When it comes to horsing around, I am a champion with my granddaughters. And I recently proved it on a carousel in a photo finish with Chloe and Lilly, who accompanied me to the winner’s circle in our very own version of the Kentucky Derby.
I may never make it to Churchill Downs, at least not as a rider, but I was once involved in a fateful race at Belmont Park.
Shortly after Sue and I were married, we went to the New York racetrack, where two memorable things happened: Sue got sunstroke, and I bet on a horse that dropped dead.
In one of the races, I placed a two-dollar bet on a horse named Life’s Hope. Sue bet the same amount on a horse with no name. (Actually, he did have a name, but I forget what it was.)
The equine sprinters broke from the starting gate with Sue’s horse in the lead. He led from start to finish.
“I won!” squealed Sue, whose payoff was a whopping five bucks.
“Hey,” I said, “what happened to Life’s Hope? I didn’t see him cross the finish line.”
Just then, an ambulance raced across the track. My suspicions were confirmed: My horse never made it out of the starting gate. Life’s Hope had neither life nor hope.
Sue ended up in slightly better shape, with sunstroke.
After that, we stopped going to the track.
But years later, I took a riding lesson at a stable where I proved to be unstable in the saddle of a gelding named Bob, who was appropriately named because he bobbed along as I held the reins tightly and worried that he was still smarting from his surgery.
“You have to learn how to steer him,” said Julie, the instructor, who assured me Bob had fully recovered from his operation and was perfectly comfortable giving me a ride.
“He’s the mane man,” I remarked. “And if he stopped short, I’d be saved by the driver’s-side hair bag.”
That didn’t happen because Bob was very gentle. In fact, we had a male (of sorts) bonding.
The lesson proved valuable when I rode in the Carousel Stakes with Chloe and Lilly.
It was a crowded field, with about two dozen jockeys on the backs of the wooden Thoroughbreds. Among the spectators was Sue, who didn’t wager two dollars on a horse but did give the attendant five bucks — her winnings at Belmont — for tickets.
The girls and I each climbed onto a horse. Chloe, riding a filly she dubbed Checkers, got up by herself. Lilly needed a boost from me to get onto Sparkle. I struggled to get mounted on Mustard.
Most of the riders were, like the girls, of elementary-school age. Others were young parents. I was clearly the oldest. From the looks I got, I’m surprised I wasn’t put out to pasture.
“This will be fun, Poppie!” Chloe told me.
“Hold on tight!” Lilly chimed in.
“My horse is going to win,” I predicted.
“No, he’s not!” Lilly shot back. “Mine is.”
“No, mine is,” Chloe said.
All three horses were lined up perfectly with each other. Suddenly, the music started. It wasn’t the bugle call of the Kentucky Derby. And no track announcer exclaimed, “They’re off!” But the horses started moving anyway.
“Go, Checkers!” Chloe said, urging her horse on.
“Come on,” Sparkle!” cried Lilly.
“What’s my horse’s name?” I asked.
“Mustard,” the girls replied in unison.
“Go, Mustard!” I yelled.
Round and round we went, up and down, heading toward the finish line with the horses neck and neck. The crowd roared. Finally, in the closest race in history, it was over — a three-way tie.
“We all won!” Lilly proclaimed.
I dedicated my victory to Life’s Hope. Sue was just happy she didn’t get sunstroke.
