First race, a place for Elbow Beach

Elbow Beach after the race at Cagnes, Feb 2

It has been almost a week since the first race horse in which I have a couple of legs ran her first race in France and came in 4th at Cagnes-sur-Mer in the Prix de l'Ile Sainte Marguérite. Turfoo had given her 5th place. Our trainer Gina Rarick didn't expect her to place. She was short on work. Very short on work.

Elbow had spent a week or so in mid-transport from her trainer's in England, Dr. Jon Scargill's Red House Stables in Newmarket, Suffolk, at a stud closer to the English Channel, walking and trotting in a horse walker after being off training since November and placing 10th in her last race, a 1400 meter race in Salisbury on October 10. The weather had turned bad, the seas were heavy with strong gusts of wind, and the ports were closed. Elbow would have to cool her heals and put off seeing France until things quieted.

Looking at her race history alone does not give a prospective owner, or part owner, the chair

Snow dog

Fia, a dog, a stick, and some snow

Among the joys of true, snow-covered winter is watching the dogs play in the snow. Not that it's really any different than watching them play in the grass, but the contrast of lustrous black dog on pristine white snow is certainly stronger, and snow flies up dramatically from under those powerful paws, and gets to fall again. Pure energy.

She's warming up for Argentière in the Chamonix-Mont Blanc valley in two or three weeks, a year after we placed Baccarat's ashes above the glacier on the backside of les Grands Montets and at the roots of a giant fir in the forest of the Moraine.

And, to own the truth, it's not "dogs", anymore, but "the dog", Fia, my "dark angel". One plays, the other tries to avoid her and to sit on the steps out of harm's and impact's way. At 12 in one month from today, I can understand Rapide. It's getting harder to make it back up the long middle stair of the garden, with it's 28 steps. She takes them one at a time.

One day, she'll not return, but for now, I am relieved when I see her pick her pace up into a trot as she rounds the fish-pond-in-a-(former)-fountain.

So, who wants to come play? Xander? Ramona and Hudson? I know you're all too far, and, Hudson, you'd probably rather sit on the sidelines with Rapide, although I think you'd find the climate in harmony with your ancestral memory.

Samantha? Do you want to come to France and play in the snow?



Perhaps as soon as those crazy but lovable and funny people with whom she shares her home start acting like humans and let her out the damn door. Sheesh.

Scooby Doo? Coco?

Coco, training center Maisons-Laffitte, Jan 13

Prof, you can sit on the steps with Rapide and watch the young ones romp.

Prof, "du dos", with Rapide and Fia

I'll join you two, with my camera, and then just as soon as Gina and the horses are back from Cagnes-sur-Mer, Rapide, we'll head to Maisons-Laffitte for another late afternoon play date in the Rond Poniatowski.
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Bookends

Eric Tabarly roses, February 5

I didn't believe the weather report, or, more truthfully, I didn't really take it seriously. Snow was mentioned for Saturday night, but there hadn't been a flake all winter. The temperatures had dropped, yes, but snow? I took the dogs out for the last time with rock hard soil and crisp blades of grass and fallen Canadian oak leaves underfoot, and in the morning, the shutters still closed, my husband walked out the door of our bedroom and said, "It snowed!" I was on his heel on the landing in a heartbeat. 

I love snow. I cannot tell you how much I love snow. I love snow more than sand; I love snow more than green grass; and, I certainly love snow more than I love what has replaced the green grass, the bare earth, as a consequence of my fall from gardening grace this autumn with my absolute failure to rake up the linden tree leaves, which then covered the grass in a thick blanket of damp for many weeks and killed all the green. 

So, there was no one to warn the roses of their likely fate. Or the violets. They are frozen and discolored, like lettuce in a refrigerator turned up too high. 

It was snowing lightly when we woke up Monday morning, too, and it covered the roads as I drove to the train station to go watch the qualifiers for the 20th Open GDF Suez in Paris at Coubertin, my Christmas-birthday present from my son, which returns me to Coubertin for the quarter-finals Friday. I followed my neighbor, driving his used Jeep Cherokee, in our soon to be dumped Fiat Uno, and I wished his bulk left the room to pass him; I was going to miss my train if he didn't hit the gas a little more.

What's the point of driving your Jeep 4X4 to work in the snow if it's not to drive like there wasn't snow, especially when my little Fiat 2X0 was having no problem? I made the train by 30 seconds. The conductor made an effort to look stern and tell me that it was my responsibility to come looking for him when, in my rush, I forgot to have my ticket punched by the machine on the tracks; I apologized, feeling genuinely grateful that I wasn't going to get a 30€ fine, saying that was why I took the step toward him. He looked at me from under his lowered brow, and made a note on my ticket.

"Oh, vous voulez dire que j'aurais du venir vous chercher dans le train?" I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the space beyond, the cars ahead, closer already to Paris. He nodded, c'est ça, now you've got it. 

I didn't bother explaining what had to seem obvious, that I had no idea which way to head in my effort to find him, and he headed off toward the rear of the train, not looking at anyone's tickets. I could have gotten away with my forgetfulness, although, surely he would have heard my guilty heart beat as he passed close by where I stood on the crowded train. I tried not to feel badly about my honesty and concentrated on the snow-covered landscape between the train and the highway and the Seine beyond, watching the stations pass the direct to Saint Lazare. 

And today, the snow remains on the ground, although I can see the water dripping from the balcony through the panes of the living room window. The afternoon sun, my enemy, is doing its best to rid us of my winter pleasure, the thing that finally removed the constantly present harsh and critical voice in my brain, nagging and nagging: the blanket of lovely snow. Winter, I realized, when it comes properly, is a relief to the gardener. It is soothing. 

It's alright, it says, you may stop now and take a break. 

You have deserved it. 

When the snow does not come, there is no respite, no sense that you should not be doing something to clean up and ready your garden for spring (especially if you never made the slightest effort in the fall). The season drags on, it has no bookends. We are not given permission to move onto other things and return once the snow thaws for the last time, and the winter ends, leaving us to discover what has been germinating under that snug white coverlet. 

I can only hope for the clouds to return and bring more snow, while the calendar still says winter.

Of course, Gertrude Jekyll would just have gotten her work done.

....

No one told the roses

Eric Tabarly roses, January 27 (I swear)

While I have been ignoring the garden, preferring the horses of Maisons-Laffitte, it has gone on about its business, only, not the usual business of the mid-winter months: the garden has been blooming, quietly, discretely.

This morning, the horses taking care of themselves, waiting their ride to Cagnes-sur-Mer, or working through their winter, healing, preparing, the sun came out, and I took my first tour of the terraces in a few weeks, stopping to see each plant, to estimate the pruning, the clean-up, the damage, the promise. I found things that were parfaitement normales, and things that were tout simplement tout à fait surprennantes, because no one told the roses that it is winter.

The Pierre Ronsard climbing against the tall, south-facing wall of the gazebo terrace boasted a single rose in its highest branches. The older of the two weeping roses of the second terrace, amidst the lavender that will soon be replaced, sported more than one tiny flower, and the Eric Tabarly rose bushes, in their seemingly permanent temporary pots, just won't give up, and I can't make them stop, because the winter refuses to make more than brief, hesitant appearances.

The winter did not come to tell the roses that it is time to rest, or the violets and the Santa Barbara and the Cape May daisies.

I expected to see the primula blooming, the crocus and the hyacinth sending up their first shoots, but with some of the later spring and summer flowers of the garden continuing to bloom, the crocus flowers might look strange, out of place this February. No one had to tell them the winter wasn't coming, but no one told the roses, who couldn't know.

The fallen and rain soaked brown leaves certainly do. Why was I so lazy? My grass is ruined.

More reason to get the new path and terrace done now, while all is a mess.
....

Elbow Beach is off to Cagnes

Elbow Beach and Hard Way, Maisons-Laffitte 

How many people get to say "My horse is racing next week"?

It's an extraordinary thing; in my life, anyway, and it makes as little sense, if you study the arc of my life, as one could imagine. You would have to have known me when I was very little and read about Alec Ramsay and Harry Dailey and Shêtân to begin to imagine I could find my way here. You would also have to know that I sometimes do unexpected things, irrational things, things that may or may not make sense once we can look back upon them from a comfortable vantage point years hence. Or, even next week, after Elbow Beach runs her first race in France at Cagnes-sur-Mer.

My horse is running next week in the hippodrome-on-the-sea, and it is an extraordinary thing, an exciting and thrilling thing. Anything is possible; every door is open; and, it could go anywhere. I have no idea, and that is just fine.

The word came from Agata today, "Elbow a volé aujourd'hui. Elle a trop bien bossé!!! On va s'amuser avec elle à Cagnes."

Elbow ran another gallop this morning on the piste jaune, where the fast training work is done at Maisons-Laffitte, along with the piste noire, which is no longer black since the sand was changes, but no matter, and she was stronger still than she had been in the two previous work-outs. She flew. She worked better than ever, and Gina Rarick has found a race for her next week, 1600 meters on Thursday. It's 100 meters more than she has been used to doing, but Agata, who has ridden her in most of her training, and all of her fast work, doesn't think the extra 100 meters will pose any problem for this gray dappled 3-year-old filly with the white face, and with character to spare.

The night I met her, her first at Gina's yard, she made an impression. Her box full of women and a black Labrador retriever, she showed everyone interest, moving her white head about on her long ash gray neck. Nothing escaped her attention, everything merited her curiosity. Over the next month, she won our affection and our respect. A young mare who uses her neck the way a mother uses her hands on her baby, she stroked my back and my legs with her neck, a horse's way of hugging you, running her muzzle over me. Like with Sunrise, I could stand at her box door and press mine to hers and feel her press back against me, blowing gently into my face.

And then, quite of a sudden, after her last splendid fast workout Monday morning, she swung her head and clocked me. I heard my nose crack. The sound of cartilage moving to places it should not be with respect to the attributes of one's face. My hand flew to my nose, protecting it, testing it, and I shouted at her. Had I the presence of mind I ought to have had, she'd have had a whack back, too. I chose to believe that she didn't mean it and hurried over to Agata in the barn to tell her my war story. I had been baptized.

"Ah oui!" said Agata, "Ca se voit!"

"Hé oui, et ça se sent aussi!"

She assured me it wasn't turning too blue, nor was it swelling much, yet, and I followed her to the medicine cabinet, where she soaked a square of gauze in something and handed it to me.

"C'est de l'arnica. Essuie ça partout sur ton nez." I did as instructed. It smelled sharp. "Tiens, prends-en 5." She handed me a little plastic vial, tinted light blue. "C'est de l'arnica."

I held the gauze to my nose and turned the vial about, trying to figure how to get the whatever they were out of the small hole in the top.

"Non," said Agata, taking the vial, "tu le tournes, comme ça." 5 little round white pellets dropped into my available palm.

"Je les avale, comme ça?"

"Non," she corrected me, "tu les mets sous la langue, et tu les laisses fondre, comme ça."

I slipped them under my tongue and waited for them to dissolve, hoping the bruise would never appear. It didn't, nor did the feared swelling, but the nose is still tender, however, that is nothing next to Agata's fesses, after Triple Tonic was through with her a little later in the morning, having succeeded at dumping her on a third, or so, violent turn of the hind end. Ah, them's the breaks in this business. If you hear a report of a crater discovered on one of the allées of the park at Maisons-Laffitte, Agata commented the next day on Facebook, know that it was no meteor. No. It was Agata's butt.

I think we have not one, but two horses ready to race: Elbow Beach and Triple Tonic, who has lost most of her 3-year-old season due to nagging viral infections, but who now seems ready to attack her 4-year-old season with a vengeance.

Who says fixation d'abcès is an outmoded treatment in this day of penicillin? Ask TT.




And, so, I'm off to Nice for a day or two next week. Gina has looked up cheap flights (I am not a wealthy owner, nor will I be one for long, just yet), and all that remains to be seen is making sure my dogs don't get bladder infections waiting for someone to let them out to relieve themselves in my absence. I think my husband will cover that. There is no way I want to miss my first race as an owner, even if I can't be listed as such yet by France Galop. Like Agata said, we're all -- Gina, Agata, me and her other owner for her time here in France -- looking forward to having some fun, while it lasts, and perhaps to making a bit of money, thanks to Elbow. Her other owner will be flying over from the States to see her race a little later in February,.

I have the champagne packed. All I need is the blue stuff.

Meanwhile, the yard's favorite ATM-on-four-legs, Deep Ocean, ridden by his usual jockey, Gérald Pardon, took 5th in his first race back in his native south of France, beating two horses from his old yard before he moved to Maisons-Laffitte in November. While he was believed to have difficulties running "left-handed", which Gina believed was actually due to other factors that happened to coincide with left-handed race courses, that seemed to bother him less than his starting position on the inside, and his over-trimmed feet from his new shoeing down in Cagnes. Imagine trimming your nails past the quick. He ran on that.

Which might also explain his unruliness, out of character for him, prior to entering the starting gate. He was a handful.

Oh well, nails grow and boo-boos heal.
....

Elbow Beach, January 22

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.
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Hoping for a Surrey Storm in Cagnes

Surrey Storm, "Milly", and Sunrise at "galop de chasse"

It's little Milly's turn today at Cagnes-sur-Mer in her first race in France since her arrival with Satwa Sunrise from the fall sales at Newmarket. She runs in the Prix Cheret, and at 3 years old, the daughter of Montjeu and Dansili mare Dont Dili Dali, she's the baby of the yard. In just two of those names, there are enough stories to fill several months of posts. I would hardly know where to start, or, possibly worse, where to stop.

To call Montjeu "father" is already impressive, but her trainer, Gina Rarick, places still more weight on the mare's line, and here Milly holds up to as much scrutiny of her papers as you care to give them. Over the last few years, her damsire Dansili, champion sire in France in 2006, has stepped into the shoes of his father, Danehill, as an international top stallion for Saudi Prince Khalid Abdullah's Juddmonte Farms.

Given the synthetic fibersand surface in today's race, it's interesting to note in Juddmonte's "in-depth analysis" that Dansili was a champion sire of all-weather performers in two consecutive seasons, 2005-06 and 2006-07. One hopes that Dont Dili Dali had something of this element in her to pass along to her daughter Surrey Storm, foaled in 2009.

Montjeu sire is Sadler's Wells, by Northern Dancer out of Bold Reason mare Fairy Bridge, a filly who won the only two races she ever ran prior to becoming a broodmare. Bred by a Guggenheim (Harry), Bold Reason's sire is Hail to Reason, the 1970 Leading sire in North America, who himself ran 18 races in the first nine months of his second year and won nine of them, including setting a track record in the Hopeful Stakes at Saratoga Racetrack ridden by Bobby Ussery, before he threw a shoe in a September morning exercise session and broke both his sesamoid bones in the front near foot.

Bold Reason raced in the 1971 Triple Crown series, taking third in the Kentucky Derby, fifth in the Preakness Stakes and another third place in the Belmont Stakes. Retired to stud, he was Great Britain and Ireland's top broodmare sire in 1984; his daughter Fairy Bridge produced his most important offspring, Sadler's Wells; the third stallion to carry the name, Sadler's Wells ran in 11 races for 6 victories and 4 places.

Montjeu shot to glory in his 3-year-old year with his victories in the Prix du Jockey Club at Chantilly, having already threaded the little pearls of victories in the Prix de Greffulhe at Saint-Cloud and the Prix Lupin at mythic Longchamp. After taking top honors in the Irish Derby, in the fall, he ran to victory in the Prix Niel at Longchamp, launching himself from there, to go on to race in the glorious Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, chasing down El Condor Pasa to victory and making of himself the top 3-year-old in Europe in 1999.

In 2000, we will recall, entering the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe as the favorite, Montjeu was -- sadly for some, not so sadly for others, depending on the lines of the horse you own, outpaced by the sire of Surrey Storm's yard mate Deep Ocean, Sinndar.




There's a lot of greatness in this little girl, who has run four races in her 2-year-old season in England prior to her entry today, with one fourth place finish and two 3rd places finishes, including one at storied Epsom Downs. Perhaps today she will begin a turn-around in the series of unfortunate horse racing-related events in owner Steve Collins' recent past (another horse in which he has a leg fractured her coffin bone a few weeks back, for one) and make her other owner Michael Brief's trip over to France's southernmost coast from the farthest coast of the United States worth his name being left off the program by France Galop, and help to salve the wound of the recent loss of Satwa Sunrise to trainer Patrick Monfort's yards.

I make this small gesture of mention on his behalf, from another future France Galop registered owner.
....

Training jockey, Agata, with Milly, November 26, 2011