SearchThe Winner's Circle
By Tor Weller
Here I sit, perched like a bug on Midnight Shadow's back, and I'm trembling so hard my legs are beginning to cramp. Midnight Shadow, in a way only horses can, senses my adrenaline and the knot of nervousness burning in my stomach. She tosses her ebony head and whinnies, a resounding bugle that belies her gender. A few horses lined up in the starting row answer her, making the whole row echo deafeningly with the crash of frantic horses. I imagine that perhaps they are as nervous as us two-leggeds, or maybe they are hurling insults and challenges, having a faith in their riders that we, or maybe just I, don't have ourselves. My palms are slick with sweat, and every time I try to take a better grasp on the rubber reins they slip. Quickly I wipe them on my red and white racing silks, right on the maple tree that is the crest of the stable that owns Midnight.
And they're off!
A roaring voice drawls. Before the man's voice even registers in my head a low buzz fills my ears, making my whole body buzz along with it, and with a clang the painted-white-and-peeling gates in front of me spring open. The open space shows a wide blue sky that sits on top of a green and brown turf that stretches on endlessly before me. It seems to me that at that moment the turf is begging, in a loud voice, for the thundering sound of hooves pounding it, tearing up chunks of the soil and contemptuously flinging it into the faces of those behind them. An endless sea of faces, all blurred together, break upon the fragile white fence ringing the track like a mighty ocean wave on delicate sand. They open their red mouths in a deafening roar that buffets me like a wind. I take all this in in only half of one of my spasmodic heart beats, and as soon as the gates open Midnight takes off like a hot, tar-black bullet from a gun. My stomach feels like it has been left behind, but I don't wait for it to catch up, I'm crouching in the saddle, face up high against my horse's neck. All I care about is the hot horseflesh beneath me, the hot horseflesh all around me, jostling Midnight and I. My hands know what they are doing, merely from habit. Deftly they hold the reins, the whip and a chunk of my mare's mane. They move of their own accord, pumping up and down in rhythm with the horse's great, leaping strides.
Quickly I look under my arm to see where the others are, then I face forward again. There are seven other jockeys on seven other horses and I have to beat them all. Losing is not an option I will even consider. My goggles are quickly getting covered with mud flung up from by the hooves of the horses in front of me. Very quickly I think, that will change, soon I'll be the one flinging mud into someone's face! Lightening fast I wipe my face, somewhat clearing the lenses. I tighten my white-knuckled grip on the reins even more and direct Midnight to slip behind the front horse's flank. She shakes her head, fighting the slow-down. Too late I see what she already had, we were very close to being boxed in! My teeth clench so hard I'm afraid they will shatter. Desperate, I cut my whip across Midnight's hip and with a leap that would have snapped my neck back but for the way I had tensed myself for it, she surges forward. We fly past the other horses beside us and as we round the first bend we draw neck and neck with the lead horse. Sweat pours out of every pore and I can feel my body trembling. Midnight's black mane whips back, stinging my hands and face as I stretch out even further along her neck. This is our day of glory, and I won't let anyone take that from us! My mouth opens in a soundless scream, and, understanding my desperate resolve, Midnight Shadows gathers up every last ounce of her strength, I can feel her beneath me, like a tightly coiled spring about to explode. I yell, I can't help myself, a loud whoop of joy, as she springs forward. We fly. We fly past the lead horse, over green and brown. Gravity alone can not hold us down. We're kings! Well, Midnight is a queen. We fly around the last bend, leaning like daring motorcycle riders. This is what we had trained for, sweated for, Midnight and I. We had payed through the nose for these few moments of glory, and they are undeniably ours. Tears of joy are streaming from my eyes, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. They fog my goggles for that I can't see the moment that we cross that fragile white streamer, but Midnight plunge against it and break it. Dully we can hear the sound of screams, cheers maybe, from the spectators. Impulsively, I tear off my goggles, and as we cross that finish line, we are transformed. No longer are we a scrawny jockey and weedy horse, no longer is there any distinction between us, we are one, like one of those fabled centaurs perhaps.
Out of pure joy I throw up my hands, standing up in the saddle, body rocking with the horse's loose canter. I lost the whip in the process, but I hardly notice. Then I nearly lose my balance and hunker down again, gathering up Midnight's reins and slowing her down into a jarring trot. She is blowing hard, nostrils flaring blood-red and her side lathered and white with sweat. But her head is up and her mane blows back in the breeze that quickly chills our sweat-soaked bodies. She lifts her legs and arches her neck proudly, knowing that she has done something to be proud of. As she comes to a halt I can feel my face nearly cracking with the force of my grin, we have done it! I pat her shoulder and she swings her great, noble head to nuzzle my boot and look at me with her big, liquid eyes.
Now Mr. and Mrs Keene, Midnight's owners, are running towards us, and hands reach up to help me down. I dazedly dismount. There are flashing cameras and screaming people, my knees are knocking and I can barely hold myself up. Someone slaps me on my back and I stumble, nearly falling.
Midnight's owners hand her reins back to me and Mr. Keene offers me a leg up. I have ridden her to the finish line, now I will ride her to the Winner's Circle.
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