Raja, Story of a Racehorse (4 page)

“Vet's comin' tomorrow to tattoo their upper lips. The inside, see here.” Bob put his hand on the upper lip of a horse down the shed row from me and rolled it up to show Chris. “See that letter? It's the year he was born. The number after is the last five digits of his Jockey Club registration number. That's the way Thoroughbreds are identified. They have to be registered and tattooed before they race — that's why they all have unique names.”

Chris grimaced. “Ouch, sounds painful.”

“Don't worry, they only feel a prick.”

Soon all of us two-year-olds were training on the dirt track, galloping side by side, four sets of nostrils breathing in stride or bucking and egging each other on.

Starting-gate lessons were the best. We walked into the narrow metal stalls, hearts pounding, muscles taut and ready to go, feeling more alive than I thought possible, knowing it would soon be time to gallop! Watching the gate person intently, filling our lungs with a deep breath. And when you couldn't bear to wait any longer, exploding onto the track, fighting to get out and away first, bodies bumping and hot wet sand flying in our faces.

Max and I galloped head to head. Toward the end, I would look him in the eye.

I dare you to try to beat me.

He always fought fiercely and I always played with him for a while — like the barn cats with a mouse they were about to kill. Then I turned on what Bob called “the afterburners” and blew by him — to keep him in his place.

“Como estas, Raja, how are you today? Are you going to win the Derby?”

Every day, Pedro, my regular exercise rider, greeted me with a grin that took over his weather-beaten face and made everyone in its beam feel as if they were the best thing to happen to him. A mischievous gleam in his eye invited you to share the joke while he innocently rubbed the back of his nearly bald head.

“Only forty years old and I've broken 20 bones — my collarbone four times.” He winked at Chris. “I don' think I have any more left to break. I love working with all of the Sheikh's babies. It's so much easier when you start with class. These boys are the top, I'm tellin' ya. You couldn't teach a horse what they've had bred into them — power, boldness, heart. One of these boys could be the next Secretariat or Man o' War.”

We had a routine. Pedro usually brought me an apple or a sweet pastry. I greeted him and rubbed my head on his shoulder, trying to find the treat.

“Hey buddy, you look like a big, tough racehorse, but you're just a puppy dog.”

Ta-da-da-dum, ta-da-da-dum, ta-da-da-dum.

I felt Pedro's joy, like warm sunlight, as we galloped together, the two of us chasing down the dirt training track on the mist-filled mornings, with his steady hold and light and even balance floating over my back. By now, I was strong and getting fitter and I wanted to go, go, go.

Sometimes we had a little “conversacion,” as Pedro called it, about how fast we should be going. He always made sure that I came around to his point of view sooner or later. When I saw Pedro, I took a deep breath and relaxed. He was interesting, the way he was so calm and easy, but with fire and steel inside, ready if I acted tough, which was often. Mostly, he tried to teach me that the two of us were a team, better together than separate.

Working! Breezing!

If you really want to understand me, you have to know about working. There's nothing, I mean nothing, better, except maybe actually racing. Most days we galloped or jogged, but on Saturdays, we got to turn it on! First, gallop a turn, around the middle of the track at a two-minute lick. Then, drop to the inside rail — the signal to GO! The wide-open dirt track coming faster and faster until it turns into a blur, no sound but the wind rushing by my ears; Pedro's hold is strong and tight as he crouches lower, moving in rhythm with my longer and longer strides until we begin to fly, skimming the ground.

Then, with a shift of his weight, Pedro stands in his stirrups and the moment is over. Hearts pounding and catching our breath, Pedro laughing, the colors more intense, sounds sharper, I feel happy, more alive, somehow. I know Pedro felt it too. That's why we got on so well. We both loved, I mean, loved, speed.

It was a Monday, our day off, and Pedro and Bob were off with the horse van, leaving Chris and Ken, the second-string exercise rider. Chris moved a little more slowly than usual, cleaning the tack and folding saddle towels as he sang along with the radio. When he finished the tack, he started making his way down the shed row, taking off stable bandages and leading horses out one at a time to hand walk and graze.

“Looks like we might get some weather,” Chris pointed to the grey clouds that had taken over the sky.Ken, muttered something angrily to Chris in response.

Ken always seemed ready to explode. He stomped around the barn and got all of us horses riled up when he came to ride. Thankfully, I didn't have much to do with him.

“Figures they'd pick a rainy day to leave us to do all the barn work. Typical. That Pedro thinks he's god's gift to horses. Well, he ain't. I'm just as good as Pedro. Better, in fact. He's a tired old man. These people are stupid. I'll show 'em, I'll show everyone.”

A wild, cloudy look swept across Ken's darting eyes as he ranted, nervously scratching his scraggly beard, then spitting out his chewing tobacco juice in a long brown spurt aimed at the cat. He walked over to my stall.

I lifted my head suddenly and backed up as Ken jerkily raised his arm toward me, then slapped my neck, thinking he was patting me. I flinched, holding my breath. I stood still, watching him warily out of the corner of my eye.

“Put my saddle on Raja. Ain't no horse I can't ride. What's the big deal 'bout him, anyway?”

“It's the horses' day off. Besides, only Pedro rides Raja, you know that.”

Ken glared at Chris. “I said tack him up.”

As he put the saddle on, I could tell Chris was worried.

I felt the electricity in the air as the wind picked up, rustling through the bushes lining the stable yard. The sky was greyer than it had been just a few hours ago.

This doesn't feel right. It feels very wrong.

When Ken and I reached the track, we were alone. My skin tingled as the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach began to grow. I stopped, whipped my head in the direction of the barns, and whinnied loudly, hoping that one of my friends would respond. I wanted to go back. It was dinnertime and everyone was eating. Annoyed, I jigged sideways and let out an impatient buck. Ken hauled on the reins and jerked me sharply, angrily, in the mouth.

“Whoa!”

I tensed and started to toss my head.

Why is he jerking my mouth? Why is he shouting? What have I done wrong?

As we started to jog, then gallop, Ken took a short hold on the reins and, pulling roughly, leaned his weight heavily against my mouth.

Does he want me to go faster? Why is he nervous?

I didn't like this at all. He was heavy and tense, not relaxed like Pedro. He made me nervous.

I want him off my back.

I really want him OFF, NOW!

Head down between my knees, I let out a big, athletic buck, then another, twisting, propping and spinning, then dropping my shoulder and scooting sideways. Ken clung on determinedly and snatched me in the mouth again.

“Here!” He growled in a low voice.

I started galloping, picking up speed, ignoring his rough pulling. I was stronger than he was, of course. As we galloped, heavy raindrops began to fall, accompanied by deep rumbles of thunder. Black clouds hurried across the sky. Suddenly, I heard a loud crack and then saw a yellow streak diving into the slick dirt track.

Lightning!

My heart began to pound and I heard a loud roaring in my ears. I bolted, running as fast as I could, forgetting Ken, forgetting everything but my desire to get away. Through the driving rain, flowers, bushes and trees all a multi-colored blur. Around and around and around the track, through puddles and slippery wet dirt; sucking in gulps of heavy air until, steamy and wet, flanks heaving, I began to tire and pulled up.

Now that I had stopped galloping, I could feel the wetness of the heavy drenched saddle cloth and the slippery leather bridle. I could smell the damp earth, now covered by puddles and streams. Ken savagely yanked me out the gate off the track, jerking the bit roughly in my mouth. I tossed my head angrily and dropped my shoulder.

I spun again but he clung on. I jigged sideways, then slipped, as I stepped on a rake lying in the path. A sharp, burning pain shot up my leg.

Ken cursed, kicked his stirrups free and vaulted off. Still breathing hard, with rain and sweat running down the sides of his face, Ken clutched the thick, wet rubber reins and hit me across the forehead with his whip.

“You piece of garbage, no horse runs away with me! You're a pig. You need to learn respect. I'm going to teach you a lesson!”

By the time we came back to the barn, the stable hands had gone. Chris walked over to us with a halter in his hand.

“Here. Let me help you take care of Raja.”

“Scram, junior, I'll take care of him myself. This horse needs to learn some manners.”