posts, a tweed jacket, Cheltenham hats wait in boxes on the table.
Resolutions
The gym is packed. Fourteen machines, most in use, grind and groan like old cars on cold mornings. Old men, mostly, grind and groan with the machines. Knee braces and wrist bands, sore hips and new hips, cotton Polo shirts and 90’s Reebok sneakers, belly fat and gray heads.
Hitchcock Woods
After a conference call, I find the Hitchcock Woods and run. Run it out. Run off the frustration. Run off the fear. Run off the stress.
Water, water everywhere
The looks on the faces of the two men standing on the sidewalk here on Circular Street said it all, after this writer attempted to make light about water percolating out of the ground the morning after the Super Bowl.
Put it on the List
Racing on Thursday 7 February cancelled due to equine influenza cases.
