59 degrees and raining. Two old geldings, one dark bay, one white, huddle under a tree in the front field, heads hung low, noses inches from the ground. The rain creates a sheen across their backs.
We need the rain, drizzled for a while but now actually rattling off the metal roof, it might help, certainly can't hurt the jumpers at Glenwood Park this afternoon. Good card, including a scintillating edition of the Temple Gwathmey. Good ground would help. Well, Doug Fout will have it smooth, lush and green. Now we need God to provide a little cushion.
Back home on the couch in Middleburg after a quick jaunt to Keeneland to accept the Charles Engelhard Award. One for Joe and me, special to win one together, as everything we've accomplished in that sphere has come together. I've edited his stories, he's edited mine (his is a bigger job). I've inspired him. He's inspired me. I've kicked him. He's kicked me. I've offered him a hand. He's offered me two.
I looked across Keeneland Racecourse Thursday afternoon and thought about the difference of being on the other side of Rice Road walking hots for Charlie LoPresti and standing in the Keeneland Room accepting an award for outstanding coverage of the Thoroughbred industry. For me, it's my brother. Without him, I'd be just a beat-up old jump jockey. As I said, when accepting the award, I am still a beat-up old jump jockey, but at least I have a job, an interest, a passion.
Off to make breakfast for Miles, watch the crescendo of the title race between Paul Nicholls and Willie Mullins and then scurry around the bend and up the hill for a day at the races.