I know

By: Landray Depth Charge

Author's Note: This is dedicated to every thoroughbred and quarter horse in the racing scene. It is these magnificent animals and their love of running that truly makes horse racing the sport of kings.

The waves crashed across the sand and I knew my break would soon be over. My handlers and trainers had been having me out on the track for schooling and working with greater frequency lately, putting me through paddock training, gate schooling, and one-turn workouts. It was all just to refresh my memory, as I had done it before. I completed each session without a fuss, even when the man in the saddling area pulled my upper lip away from my teeth to look at my identification tattoo.

I leaned forward, stretching my long neck out as my chest pressed against the wooden rails of the fence. My nostrils flared to take in a deep breath of salty ocean air. Soon I would be taken back to the track to compete, and I had the sneaking dread that this time I wouldn’t be coming back.

Last summer I was injured on the track. I was turning towards the homestretch, humming along the rail behind a steadily tiring pair of front-runners. A hole opened up. The speed horse closest to the rail drifted out as we entered the final stretch, leaving a space just wide enough for me to pass through. Without being signaled by my rider I surged forward through the opening as we straightened out for the run for the wire. When my jockey gave me a tap with the whip I was a neck ahead. He wanted a bit more, so I gave.

So did my leg. I felt a sharp pain in my right lead and hobbled just a tiny bit, but my rider felt it. The snaffle bit in my mouth pulled back as he used the reins to slow me down. With every step of my right foot I felt a dull pain. The rest of the field passed me as I slowed to a lope, then a trot, then to a walk and finally to a halt. I had badly bowed the tendon in my right cannon bone.

In the months to follow I was allowed to rest and rehabilitate. I spent long lazy hours in the autumn sun, gazing out over my seaside pasture. But those lazy hours were many spent standing, and because my right leg hurt badly, I favored it and put most of my weight on my left. Fall turned to winter turned to spring, and I improved drastically. It was the summer of my third year of life, and I was in competing condition again.

This all would have been well and fine, but all the stress I had been putting on my left front foot for the past months had adverse effects. The day before the race I felt good and high in spirits, as a colt commonly does, and leapt into the air to buck and play. I came back to Earth from a flying kick on both of my front legs, but in my left cannon bone I felt a faint snap! After that came a sort of crackling pain, but it went away after a moment. Since then my leg has been sore. My trainers and grooms did not notice because I did not limp.

The sound of the waves were soothing, so when my groom came to get me I was calm. As the boy led me to the trailer I was quiet, even though I knew what tomorrow would bring. All through the trip I barely twitched a muscle, even though I knew. In the track stable I ate dinner and slept like normal, even though I knew.

When my trainer came and got me and saddled me in the paddock with the other horses I remained stoic, even though I knew.

When the pony horse led me to the starting gate I looked at the contraption with ears forward, even though I knew.

The bell rang, the gates snapped open and I burst from them, even though I knew.

As had been my custom as a two-year-old, I leapt from the start with frightening speed but held back, allowing the front-running horse to pass me on the inside. I stayed glued to his flank, putting pressure on him, forcing the hot-blooded colt not unlike myself to fight for the lead, knowing that by the homestretch turn he’d be out of gas. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, numbing my body to the pain I knew my leg must have been in. Any time now...

I resolved myself not to think about what I knew, instead focusing on running my heart out as though it were to be the last. My ears pinned back as a fire alighted in my eyes, and despite my riders attempts at holding me, I accelerated. The speed horse dueled with me for an eighth of a mile but I swiftly powered by him as we flew towards the first turn. I imagined myself flying to victory by fifteen lengths at the wire and returning to my beach front pasture to cheers from my fellow equines and humans alike. I would be a champion, no one would ever prove equal to my greatness.

But I knew.

When my left cannon bone snapped, it didn’t register at first. The ground heaved up at me in slow motion and I watched it with frightened fascination. I turned my head at the last second, closing my eyes as my shoulder connected with the dirt. My hindquarters flipped up and over my forequarters, sending me and my rider into a somersault. I felt my back hit the ground with a sickening crunch and I skidded helplessly, smearing my jockey into the dirt until we finally stopped, the momentum carrying me onto my side. The rest of the horses had managed to avoid me, and I dolefully listened to the reverberating thunder disappear as they ran past, leaving me alone on the track.

I didn’t bother to try to get up, like many other horses did. I already knew. The adrenaline in my system had increased ten-fold with my fall, so I felt no pain as the blood gushed from my wound, staining my beautiful white coat crimson. My left cannon was snapped completely through.

But I already knew, so I sighed and laid my head down on the track as men surrounded me, trying to move me so they could access the jockey trapped under my bulk. I lifted my tired head and shifted, allowing the men to retrieve their own. They rushed off with the lifeless body, once again leaving me alone on the hot backstretch dirt.

I was terribly sad. The knowledge that I would never run again, that I would never live the thrill of competing, nor feel the wind rush against my face and the complete freedom of the grounded flight...knowing that those things would come to me nevermore broke my heart. Images of horses running beside me flitted through my mind as I became sleepy in the heat. I closed my eyes, a broken white horse on an unforgiving black racetrack, framed like a Monet on a museum wall.

After a moment I opened my eyes and nickered. Without a thought, I rolled onto my chest and thrust my forelegs out infront of me, heaving myself into a standing position. I stood on four strong legs, neck arched, mane and tail windblown as I gazed serenely at myself on lying on the dirt. My eyes were aflame as I leapt into the air, vitalized by the very breeze it seemed. I left my broken body on that backstretch and soared into the sky, racing with my brothers and with the eagle without a saddle or bridle.

I know now that my reason for despair on that hot summer day was erroneous. My body is gone, but my spirit lives to continue my passion. Though now my freedom is not limited to running, to grounded flight. Unrestricted by physical laws, I will forever gallop through the heavens with my brothers and sisters, racing the clouds, playing with lightning without the fear of mortal pain nor injury.

They say the thoroughbred was born and bred to race. A lanky foal is birthed into this world with one command imprinted on his mind: run. Competition is a racehorse’s passion, it is what he lives for. The thrill, the speed, the victory. It is the reason that a horse goes to the track, is put under saddle and loaded into the gate willingly even though he knows something is wrong. He runs because he loves to, and this love does not stop with death.

This I know.