The story I have not told, Fibs and Me

Fibs unloads from Maisons-Laffitte, September 3, 2012

A year and one month ago, Fibs, who raced under the name Fibs and Flannel, a 2007 foaled chestnut gelding by Tobougg out of Cayman Kai mare Queens Jubilee, stepped down off a horse transport truck onto the courtyard of a private owners stable, almost in Normandy. This was not of consequence to him. He had travelled much in his young life, from the farm where he was bred and cavorted next to his mother in Yorkshire.  A rather fortunate young man, he was in good hands and had only a short hop to make to his trainer Tim Easterby's yards at Habton Farms, Malton, North Yorkshire, and he would go on to travel to England's racetracks, Newcastle and Ripon, Haydock, Beverley and Hamilton, Warwick, Catterick, Doncaster, Carlisle, Musselburgh, Southwell, Kempton, Lingfield and Wolverhampton.

His maiden race was Monday, May 4, 2009 in Newcastle at a mile on good to soft conditions. There were 8 2-year-olds entered. I try to imagine him then, when he hadn't yet travelled 20-something times to the racetrack and won a few. Was he nervous? Did he try to bite the groom? Swivel his head around on his neck, ears just a little too far back, whites showing as he fixed his eye on that soul? Did he object to the tight girthing of his tiny little racing saddle? Was he eager to join the pounding hooves in the distance, his ears pricked and trained on their efforts? What did he think of the grandstand sounds that he could hear, while everyone else was concerned with the cleanliness of his nostrils, the shine of his coat and whether his vet papers were in order? Did he prance, stepping out to walk with his hot walker? Or did he walk with his head down and relaxed, already a professional, a little bit bored? What we know is that he ran.

"Dwelt, towards rear, pushed along and headway halfway, ridden and no impression final 2f"

I think I saw something like that 3 years later in France. He finished 5th. 

In July, in Haydock, he finished 4th of 6 horses, beaten by one of his father's other sons, Petougg, out of Soviet Star mare Piroshka, foaled just 8 days after Fibs. Petougg never won again. In fact, he only raced two more times. One wonders what happened in that third race, on September 25, 2009. Nothing catastrophic. He "raced towards centre, tracked leader, joined leader halfway, ridden and every chance 2f out, weakeded inside final furlong". Nothing to explain why he never raced again, unless there was something in a tendon, an accident in his box, a sudden colic, something that would endanger his further training or end his life. Such is the life of some horses, their owners and trainers. So many of them.

It was as a 3-year-old that Fibs and Flannel would come into his own and earn a little something of his training fees, hay and oats, breaking his maiden on April 22, 2010 in a class 5, 7 furlongs 100 yards race on good to firm track conditions, a length and a quarter in front of the second place finisher, Ginger Grey. If I understood betting outside France, where everything is a sum "contre un", I could tell you that his morning price was 11/4 to Ginger Grey's 8/1 with some idea of that that meant. It doesn't seem that it was a complete surprise that Fibs won that day, certainly not after his first appearance as a 3-year-old a week earlier, when he placed second on the same track.

Perhaps Fibs was at his peak then, when he went on to win his next race on May 2 at Hamilton in the Totepool handicap,  having "Tracked leaders, smooth headway to joing leaders 2f out, shaken up to lead inside final furlong, pushed out, readily opened". Looking over his life performance makes me smile a little bit, although I wasn't smiling so much when I was his next-to-last owner of his career. From that 2nd place and the two wins right on its heels, Fibs faded. He went on to run 12 more races under his training, never doing better than 3 4th places and 2 5ths, and 4th and 5th don't bring home a check in the UK.

He changed hands, going on to race three times for trainer Tony Coyle at Zeebrivia Stables, also in Malton. Maybe he thought he knew what to do to get the zing back out of Fibs. Having had Fibs for a year, I think I know that this was somewhat illusory. Fibs decides for Fibs. He has a certain arrogance that makes the sweetness sweeter.

In the Rocket Ron Rapley 70th Birthday Handicap on November 15, 2011, a class 5 mile race for 3 yos on the fibersand, Fibs finished 12 in a field of 14, in which he "Chased leaders, led after 3f, headed over 4f out, ridden and weakened over 1f out". How, exactly, do you finish 12th in the last furlong? Pride goeth before a fall. C'mon, Fibs.

Then, three weeks later came the Play The Big Money totejackpot Today Hanidcap, a 6 furlong race for 3 yos on the fibersand on December 6. There was modest progress. Had anyone inquired if the young man wished to race? He drew the 9th and finished 9th (he's witty that way), "Outpaced, always behind". He had dropped from opening at 9/1 to 33/1.

Tony Coyle entered him in the Southwell Racecourse Selling Handicap for 4 yos on January 3, and Fibs must have smelled something in the air, woken on the right side of his box, finished his alfalfa; Fibs finished first in a field of 6 at 7 furlongs on the fibersand, and he went home to Saville House Stables with Willie Musson.

"Chased leaders, went 2nd 3f out, led 2f out, strongly pressed closing stages, kept on well"

He opened at 9/4.

Sadly for Mr. Musson and his new owners, this would be his last win. He did not, however, run poorly for Musson, with  three 3rd place finishes, a 4th and a 5th in 7 races in a mere 2 1/2 months. It was enough to attract the attention of a bloodstock agent friend in Maisons-Laffitte, who had travelled to Newmarket for the Tattersalls Guineas Breeze Up & Horses in Training Sale 2012 looking for likely prospects for the summer season in France. Until that day, I had never heard of his existence, but after that day, my life changed forever, and my blog, as anyone who has followed will have noticed, languished.

I had no business buying a race horse. My husband will be the first to tell you that, although he wasn't quite the first to know. He was, but not quite with full conscience and say-so. I don't know what got into me. I didn't know that when I get an idea into my head, I carry it out. I also didn't know that I was so fanciful in my interpretations of "possible" and "likely" as far as outcomes go. I further had no idea of what risk really means. 

It all seemed so rational, but risk by definition is anything but rational as I was brought to recognize. Talk of papers and past performances, the prospects of UK horses in France, where the prize money actually pays something of the training costs, and why so many UK horses come to race here, making them stars in the claiming races. I had put a toe into racing as an owner registered with France Galop with Elbow Beach, although she raced under owner Kay Minton's colors and we made the decision to send her back to her owners in England when a respiratory problem was suspected. It was time for her to return, anyway. She later went on to get her hoped-for win in a class 5 handicap, The Follow Mecca Swansea on Facebook, in August of the year, improving her desirability as a broodmare.

I had done all the paperwork, gone to Nanterre for my interview with the racing and gambling police, and chosen my colors, which I had stitched up at Petitpas in Maisons-Laffitte, and which Agata modelled for us on May 25, 2 weeks after Fibs and Flannel, Tattersalls hip number 35, arrived in the yard at Gina Rarick's training facility, on the morning of his first equivalent of a breeze in France. I had already made my decision in the days just after his arrival. I would buy Fibs and hope for his success, which we thought quite likely, despite the drawback of his not being eligible for the French bred premium, for which some UK horses are. Two months, we figured. The French like to see the horse run a few times before making a bid in the claimers.

"He's good," Gina had said, sounding, just possibly, agreeably surprised. "He's straight, and he has a large stride."

Shortly after, my cell phone rang and Gina's name appeared on the screen.

"Hi, Gina," I chirped.

"This is the 'Houston, we have a problem' call," she greeted me. My heart sunk. Before he'd even been entered, Gina had seen signs of EIPH, or bleeding, after fast morning work. It was 45 minutes later, and when he lowered his head to eat his hay, but it was a trickle of blood from the nostril. In the USA, Lasix is administered, and it's training and racing as usual. In France, and anywhere else in the racing world, it's close to a catastrophe; horses are neither trained nor raced on Lasix. They show signs of pulmonary haemorrhage after strenuous effort, and some herbal remedies, a bit of rest and a change in training is tried, but mostly a future other career is envisioned.

Gina would enter him anyway at Saint Cloud for June 2, but his training would be lightened. Hopes were nothing what they were. I was left to consider my luck, which was decidedly bad. "He's good" and "Il est bon" swam in my head along with "Houston, we have a problem" and "bleeder".

He ran at Saint Cloud in the Prix du Mesnil-Villement, a one mile Course E claimer for female jockeys. He looked good before the race, and he got an appalling ride. Coming out of the final turn and into the homestretch, Carla O'Halloran up, Fibs suddenly veered from the rail, cutting all the way out past the horses following to the very outside, like a satellite broken from its orbit. It was hard to fathom. No point in making any further effort, she pulled him up, and he jogged over the finish line. Somehow, he did not finish last. We said the things you say to each other in those situations. Given 33/1, "la note de course" resumed his race "n'a joué aucun rôle". 

"Je ne sais pas ce qui c'est passé," said Carla, "mais il a un bon moteur."

Later, while he was grazing in the grass on the backside, a trickle of blood made its slow way down his left nostril.

Gina entered him in a conditioning race in Compiègne July 2, and hoped for the best. My insides were in too many knots to make the trip. I watched from home as Fibs took to an early lead with Yannick Mergirie up. My heart had sunk a little. Hadn't Gina wanted him held back in the pack as was his wont? Here he was flying out front, a gorgeous streak of golden red with my colors flashing orange and claret in the bright sun, the pack hard on his heels. Could he hold it? I prayed, fervently, my head in my hands and my heart in my throat. I knew not to let myself hope for it. They hardly ever do, not without gaining any lead with a turn of foot coming out of the last turn. His lead never increased, and halfway up the backstretch, he was overtaken by all the ten other horses in the pack, Two for Two, Art of Dance, Saglawiyah Asil -- I watched the names I had studied when I did his paper, determining his greatest threats, pass him, followed by Bernenez, Don Salsa, Lucky Jon and Hi Shinko, a horse Gina had trained, and then the horses who had seemed to have much less chance of winning than he did, Alexiana, Echappée Belle and Manamo du Fray leave him to shine crossing the finish line last.

My phone rang. Gina's name flashed on the screen. Yes, he had finished last; no, it wasn't that big a problem that he had gone out front, he had wanted to; Mergerie was hugely impressed with his motor. Maybe, maybe we should enter him in a lady amateur jockey race in Dieppe later in July with his exercise rider up. They hadn't seen any recent evidence of bleeding, and he had just shown something we suspected, that we had reason to know was in him. I heard hope.

"No," I said. "I have an offer for a leasing contract on him. I have to accept."

...

This was not, in hindsight, the best decision to have made at all. It was the decision I felt I had to make, given everything, including my own panic. I had misunderstood risk. I had failed to understand that risk in racing depends entirely on the depth of the pockets of the owner, and given that mine were actually sewn shut, I had had no business imagining that because breaking even is about the best anyone can hope -- and what should make any owner of race horses happy, but far, in fact, from what happens in the vast majority of individual cases, in which money is lost, --  it was what would happen for me. Breaking even is facilitated by owning several horses and diversifying one's risk exposure; I owned one single horse, and there was something going on with him.

On July 12, I signed the contract, and Fibs went to the yard of trainer Jérôme Clais. I researched every horse he had raced in the last 3 years, and I knew I had no reason to hope to see any return on my 15% interest. But, it was worse than that. He ran once in Deauville in late July, and then every entry was scratched. Three of them. I called my contact and said, "There's something wrong, either with Jérôme or with the horse."

"I'll go right over this evening and see what's up."

What was up was that Jérôme was out of money, which happened oftener than could be hoped. There were some 10 horses in his yard, not all of whom were being fed and exercised. Fibs had fallen into the unhappier lot. He was standing in his box, the lights out. The contract, I said, is broken. We're getting him out. Fibs is retired.

...

I still watch the races and imagine Fibs on the turf or the fibersand. I watch him in the field, and I see him standing on the grass on the backside at Saint Cloud, his head high in the air, his ears pricked toward the hooves pounding their way to the last turn, I see him walking proudly in the presentation ring, accepting his jockey like the Queen of England accepts the adulation of her people, and I see the photo in the newspaper of him crossing the line first at Beverley, April 22, 2010.  I wish that for him again because I believe Fibs was suited to it. He was not a graded winner, his victories were not at Ascot and Longchamp, but when he wanted to, he could turn it on, stretch out his legs in a magnificently huge stride and fly over the sand, his feet touching earth only an instant before taking off again.

Fibs and Flannel wins at Beverley, April 22, 2010

I did not know that I was saying that Fibs would come home to me, out here on the edge of Normandy. It took some days, conversations with my husband, and phone calls, but on September 3, 2012, Fibs and Flannel stepped off a horse van from a racing yard one last time and settled into the fields of the "boucle de la Seine", not very far from Giverny and Vernon,  and La Roche-Guyon. And all because of my name on his certificate of ownership with les Haras Nationaux and a barely audible and formed promise to look out for him made when things started to look not so good. In my heart, I always knew I'd want to keep him, but in my mind I knew it would take more than what was in my heart, or maybe just that alone.

Our story since then is the one I have not told.

....

The first past, looking to future races

Fibs and Mark, heading companionably to the warm-up ring, Saint-Cloud

The rites and rituals, the rhythms of the racetrack comfort. The days of waiting for a race finally over, the moment to saddle up, walk and mount in the presentation ring to head to the track provide their own pleasures, small but real ones. The tight circle of professionals and friends gathered at the saddling box; the horse solid and sound, brushed, braided and in every way burnished to a high shine; the sounds of others calling out to one another and horses clopping past; the details of the preparation unchanging one race to the next, day after day. It's always the same, and always a little bit different within that sameness.

There is the relaxation of the nerves. The horses are all here, and the preparation is done and as much is known about one's own horse as can possibly be known. Less is known about the other horses. The racing papers have given their probable odds, and the bettors have made their own opinions known. A list of favorites is drawn up, and you may agree or disagree. You will never know enough about each horse, each jockey and the conditions out there to know who is right until the race is run and over. It will please you, comfort you, surprise you, disappoint you, but it will never leave you indifferent. If it could, then you probably don't belong at the racetrack. You need either a new profession or a new hobby, unless you are a lad or hot walker. To be honest, they look indifferent enough often enough.

Saddled, Fibs headed out to walk with the others, those who had just come off the track and were cooling down or drying off after their showers, and those who were warming up, staying limber for their race to come, whether the next one, or another after that. We'd come with one horse. Some trainers, like Cédric Boutin, had horses standing in several adjoining boxes along the main alley, others out walking, and still others heading to or from the racetrack.

Hellos and news, les bises are exchanged with other trainers, owners, familiar lads. Remarks made about their horses, their chances, their results. Congratulations or encouragement, knowing nods and consolations. Nothing is long-hidden at the racetrack. Everyone knows what your horse looks like, what your racing record is, how long you've been at it, and how you've done.

"T'as fait quoi?"

"6ème," with a shrug, the inimitable Gallic one, and a self-effacing smile, an eyebrow raised, "il n'avait plus rien. Ben".

"Ben. La prochaine fois alors."

"Ouai, la prochaine."

It's never necessarily or even likely going to be the case, but that won't keep you from the racetrack. You have owners, they have horses, and you must enter them in races that suit their talents and abilities. The professionals need to make money, usually; the owners need to enjoy themselves, and not to lose their fortunes, great or small, or not to be worthy of such a description in the first place. The horses need to do what thoroughbreds do best: gallop with other horses and try to beat them.

In the presentation ring, the horses paraded around us, their number blankets white against the green grass, the green leaves and their dark and supple bodies. The jockeys for this race, a 1600m (8f) 13,000€ and 17,000€ claimer for 5-year-olds and female jockeys walked from the locker room across the winner's circle and joined their trainers and owners. Smiles and greetings, instructions exchanged, photos taken, the television cameras rolling (but you don't pay attention to them), the jockeys are led to their mounts and given a leg up. Some horses take it in stride, others buck a little, considering a full-out rearing up. Lads and owners-enjoying-being-lads calm their charges, and one by one they head to the track to gallop easily toward the starting gates, bettors taking their last looks before casting their bets, if they haven't already. The public is sparse. It's a lovely June evening, and the restaurant terraces are full all over Paris and in the center of Saint-Cloud.

Fibs accepted his jockey and headed to the track like a professional. It was his 30th start. He knows his job, and that job is fine with him. He is an honest and considerate horse. We watched him go and headed, by ones and twos, up to the Owners' and Trainers' Lounge above the grandstand and the post to watch the race on the television screens. We'd come out to see them come up the homestretch.

Heading out to the track

Fibs and the other horses entered their stalls without the least fuss. They were 5 and older. They'd been around long enough to know, and they were all healthy enough to find a race a pleasant prospect on a sunny evening. Before we knew it, the bell clanged, the gates opened and 9 horses charged forward. Two took an early lead, and the rest remained bunched together.

"They're being stupid out there like that. Damn. Fibs has his nez au vent."

It was true. Carla and Fibs were on the inside toward the middle of the following pack. He had no benefit of a draft. They came on, positions only slightly changed heading into the final turn. Fibs remained on the inside.

"OK. That's not bad. She gave him the shortest ride around. Now."

But, rather than the surge forward we expected, following the lead horses who ought to be tiring and retire the distance between them, Fibs travelled out past the two horses behind him toward the outside. We stared at the television screen. I knew what Gina was thinking, "He's hanging badly, but he runs straight."

"He's never done that before," she said. And then he slowed to an easy gallop, heading toward the post like he had the jockey's mother on his back on a Sunday morning on the trails. The other horses, most of them, anyway, continued the race, and one won, 4 placed, and Fibs tripped past the post like he was anywhere but at a race course.

"That was a strange race."

"Indeed. I have never seen anything like it," concurred Sebastien. We looked at each other and blinked, followed Gina down the stairs, out past the horses who had had the good fortune to remember this was a race and enter the winner's circle to meet the jockey.

"This is the part I dread," I said to her young niece. I don't think she asked why.

We heard that he travelled beautifully all through the backstretch and into the last turn. He was a wonderful ride. A real pleasure. But she hadn't liked the footing along the rail coming into the homestretch and pulled him to the outside. He stopped, she explained; there was suddenly -- nothing. My mind flipped back to Elbow Beach. She was fast, too, but she failed to finish. Still, this horse had won races. He liked this distance. He didn't like heavy going, and the turf had soaked up early summer rainstorms.

"I wonder if he didn't take being pulled to the outside for being pulled up." Sebastien nodded.

"I think it is possible, too."

We were, quite simply and quite frankly, perplexed. Here was a horse who had run more than two dozen times and knows his job, and all you had to do was let him run straight and find his own footing.

Later, after his shower and drying off, after simple chat and laughter (it is enjoyable, win, place or lose, when you are with friends and the sun is slanting through the trees on a hill above Paris), I walked by myself to my car in the owners' lot. The attendant with the bright and good-humored eyes who had greeted me asked, "Alors, qu'est-ce que votre cheval a fait?"

"C'était étrange. Une course très étrange." He nodded, listening. "Juste après le dernier tournant, le jockey l'amenait vers l'extérieur de la corde, et je pense qu'il n'a rien compris." He nodded again and smiled.

"Soumillon fait souvent ça."

"Mais, ce n'était pas Soumillon."

"Vous auriez peut-être meiux fait de rester à Roland Garros," he said, and smiled his sympathy.

I had arrived 2 hours earlier a litte out of breath from the stress of the traffic in Boulogne-Billancourt and Saint-Cloud, having gotten up to leave half-way through the second set of the second women's semi-final. Maria Sharapova was on her way to securing her place in the final, although Petra Kvitova seemed to be finding the resouces to maybe cast doubt on the outcome. It wasn't easy to leave, but the stunned sound of my trainer's voice saying "Ohh-kaaay" on the other end of the line when she called and asked where I was, and I had replied "Just thinking about leaving Roland Garros now," was enough to remind me that owners have duties, too.

"Mon entraineur m'aurait tué," I replied, smiling back, feeling a little conspiratorial, and stepped toward the other young attendant, holding my door open, and placed the euro coins cradled in my cupped palm into the space of his own.

"Je vous remercie, Madame."

"Cest moi. Bonne soirée, Messieurs," and I climbed into my car, hoping not to stall heading out of the owners' parking lot owing to my high, wedge heels.

It's time for more sensible shoes, as long as this violon d'Ingres remains remotely sensible, and at least I got my rayons de soleil to make Fibs' coat and my silks shine, even if the performance was anything but bright and shiny, for whatever reason. Next time out, June 23rd at Amiens. Having done his first race in France, he is free to enter a far wider range of races, and better luck next time. In racing, luck is better than genius, they say. At least Jane Smiley says it.

For more race photos, click here.
....

Grazing after the race, Fibs hears horses galloping in a later race,
his full concentration is on them over on the track.

Anticipating race day for Fibs and Flannel

Cooling down after a "canter", May 25
followed by Hard Way

I have done this before. Four times. But this is nothing like those other times.

The race for which we hoped was today at Maisons-Laffitte, but with 69 entrants, Fibs and Flannel, a 5-year-old gelding by Tobourgg out of Kayman Cai mare Queens Jubilee, wasn't going to get in. We'd have to go for the back-up entry, the 8th, Prix du Mesnil-Villement, a claimer at 1600m (8f, a mile) tomorrow at Saint-Cloud, and if my trainer Gina Rarick told me once, she told me once per multiple daily conversation for the past week, at every possible opportunity (no chance of not getting it) that the field of 9 is a tough one: these aren't real claiming horses; they are horses who have earned themselves weighty handicaps and who are slumming it a little to get some races in. Their owners will defend them.

Tougher than the fields, for me, is following the logic sometimes. Essentially, one must argue, the cost of defending certain horses in such a race is negligible in comparison to their past and future earnings. And some people just like seeing their colors on a jockey's back from the comfort of the grandstand in front of the Owners' and Trainers' lounge or  their table at the restaurant, surrounded by duly impressed friends and clients with betting tickets and black, or at least platinum, cards in their wallets. This cannot be my case. Mine is altogether different. First of all, my dog ate my green card. Second, the Sport of Kings is slumming it letting me play, and has kindly offered the claiming system as my point of entry, as well as access to the valet parking and reserved sections of the track.

Like everyone else, I harbor fantasies and dream of standing next to my horse, its jockey and my trainer in the Winner's Circle, the most hallowed of the privileged sections of any track. This is my right; a claimer wins like any Groupe I horse. I know my place, but I struggle daily with it. Can I really afford to indulge this, my violon d'Ingres? Or, have I entirely lost my mind and all rational senses? If I can be smart and cool-headed enough, might I continue to indulge in it, or will I collapse under the weight of the stress of the worrying?

It is supposed to be fun, they say. Have fun! they say.

There must, then, be, I have discovered, a threshhold; an amount of disposable income that serves as the key in the lock to fun. There must be, perhaps, income that may be called disposable, tout court. If not, there must be a stop dollar wall, as a friend and fellow owner in Gina's yard in Maisons-Laffitte says. It's the point at which you stop and get out as soon as you hit it.

But I want my chance, and I want to see if it is at all possible to get the parts of the machine working, the horses moving through the box in the yard, the system, making modest profits or minimal losses that amount to a pleasant net gain or coming very close to breaking even and result in an experience of fun. I am not optimistic, but the individual serving as my bloodstock agent has replied in capital letters and with utmost clarity and succinctness when I express my desire to keep my horse, "NO." No, you may not. No, you must not. Do not get attached. We love them all, but the only way to be sure to make any money is to sell.

So, I must chose the horses I buy wisely, enter them judiciously, and then let them move on.

The best horse is a sold horse.

I have heard it hundreds of times now, and it doesn't sit any easier, not even once the bills start coming in (the ultimate reminder, along with your name and colors on the racing program and the jockey's back) and you know that this is absolutely true and must not be argued with. The bills do help, though. I must remember to thank my trainer's bookkeeper, and so must my bloodstock agent, who makes a little tiny fee every time I make a purchase. This is fine, too. As long as I am doing at least as well.

And so, this lovely, honest horse will be most successful for me by finding his longer-term home by the July sales in Newmarket. I will have the photos I have taken of him at which to look and by which to remember him. I can follow first his career, once he will have left the yard, and those of the others I will buy and move on. If I am lucky enough, I tell myself, I will buy him back when he is 10 and will have finished his career and be ready for a second one, carrying me on lovely trips through the forest, at a stately walk and leisurely gallops de chasse. If it won't be Fibs, finally, perhaps it will be one of the others I do not know yet.

Tomorrow Fibs will face the favorites, Settebellezze and Ocean Moon, and their dauphins, Celebrity Choice, Rey Davis and Delta Black Sheep. It is likely that he will find himself on the rang du con, the 6th place, just at the foot of the podium without a check for his efforts, yet beating Tucker's Law, Jamindar and Russian Davis. But, there is always a chance, that's why it's a race. No one knows the outcome before the race is run. Fibs has a chance. Paris-Turf writes of him, Fibs and Flannel mérite qu'on se penche sur son cas." In other words, he deserves attention and respect going into this race, and I will hold onto those words in the seemingly interminably endless hours stretching out between now and post time tomorrow, 8:10 pm.

I am hoping for one of the belles éclaircies forecast for tomorrow evening after a morning of wet skies to break out when lady jockey Carla O'Halloran is given a leg up into the saddle by Gina, fellow owner Mark at his second favorite place (after the winner's circle alongside Hard Way), the lad's, holding Fibs' lead, setting his chestnut coat on fire and lighting up my colors, golden-orange and claret, in the long June evening sun, copper radiating light like new, burnished centimes, drawing everyone's eyes to him, shining somewhere toward the front of the pack coming up the homestretch.

I want to be able to jump from my seat, arms liberated from my fists clutched at my stomach and into the air over my head, my heart to stop slamming around in my rib cage and rise along with them, watching him pull out and ahead, fighting to beat just another horse coming up to the post. The usual "I want" of the owner.

But, more than wanting a win for me, I want Fibs to shine for himself. If he is going to move on, let it be with dignity and respect for his honesty, his heart, and the good motor the good Lord gave him, and a positive number in my account with France Galop.

That'll be enough.
....

Jockey Carla O'Halloran, Cagnes-sur-Mer, February 2012

Fibs and Flannel, first canter and new colors

Fibs and Flannel, Piste Jaune at Maisons-Laffitte, May 25
In flight

If I was an owner with Elbow Beach, it's true that it was nothing like it is now that I am an Owner, officially approved by and registered with France Galop, and the owner of Fibs and Flannel, by Tobougg out of Cayman Kai mare Queens Jubilee (in the year of the Queen's Jubilee, a sign perhaps), making purchase decisions, ordering my silks, signing contracts, and, yesterday, standing on the mound of grass alongside the piste jaune, waiting for my horse to come blazing up and past us where we take stock of the horse's action, respiratory effort, relative speed and power.

It's where we realized the issue with Elbow Beach that we believed explained her lack of turn of foot in the homestretch. It's where we realized that Fibs is fast. Fast, I hope, enough.

Full reach

When he arrived in the yard in Maisons-Laffitte from Newmarket May 7, I went out to see him the next day and found a horse dripping with muscle in the shoulder and hind quarters, with a nice deep chest. Even I could see that this was a horse built for the mile, 8 furlongs, 1600 meters.

"Up to maybe 2000 here," said my friend and trainer now Gina Rarick, "But, we'll start him at a mile."

Good, consistent milers are rare enough, and it's a good length race to run well here, and he likes the turf, and runs just about as well on the fibersand. There would be plenty of options for him.

"I watched the video of his last two races in England again, and I think he was just losing interest. They are hard on them over there. I think all we have to do," said Gina "is make him happy."

This is the yard to do that, and it's the part that makes it the hardest if you're in the clamining races, with the chance of losing the horse to someone willing to bid higher than the price at which you are willing (or able) to defend. King Driver has a blue plastic soccer ball in a net that can be hung from the wall of his box or held by Agata in a game of tug-of-war, her hand and arm to his teeth and neck.

Everyone gets pets (except the stallion) and company, music during evening stable and individually adapted meals, according to the horses' needs and tastes. The boxes are squeaky clean and fresh, the straw plentiful, the hay tasty, and both are free of dust to bother the throat and lungs.

Owners wield pitchforks and walk their and others' horses, take the news of the yard, show up for each other's races, bring carrots and photos. The gate is always open, except when it is time for the afternoon nap and peace and quiet reign.

The other bit of work was to develop his back muscles and help him heal a sore spot along his spine, just before the croup, from where the saddles in England bothered him. He ran with his head up and his back hollow. Here, he would strengthen his back and learn to run with his head down while carrying a jockey.

Fibs did not move into the yard as the fanciest horse, nor as the most expensive horse, the horse in whom anyone could have the highest hopes and expectations. He arrived from the spring Breeze Up & Horses In Training Sale, Lot N° 35, not the best sale with the best horses. That's in July. But, the sale was taking place, Sebastien was going and returning with horses, and with the departure of Elbow Beach, I was without a horse. I could see what Sebastien had shipped over and if Gina thought anything was worth training, or I could just wait until July.

His race history was good enough; his paper was alright; but, he could be up for sale at the Tattersall's spring sale because there was something developing, something wrong, or not right enough, or because the barn needed to make room for younger, more promising horses that hadn't reached their ceilings yet. Racing is relative; he could be useful in the claimers and handicaps, but only seeing him, watching him move, going over his legs and feeling who is is would tell.

Gina gave the nod; Fibs was a horse who might well do what we hoped, and, so, he stayed in the yard under my patronage as the possibly useful horse, a horse who might bring in more in a claimer than was paid in Newmarket, and his papers and shipping.  A horse who might help me acquire a better horse still, or who would at least work and pay his bills in exchange for good care and the chance to run.

Yesterday, the yard's regard for him climbed a notch the second he passed us, standing alongside the piste jaune.

"He's good," said Gina, sounding, just possibly, agreeably surprised. "He's straight, and he has a large stride." I definitely heard satisfaction.

He'd cantered, what the French call galloping, the speed work, with Hard Way, and Gina turned to Hard Way's two other owners, she herself being the third, as well as his breeder, and pronounced him ready for Longchamp June 11. At that moment, I hope I might be forgiven my selfishness, I only had ears for what she had to say about Fibs, eyes for Fibs. Hard Way, as much as I adore him and am enchanted by his story, seemed a million miles away, somewhere out in Fibs' orbit.

We made our way over the other side of the piste jaune to the trail alongside, the place where Gina asks her questions and finds out what the exercise riders have to say about the horses' performance, while they turn in lazy circles around her, and Ludovic on Hard Way and Agata on Fibs trotted peaceably up toward us, where we waited.

"Il est bon," said Agata, and I got lost behind my camera lens, watching them turn about Gina, half-hearing the conversations around me, and the words He's good. He's good. He's good. Il est bon, il est bon, il est bon turned around and around in my ears.

Later, Agata came up to me in the yard and said, "Il avait encore a donner. Il aurait pu prendre Hard Way à la fin là et vient avec Hard Way devant. Il est bon."

Il est bon, il est bon, il est bon.


You don't let them actually race in speed work, though. Hard Way was the one set to gallop out front, and Agata's job was to gallop Fibs, staying back. Let one get along side another, and you've got a horse race, not a morning speed session.

My silks were ready at Petitspas on the main street in Maisons-Laffitte, making and selling everything you need to train and race a horse, and we headed off to pick them up, my heart a little bit in my throat. I could always change them if I hated them. I had had such a hard time making up my mind, but I didn't want to have to go through that, show myself as anything but decided and knowing my mind, at least for the choice of my colors.

Monsieur greeted us like he always does, and we followed him through the workshop, smelling of leather and full of scales, tools and an assortment of different machines for sewing everything from fabric to leather, where his assistant looked up from where he was working at the long bench along the windows of the courtyard and smiled toward us, to his office, from which he emerged with a smile and a clear plastic bag in his hand. Neatly folded inside were my racing silks. My colors.

I imagined them up on the wall at Deauville or Longchamp. I have no right to, but no one does not imagine this. I saw satiny golden orange and a color like a deep claret wine, so close to "win", shining through. I hardly dared form an opinion, but it seemed generally favorable around me. We drove back to the yard, and Gina pulled into her place in front of the gate.

"Do you want to take the silks home?" she asked.

"You usually keep them, don't you?" It occurred to me she thought I might want to show them to my husband. "Keep them here with all the silks."

"OK, I'll keep them with the others," she said, drawing back her hand and the silks shining in the sunshine through their plastic packaging. We started to cross the street.

"That way there can't be any problem; everything is here and ready."

The trainer brings the silks to the race in the little pouchshe has just for that purpose, leaves them in the cubby near the jockeys' locker room, and brings them back to launder them after the race. We turned to cross the street.

"You don't want to take them into the house?" I said.

"No! Let's take them over to the yard; we always show new silks off to the yard," she added, laughing.

It's true. It is a big moment. New colors coming into a trainer's yard means new business: a new owner, another horse, more racing opportunities and business. There are endless moments to mark and to celebrate in racing, even the sorrier ones, like a race that doesn't go according to expectations, when a jockey doesn't follow his orders or a horse has a bad day against tough competition, and none is to be missed. Ever.

Gina walked down to the barn and ripped open the plastic, turning to hold up the casaque in the bright noon sunshine for everyone's inspection. I watched from the safety of my camera lens. Agata voiced her approval and her surprise at finding that she approved.

"C'est beaucoup mieux en vrai que sur papier!" she pronounced, a huge smile across her face, "Le satin brille et ça change tout!"

I realized she had carefully hidden her fear that the silks would be hideous from me, but because they were shiny, and not just muddy ink on heavy ivory paper, or what it looked like on the simulator on the France Galop site, whichever she had seen, they had saved themselved from being awful, and even pleased.

"J'avais vu les échantillons des tissues chez Petitpas," I offered, by way of hopeful explanation, "alors je savais que ça donnait autre chose que sur l'écran de l'ordi ou papier." I had seen the cloth samples at Petitpas, I explained, so I knew what they would look like. Sort of.

"Et, je voulais que ça brille au soleil, que se soit des couleurs heureuses qui se voient."

She nodded, still smiling, and went to take the silks from Gina and pulled them over her head. I turned to Mark and added, "And I have the horse, as it happens, to go with them." He raised an eyebrow and smiled, nodding Yeah.

It was true; he shines like burnished copper, a bright, shiny centime in the sun, and the colors are perfect for him. It is just another coincidence.

Watching Agata pull the silks into place, I thought, I even have an enthusiastic and beautiful exercise jockey to model them for me, and got back behind the lens. She went to shut Milly's box door against the strong sunshine and heat and mugged for me, laughing and celebrating new colors.

"Il fallait oser le faire, mais c'est bon," she concluded, folding them back into their clear plastic bag and setting it on the bench alongside everything else one needs to care for race horses in Gina's barn. "C'est vraiment bien."

"C'est ça qui compte le plus," I told her, "que tout le monde les apprécie car l'on travaille tous ensemble." The whole yard wears the owners' colors, so it's best, I think, if everyone likes and is proud of them.

I feel like I might be a little bit crazy. I am not the person of whom you think when you think of a thoroughbred race horse owner; I am far from from it, possessing some of the qualities, but lacking the main one, the wealth, but there's something driving me. I don't make a lot of impulsive decisions; I can't afford to, but I am doing this for the experience, for the pleasure of being around these animals and everyone who is also compelled to be around them, for whatever lessons I will learn, and for whatever stories I will have to tell.

Because, you can't know the stories until you live them, and you can't tell what you haven't lived.
....

Fibs

For Surrey Storm, the handicap might be her size

Surrey Storm's lovely backside, Cagnes

She's a lovely 3-year-old with papers to make one dream, justifiably, but she's small, and that changes how you have to pilot her through the field.

I haven't been following this closely enough long enough to know just how much this is going to figure in the trajectory of her racing career, but it doesn't seem to be irrelevant. On the other hand, I have been following this just closely enough long enough to realize that first impressions have to be analyzed and parsed far more minutely for the information that really matters.

You didn't win, and you didn't place, well, it feels like a loss, even if you weren't the very last one past the post. You placed when you really thought you had a chance to win, and it feels the same way. You placed, but less well than you expected, yeah, the same. It's a horse race. It wouldn't be a race if the outcome were certain before the gate opened, otherwise, you could all just save everyone a lot of time and travel and just stay home, have the check deposited into your account with France Galop. In a race, things happen; what's important is what happened, and how that compares to the past and your expectations, and how you will develop the game-plan to get everything possible out of the horse.

Today, Milly, the yard name for Montjeu filly Surrey Storm, ran against some horses she has met on the racetrack here in France before, and she met some new ones. She did not better her performance against her old friends, Coolita and Tangoka; but, on the bright side, neither set the track on fire, either. Coolita finished some two lengths ahead of Milly and one out in front of Tangoka, but three and change behind the winner, Joly Berengere with Ioritz Mendizabal up for trainer Maxime Cesandri. By no means shaming to Milly.

Incidentally, it was Joly Berengere who delayed the course by several minutes when she broke from her stall before the gates opened, following the track employee who ducked away before the start. Cesandri's explanation of his filly's behavior was amusing: it's a bit of a family trait, not "méchant", or "bad", just a little, he shrugged, "bébête, "silly".

So what happened in this race? What does it signify for the next decisions to be made in training and in racing for the sometimes Fleet Fairy? Not having it from the proverbial horse's mouth, I can only hazard my own semi-educated guesses, but I'll take a stab.

I watched the video, stopping it and moving it backwards periodically to look at details again to try to get a sense of what was happening throughout the race. One drawback with camera angles is their tendency to flatten depth of field at critical moments; it's very difficult to judge distances and see the details, since un cheval en cache un autre, rather like, we are warned at train crossings here in France, trains; one horse hides another and her jockey. It's clear enough from the grandstand to the backstretch, and then when they switch cameras to a side or slightly to the rear angle in a turn, and once again when they are closing on the post, but a lot can get lost in that analysis.

Breaking from the gate, Milly ran easily enough with a nice action, overtaking several horses. Jockey Fabien Lefevbre settled her in behind the front runner and favorite, Zoe, flanked by Shiny Dream on the inside, with Distant Symphony a nose ahead on her outside in 3rd, followed right behind by Aponi in 5th. Coming out of the first turn, she's still in 4th place running alongside Distant Symphony, in "good position", as the announcer says, and a half length in front of Aponi.

The announcer remarks on the relatively easy-going pace of the race with Coolita showing a "brilliant" early effort, and Lady Ohara sitting patient on the outside at the rear of the pack. Joly Berengere begins to make her bid, overtaking Coolita and coming up on Zoe, who is still out in front, followed by Aponi in her wake. Right behind Joly Berengere is Distant Symphony, followed by Milly.

Just before the middle of the race, though, things begin to change, right about the moment that Fabien Lefebvre turns around in the saddle to look over his right shoulder at the horses behind him. There appears to be a jockeying for position. Held against the rail, it looks like Fabien is looking to see if he can move toward the outside without interfering with the horses just behind him and on the outside. It looks like there's a little contact and shuffling with Distant Symphony, whose jockey is looking for a way out, as well. Finally, he holds his place, and Milly drops back to the 8th or the 9th position, tight against the rail, where she stays, unfortunately, out maneuvered by the horses and their jockeys on the outside.

Where, in fact, she is pinned, until it's a moot point, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Coming into the backstretch, it's still Zoe in the lead by two lengths ahead of Coolita followed by Joly Berengere with Shiny Dream on her inside, followed closely by Aponi and Lady Ohara on her outside and Distant Symphony a half length behind. Then come La Jeremiah with Milly on her inside another length back, with Tangoka putting the pressure on them a half length behind.

The field is stretching out, and when the pace picks up 350 meters from the finish line, it's Coolita who makes a bid to outrun Zoe, with Joly Berengere and Lady Ohara on the far outside coming on strong. With 200 meters to go, it's three battling for the lead: Zoe, Coolita and Joly Berengere, followed tightly by Distant Symphony on the inside, Aponi in the middle and Lady Ohara coming up fast on the outside. Milly's still there, just behind Aponi.

Coming down to the post, the leaders continue their drive to the finish and gain ground on the rest of the entries. Milly loses some to Tangoka and Distant Symphony, some five lengths behind Zoe out in front, and then Fabien raises the whip twice as Joly Berengere takes the lead, followed by Lady Ohara on the outside, a nose ahead of Zoe on the inside, Aponi's a half length back, followed by another two lengths by Coolita a length ahead of Shiny Dream on the inside and Tangoka on the outside, just ahead of Milly, Surrey Storm in 8th place. She holds her pace, continues to stretch, and while she didn't overtake any horses, she wasn't passed, either. She simply didn't have it to pose a serious threat to the five crossing the finish line first, while Tangoka still looked to be within her reach. The question is why, because she wasn't exhausted.

The draw of the second position from the rail might have played into it, but she drew the number 1 spot last start and finished fifth, but it was with a smaller, more stretched-out field, in a race in which she was never seriously blocked against the rail and could have made a move to the outside at almost any moment, and did when the hole presented itself in the homestretch. It was an entirely different geometry. The only serious possibility of attack in this race came from the outside, as Lady Ohara demonstrated, and Milly couldn't get there.

The surface might have played a role, as well. Her last race was on the fibersand, whereas today was on a turf track judged soft by France Galop, and, then, there was the distance at 200 meters longer.

And, finally, or perhaps not finally -- I might have missed some things --, weight could be a factor. Little Milly carried an additional kg, equivalent to one place, over the distance, moving up from 56kg to 57kg, the weight most of the entrants was carrying. Only Aponi and Zoe were carrying less, at 54.5kg and 53.5kg, respectively.

The good points to take away were that she didn't give up, she held her own in the final stretch, and she was in the race, and Milly's 3-year-old season is young. She might suddenly become a big, strong filly, but she'll get stronger and she'll draw luckier places in the larger fields, and with each race, her trainer Gina Rarick will know better what to ask of her, and of her jockey, given the way the dice have fallen on race day.

Being the Fleet Fairy that she is, Surrey Storm requires a smaller hole to thread than a larger horse, and can perhaps do it more quickly, even she doesn't get "shuffled back" first.
....

Elbow Beach, "canter"

Guilain and Hard Way

When you take a terrific photograph and find one little thing missing, it's enough to ruin the photo. Sam walked by, looked at the series from this morning's visit to Gina's yard, and said, "That's a great photo. Too bad you don't see his eye; it would be perfect then." Now, all I can see is the eye you can't see behind Hard Way's mane. I keep it for its other qualities, and the fun we were having when he and Agata got back from Hard Way's and Elbow Beach's "canter", or gallop on the piste jaune at Maisons-Laffitte this morning.

Elbow was being a little silly walking up the road to the training center the other day, lost her balance and brushed her ankle against the sidewalk border, skinning herself like a little kid, which she is. Yesterday, the "canter" -- the French call canter "galop de chasse" and gallop "canter" -- that was supposed to take place and motivated me to get up out of bed and make the predawn drive to Maisons-Laffitte, my husband getting himself up out of bed and following me to make it an outing, was cancelled since she had a little inflammation from her boo-boo.

The "canter" was rescheduled for today, come what may, but instead of taking it side-by-side, race style, Agata and Gina decided to keep Elbow behind Hard Way and take it a little easy. Just in case. Having already lost one of the yard's best hopes for the winter season in Cagnes-sur-Mer, Satwa Sunrise, in a claimer on opening day, having another, Magic, down for several months (1 down and 2 or 3 to go; I can't remember. It's awful either way), seeing teeny, tiny Milly flounder on the fibersand in her first race in France, Elbow just has to get fit, avoid injury and race to win, or at least to place.

She also needs to do this because she is the horse in which I have two legs, the front or the rear, or the near or the far side; take your pick. I'll take any two, as long as they are healthy, strong and fast. Very fast. Elbow is a sprinter, running the 1200 to 1500 meter races, and she has come to France to add value to her profile as a brood mare, worthy of the better covers, by increasing her chances of adding a few more wins to her racing career by having her start her 3-year-old season early in Cagnes. Normally, she will return to England in March, unless we can negotiate an additional race or two, or three, in Saint-Cloud and Chantilly for March.

She was to arrive a week before she did, but heavy winds and rough weather closed the Channel ports, and Elbow Beech spent an extra week walking and trotting in circles in the horse walker. She lost muscle she'd need to win, and Gina made the decision to keep her in training in Maisons-Laffitte, under Chantal and Agata's watchful eyes in the yard and Agata's knees on her shoulders on the track. Soon, the call will come to bring her down, or have her loaded into the STH horse transport truck and sent.

Meanwhile, I am left to imagine any number of possibilities. Elbow could give us all a thrill, make our season and add a little extra shine and cachet to Gina's reputation. But, Elbow could disappoint us; she could come up short, even just short of that. All the elements could be there and in place, and still she might not win; or, something might still be missing, but she'll turn out to have that special something in her spirit or heart that corrects a little missing muscle or an odd turn of foot, which, aside from losing balance from time to time out walking up the street, she does not have. That you can't know until you let them go on a racetrack and see what happens, although I felt certain that I could sense it in Sunrise the first time I went with her to Deauville.

For now, it's Schrodinger's cat, which would make a great name for a horse, except that it leaves room for a little doubt.

My ownership paperwork has gone to France Galop. I have chosen my colors, and even decided on the rug and the colors for the browband of the bridle. I'm not telling. It would be nice to see my silks on the jockey's back, but mostly, though, I hope to see the horse whose training I at least help finance bring a little glory to the yard.

Agata and Elbow Beach

Today, I stood on the grass mound between the two pistes jaunes, and I waited in the quiet morning. I listened to two birds turn in the sky overhead, crying out to each other, and perhaps other birds, somewhere, and waited for the dark spots to appear in the distance. As I arrived, hooves thundering on the sand announced the arrival of another line of horses out for a "canter". I crossed the track and trained my lens on them. When they had past, blowing in cadence with their pace, I watched for them to turn and reappear, coming up the other side. They didn't, and I turned back to look back to the west and squinted.

The tractor dragging the harrow appeared on the far horizon and approached at a funereal pace. All morning the tractor pulls the harrow the length of the tracks, for walking, for trotting, for cantering, and for galloping. all morning, every day of the week. I prepared to greet the driver, when he'd eventually pass. An intentional , single nod of the head and a smile. He'd perhaps raise a hand from the wheel to say good morning back.

"Il doit en faire des kilometres, le type qui conduit le tracteur," my husband had said yesterday, watching the tractor make its way around a curve and down a track Sunday morning.

I watched him approach, and then, two horses appeared, tearing up the sand. They passed him, and kept on coming. I squinted again and thought I saw a streak of white. Elbow. I removed the lens cap and zoomed in, the horses came closer, and I could see the gray-spotted chest above the dark legs and the bright pink stars on Agata's helmet. I wanted to put the camera down and just watch them. Listen to them. It only lasts seconds before they have approached, streaked past, hooves throwing sand up behind their flying tails, and disappear into the dimness of the morning light at the end of the piste. Gone.

Agata on Elbow Beach

And then, they reappear, coming back up the far track. They have made the turn at the bottom, undistinguished by my eyes. I put my lens cap on, walk down the wood planked steps and cross the parallel stretch of piste to go and wait for them, listen for their four-beat galop de chasse come toward me. Usually, I stand there with Gina. Before Christmas, New Year's and now Cagnes, perhaps with another trainer or two, who would chat with Gina about their horses while we waited. Today, there was only I to ask how they breathed and moved, how quickly they recovered. I am no trainer, but I asked, and I was offered the graciousness of a reply.

"Comment va sa respiration?" I asked Agata, feeling a little nervous. I didn't wish to appear like I thought I was more in a position to ask than I was.

"Impéccable," said Agata. "Elle a récupéré plus rapidement aujourd'jui que la dernière fois, aussi," she added. I felt grateful for the extra information. Elbow was making progress.

"Et Hard Way," I said to Guilain, who puts up with me very sweetly, "ça serait super s'il pouvait aller à Cagnes et courir," I said.

"Il va tout seul, lui," came the reply: he goes all on his own, that one.

Not to Cagnes, of course, but on a racetrack.

The problem with Hard Way, and why he hasn't left already, is that he is a lot to handle in training, and Gina needs someone like Guilain to do the speed work with him, only there isn't certain to be someone on hand to do that work when she needs it done down there. Hard Way, Gina has explained to me, lays all his weight, all 600 or so kilos, in your hands, and you carry him. He doesn't use the bit to support himself and run, and that is exhausting. But, with Magic injured, Sunrise claimed, Milly being new to anything that's not turf, tiny and uncertain, it would be something to see Hard Way back racing, in Cagnes, and Elbow taking a victory would be a dream come true.

After they cantered back off, I looked left and then right, crossed back over the pistes, headed through the gate, look left and then right again and climbed into the car to drive back over to the yard and start Magic's box. I slipped her halter over her nose and fastened it behind her near ear and turned her on her good hind foot to attach her to the short lead at the rear wall, only she moved easily. Sometimes she moves with a pronounced limp and hop still. She stood there and worked her bit, rubbing it against the concrete wall. I went and emptied the wheelbarrow, the better to fill it again.

The sun was just beginning to light up the patches between the trees in the park when I dumped the first wheelbarrow of hay in the pit and forked it up onto the lovely, squared pile. It was rising straight in front of me through the trees at the end of the stable when I stuck my head out, sometime later, hearing their hooves clomp back into the yard. I grabbed my camera, and ended up with two series: the red series of Guilain and Hard Way and the blue series of Agata and Elbow Beach in my favorite studio, Gina Rarick's yard in Maisons-Laffitte, and some of my favorite subjects these days, Gina, the horses she trains, and the people around them.
....

Sunrise, claimed

Annie Casteu and Sunrise at Deauville, January 2

Today, I have another lesson to learn in horse racing: how to let the horse I appreciated most leave the stables. Satwa Sunrise came from the fall sales at Newmarket in October especially for the winter season in Cagnes-sur-Mer, like Fortunateencounter for Annie before her, and, like Fortunate, she was claimed before she had a chance to run for Gina and Annie on the Côte d'Azur. However, while Fortunate was claimed right before she was to leave, Sunrise was claimed in her third race on French soil, the last claimer in which she needed a place to qualify for handicaps after a promising 9th place showing in a strange finish at Deauville on December 21, a run to a thrilling second place in Deauville again on January 2, and, then, yesterday, on the opening day of the winter season in Cagnes-sur-Mer in the Prix des Bouches du Loup, a 2400 meter claimer at 15,000 and 20,000 euros for horses 4 years old and older in which she placed a very decent 5th. 

Gina had put her in at the higher price, which put another 2 kilos on Sunrise's back, for a total of 3 more than she carried in her second place finish, the rule of thumb being a place a kilo, and she beat Dolce Bambina all over again, and outpaced some horses valued at 38 and over. 

Geny.com got it pretty right their their comment to betters: "Il a manqué de peu sa cible pour ses premiers pas sur notre sol."

Sol qui est, après tout, le sien.

Dolce Bambina, Deauville January 2

The fact that she hadn't missed her target by much in her first outings back in her native country didn't escape many eyes, including those of Senonnes trainer Patrick Monfort, who claimed her for 21,355 € yesterday. A healthy sum, when you consider that she was sold for barely 2,000 € as a "bleeder", trained in England on Lasix, and has recently brought home winnings of some 6,300 €, without the drugs. Add it all up, and Sunrise has far more than paid her two months training expenses at 55 € a day, and, suddenly, Monsieur Montfort has become a lot more interesting to me. Not because I intend for him to train any horse in which I might be so fortunate to have a participation -- no, Gina will do that -- but because he will be carrying on the training of this horse Gina felt sure could run to win, and do it in good health.

Leaving Deauville after champagne, Annie said to me, "They won't claim Sunrise from me, not after what happened the last time," the "last time" being Fortunateencounter. Unfortunately, Annie was not clairvoyant.

Fortunate has gone on to have an impressive career in steeplechase, with Gina having the rueful experience of being known as the trainer who spotted and lost this horse before she had a chance to do anything for her, and, now, Patrick Montfort and whoever her new owner are are the ones who will benefit from Gina's eye, horse sense and training with Sunrise.

Monfort has some 70 horses in training for some 35 owners at his yards, and he has just added Sunrise. I can't help wondering if it weren't Gerard Augustin-Normand, whose horse Bearheart ran to a fairly disappointing 8th place finish in the first race of the afternoon at Deauville the day Satwa Sunrise took 2nd by a nose from Dolce Bambina. Gina told  herself and me that day that Sunrise wasn't likely to be claimed. "The French," she said, looking back at me over her shoulder as we passed the rond de présentation heading from the scales room to Sunrise's box , "are cautious. They like to see how the horse will do in a third race before claiming him."

I'd say Gina were prophetic, except what she is is just plain smart.

I had that to think about while I walked with Fia back from the garagiste, where we'd just left the Fiat for a diagnosis of its many ills. It's time, once again, for the biennial contrôle technique, and, this time, it might just not be worthwhile to fix her up for another two years on the road. I hope not, though. I am a little attached to it. It makes me feel not like I am too poor to have a nicer car in which to toodle around town, but that I am young and too poor to have a nicer car in which to toodle around.

It was cold again this morning. Colder, perhaps, than even recent mornings, when the temperatures have been well below zero for the first time this particularly warm and clement winter. It happened the morning Gina climbed into her car and drove down to Nice. Again, I'd say that she is prophetic, except that what she really is is just plain smart.

Still, I love winter. I'll take frost if I cannot get snow.

Fia and I quit the roads and her leash as quickly as we could and cut across the fields up on the ridge, shimmering with frozen dew in the low morning sun. Fia surprised a hare and chased it through the tall weeds, but Fia is no Saluki, and, so, certainly no match for a hare. No sooner had I started after her up the short, low rise beyond which their two pairs of ear disappeared than I saw her reappear, bounding toward me from the bright light, her mouth, as I expected, empty of hare. We continued on our way, Fia darting about, sniffing at the trails she might follow with her sharp nose, had I not set our course for the pleasantest shortest route home, I wishing I had brought my camera. I had, instead, chosen to leave it at home, telling myself Just for once, enjoy your walk rather than photographing it.

But, I could have argued back, I enjoy my walk, photographing it, but I didn't. Instead, I walked on home, got my camera and loaded Fia into the BMW wagon to go and photograph that most wintry and loveliest part of our morning walk, and I thought about Sunrise, and how I had nearly been prophetic, stopping often at Sunrise's box the night before she left Maisons-Laffitte for Cagnes. We had our chance to say our good-byes, Sunrise pressing her nuzzle into my own, and blowing softly into my ear.

I wonder if Annie got her ride.

So, 'bye, Sunrise. I'll be following you, and don't be surprised if some heart-shaped sugar arrives for you in Montfort's yards, from Annie, or from me.

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Cagnes interlude

Winter wisteria

Sunrise left Saturday night. Gina left this morning. The rest of the horses leave tomorrow evening, followed by the last one, Elbow Beach, in another week, or so. Annie flies down and back tomorrow to see her horse run. Agata is taking care of the horses that will stay behind, Chantal will reign over vastly emptied yards home in Maisons-Laffitte, and she and I are left to wait for Gina's business to return in late February. Me? It's time for me to return to my own yards.

I lifted my head and looked around me this morning, and what I saw did not make me happy. Dust. Dirt. Decrepitude. The house and the garden have been left to themselves. They cannot make their own projects happen. I have been left to myself. I have been incapable of making my own projects for them happen. There is only one person who can change that, and it is not in lifting my head and looking around that I will find her.

I have preferred the warm, velvet muzzles of mares in my neck, blowing softly into my ear and nibbling my hair, the smell of oats and Guinness, apples and alfalfa. A pitchfork or branch broom to a rake in my hands. Horses to plans and orders and decisions over how much to spend on what, and how. It is time to put on my own oeillères australiennes and to do my work.

Why is it so hard? I know that when I will have done it, there will be a release, the chance for a relâchement and a relancement, a stretch of time for other things, finally, without guilt, and satisfaction in spades, a heavy, heavy weight off my mind. Sometimes, it seems like procrastination is a sort of protection. But, against what? Everything that comes once the task is done, perhaps? It's not like I have not been busy. I have, but it is not as if these things that have occupied my time amount to my work being done, my home being something of which I can feel proud. My garden, too. How many times have we heard that the state of one's room, one's home is a reflection of the state of one's mind?

This is not good.

Imagine the house is finished. There will still be the housework to do. The dust that comes to lay itself in layers to dépoussiérer. The dirt that fills the corners to s'en débarrasser. The things that will continue to accumulate and not find a home in the still too limited space to ranger. The only solution is to determine the best systems of rangement and to build them. A good word, rangement, with its root rang, or to order or to arrange in nice neat lines, from the old franc work chramne or hramne, qui a ce sens dans la loi salique.

I prefer the sense of "rang" dans "rangement" à celui de "la loi salique".

Homes need their backstages. They need their stagehands, their carpenters, painters and managers. I need a staff; but I am not getting one anytime soon.

I have six weeks, six weeks measured in Cagnes until spring's work in the garden and Gina's return with the horses and the courses beginning in Chantilly and Saint-Cloud, to get my plans done and off to the builder to reserve his time in the clement months to come.
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Frost on amaryllis bud in January

Another day at the office for Deep Ocean

After the race, a shower

The racetrack, for some -- the thoroughbred racehorses --, is an office like it is for any other who goes to work and brings home a paycheck for their trouble. There are colleagues, too; the trainer, the lad, and the jockey; and, there is the essential support staff of track veterinarians and stewards, the waiters, bartenders, and betting window cashiers, the scales and dressing room attendants; and the parking lot valets and horse van service drivers. Deep went to work in Deauville on Tuesday and brought home a check for his staff, trainer Gina Rarick, his young apprentice lad (a girl), his various exercise jockeys (mostly women), and owner, Mme Paule Descargues and her husband.

He is a regular and dependable professional, bringing home a paycheck in each of his last six races (4p3p4p4p5p5p), not counting his victory in the race just prior. In his racing career, he has run 16 times, and he has won or placed in 11 of those races. 5-year-old son of the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe winner Sinndar out of Ocean Reef, bred in the Aga Khan Studs and possessing an interesting personal history, you cannot ask for much more, unless you are hoping for the ultimate, a crack.

When the paper is good and the race performance history is 69.75% for combined wins and places, granted a mere 6.25% for wins -- still, a win nonetheless; not every horse gets one --, but a fairly stunning 62.5% for places, you can't help but hope for those bronze and foot of the podium finishes to turn to gold and a place in racing legend, perhaps for a surprise victory, like his sire's, in even just one of horse racing's most prestigious races.

If the lass in Deep's and his colleagues' stable is an apprentice, so am I. I am just learning the feelings, the hopes and the expectations of thoroughbred racing, and their management. I am hanging around the office, the guest of my patient and generous "maître de stage", Gina, and her "entourage" of owners and staff. I am even starting to be recognized as I walk the corridors by the other trainers, and the track officials, even the members of the media. The Nikon D300 around my neck makes me look more like I belong there than I perhaps do. This was my fourth time at the races, but I have already seen that there are not two identical trips to the racetrack, not even with the same horse and the same owners, the same trainer, and even the same jockey. There is not one single variable that is not subject to change, else, how could you call them "variables"?

It starts with the horse. One, trainer or owner, buys a horse, looking a good paper, for signs of conformity, the horse's movement, perhaps a previous track record, something in her eye and the way she conducts herself in the presentation area. No single element, no matter how shiny, is a guaranty. Like Deep, the horse might walk on three legs and still run as though he had four perfectly functioning ones; unlike Deep, he might have four perfectly functioning ones, and run as though he had three. There is no magic bullet recipe for choosing a horse who will run well for her owner and her trainer, and it is probably easier to spot the factors that will make that extremely unlikely than it is to spot those that will favor it. At least there is that much.

Nerve-wracking.

Listen, though, to Gina, and learn something.

Training, she will tell you, is only a part of the equation, after the horse itself. I get the impression that trainers could benefit from taking the Hippocratic* oath, like doctors: first, do no harm. The trainer's work is to care for the needs of the horse: nutritional, veterinary, and exercise; enough of each, but not too much, dosing, and listening to the horse's response. The reins in your hands, she will tell you, are the yoke in those of the pilot of a small airplane. Through them, from the bit in the horse's mouth to you, is transferred all of the information about the horse you will need about she runs and your best way to direct her is through using your hands on the reins carefully, with sensitivity, responding to her. Run your hands and eyes daily over her, and you will feel and see the beginning of a problem. Look at the way she stands, look into her eyes and you will know is she is feeling poorly. Do this long enough, and your instincts develop and sharpen. Use your brain, but not too much. Training seems to amount to a heightened knowledge of not just horses in general, but of each horse in particular. Note that Hippocrates' name itself contains "horse".

Training, you might hear, if you listen to smart trainers, is about sense and sensibility. The history of thoroughbred horse racing is storied and romantic, but the work of the trainer at the office is not. It cannot be, if the trainer wishes to earn a living and see success. Wise trainers must know their horses, with their capabilities and their limitations, and choose races for them in which they have a chance to bring home a paycheck. Realistically. The best trainers are the Dennis Hoppers of the horse world, practicing realism. Let the horse surprise you pleasantly, not disappoint you bitterly by racing him against your wildest hopes for him cruelly. A crack, you will hear, if you are listening, is a horse in an hundred, like a stallion. Imagine the size of the stables required to hope reasonably for a crack somewhere in them, and sometimes where you might not be expecting to find her. If you listen to her, ride and care for her judiciously, she will tell you; I am the one.

It does not work the other way.

If Deep starts burning up the track, who knows? If he has the makings of a crack in him, Gina is as likely as any to help him express it on the racetrack. But, at 5, he is likely to prove himself to be what Gina says he already is: a racehorse.




I am about to see my first leave the yard and the training facilities at Maisons-Laffitte for a short season in Cagnes-sur-Mer before returning to her real owner in England, and I am watching and listening closely. If no two races, even with the same characters, are the same, no two owners are, either. It seems, then, to me, that the most important thing is to know yourself and your means, your own abilities and limitations going into this business, or leisure activity, or sport, or all of the above, and to be clear with not only yourself, but your fellow owners, if you have them, and with your chosen trainer. I know mine.

I know that I will be delighted to see Elbow Beach bring home a paycheck. I will be ecstatic to see her bring home a victory, and I know her other owner feels the same way. I am in this to support Gina's work and help her build the reputation of her yard, and to feel all the feelings that go along with horse racing, from the lowliest, like discovering at the betting window, ticket in hand, that in simples, only the first three places pay out, not five, like they do for the horses and their staffs, to the grandest, I can hope, while being perfectly happy to sit in the middle chair and eat my medium-warm porridge, the one that's just right: regular paychecks for expenses.

Most likely, I will not be there in person to see her do either, earn a check or win, but I will be watching on television, and probably taking pictures, anyway.
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