Rachel Alexandra

There are few horses that have possessed the grace and devastation of the dark bay filly with the broken blaze that so enchanted the Sport of Kings in 2009. From her tapered head and piercing eyes to her lissome motion, there was nothing about Rachel Alexandra that did not stand out. Foes fell at her feet like humbled courtiers, and those who did not do so willingly were crushed beneath her, for under her elegant exterior was a warrior who took no prisoners and stood alone on top of the world. 

To any who have allowed her memory to fade, you need only recall the roar of the Saratoga crowd as she fought off crushing fractions and the desperate lunge of Macho Again, the chasm she left between herself and Summer Bird on a muddy day at Monmouth Park, the awe of the Churchill Downs crowd when this elegant filly glided home a world away from the rest of the field.

Rachel was electrifying.

Her three year old season, called by some the best in history, inspired the racing world like no horse since the great Ruffian. In fact, for the first time Ruffian’s name was whispered in the same sentence as another. Rachel Alexandra seemed like Ruffian reborn, the filly that was not satisfied with merely beating her competition; when they tried to best her she spat in their eye, and several were never the same again.

Lifetimes are spent waiting for athletes like her. Racing fans of today pour over history, watching the greats of yesterday and wondering when they will see a legend come to life, when they will be present to see history written by the pounding of hooves. Rachel Alexandra was the horse I had waited for since I learned about the great John Henry as a little girl. I wanted my hero; I wanted my champion. She came.

Rachel left the racing world so suddenly she quickly became an afterthought. Many were critical of the management of her four year old season, and her luster seemed to tarnish in the wake of another great filly whose torch would burn just as bright. But deep in the heart of the Kentucky bluegrass her legacy is just as potent as it was that September day at Saratoga, and on October 20^th I got to see it.  

Stonestreet Farm lies along the fabled Old Frankfort Pike that winds through Fayette and Woodford County. Along this simple country road are strewn some of the titans in thoroughbred breeding:  Three Chimneys, Lane’s End. Stonestreet may not be so auspicious but it is just as beautiful, and it clearly understands the legacy of its most famous resident. A few times a year they open their gates to racing fans and provide access to this remarkable champion, and today is one of those days. Just inside the visitor’s entrance is a comfortable country house, and inside the love and reverence for their filly seeps deep into the walls adorned with her photos and memorabilia. Her trophies are proudly displayed on a table while a flat screen television plays endless replays of her racing career. Stonestreet’s pride in Rachel extends to her fans – waiting for us is a warm reception, a table of refreshments, a placard to sign. This is the fourth session they have hosted today, but no one seems anything less than delighted to see us.

The weather is cold, rainy, with a biting wind that promises winter is far closer than October would lead you to believe. But no one here feels the gloom. When a farm van comes to pick us up, we flock to it like excited kids anxious to be first in line. The barns are what you come to expect in the royalty of the Kentucky bluegrass – equine palaces with stalls that would dwarf your own bedroom, piled high with thick straw, each stall bearing a plaque with the name of its tenant. But it takes time to notice this, because when we arrive the breath catches in our throat.

There she is.

She is larger than life, just as queenly in retirement as she was on the track. She stands quietly, not a hair out of place, alternately posing for the flashing cameras, dozing and laying her ears as a reminder that we serve at her pleasure. Motherhood has softened her only a little – she still looks every inch a champion. You can feel the awe in her admirers as they creep timidly towards her for a chance to touch her, as if the tactile experience will somehow make her real. It does – her rich, dark coat is pillowy soft. She tilts her head toward me as I run my fingers across it, acknowledging me with patience and grace. As I touch the base of that broken blaze she snaps once, just a reminder, then stands quietly under my touch. Her handler constantly smooths her forelock, speaking to her softly whenever she shows a hint of irritation. Never once does he scold her or raise his voice. There is kindness in his face as he shares her with us, and I am grateful.

We cannot get enough. When the time comes to depart, we are reluctant to go, hoping to stretch those last moments out, committing them to memory, etching them in stone. When we get back onto the van it is like stepping outside a fairytale that had become real, if just for a few moments. In the office we are presented with a small gift and heartfelt thanks for our support. Before it is time to return to that cold, cloudy day, I gaze at the television and watch the Kentucky Oaks, again losing my breath as Rachel pulls farther and farther away from the field, a final impression left by this exquisite filly that entered history before my very eyes – a long time dream spectacularly fulfilled.

Zenyatta

Evening fell slowly at Keeneland, plunging an already freezing day into a dark, frigid night. Even so, a steady trickle of fans, including myself, reluctantly let go of the warm interior of the sales pavilion to stake out a position around the brightly lit walking ring, willing to shoulder the cold for as long as it took to see the horse that had captured the heart and inspiration of people around the world. Patiently we waited, ignoring the involuntary quivering, the runny noses, the appendages that felt like broken glass. We talked to one another, knowing that if nothing else, there was one thing we had in common, and right then, it was the only important thing. It would all be worth it, just for a glimpse of Zenyatta. 

As the cold deepened the crowd began to build, and the soft murmur of excitement became more audible. Soon the folks at Keeneland, who went out of their way to accommodate these determined, faithful fans, made steady announcements about her progress. She had landed. She was on the van. She had reached the grounds. She was in a stall and would be coming to the ring shortly. Each time, the crowd stirred a little more, sparking the announcer to implore everyone to keep their emotions in check when she arrived. That would be a tall order. Everything about Zenyatta brings out the starry-eyed dreamer in anyone who meets her, and it’s hard to keep that to yourself.  

Finally, outside Barn 15 cameras began to flash. Suddenly there she was, striding into the glow of the walking ring lights as regal and amazing as your wildest dreams. An audible gasp rippled through the crowd like a shiver running down your spine. Her coat gleamed, not a hair out of place, dappled and sleek despite the cold. If she felt it, she did not show. She stepped lightly, quickly, occasionally stretching out her legs into her familiar and beloved dance, stopping occasionally to survey the crowd, all people who had come from opposite ends of the country for one thing: her. Every time she paused, raised her head, pricked her ears you could hear the crowd cry softly with delight, scarcely believing their eyes, forced to believe their hearts. 

On the second pass, John Shirreffs took the lead rope from Mario Espinoza and escorted his Queen around the ring, taking his time in spite of the cold, bringing her close enough to the rail for her many onlookers, myself included, to reach out and touch this dream, this fantasy, turn her for a split second into warm, fluid reality. She was here, in front of our eyes, for just those few moments caught between her captivating career and her transcendence into legend. This was Zenyatta, and she was magnificent. 

Never has this sport seen something like this mare. The greatest names of the Turf, Secretariat, Man ‘O War, John Henry, Seattle Slew, Ruffian, Foergo, Kelso, and so many more…they astounded us with their brilliance, their athleticism and might, their perfection of a creature that poets and writers have vainly attempted to capture for centuries. But Zenyatta? She was more than those things. Talk about her greatness, how she stacks up to those fabled names that are now all but myth, is largely irrelevant. She is above those things. What she has done is reach out to the hearts of fans, old, new, and some not even fans at all, and gifted us with the embodiment of hope, the thrill of performance, the essence of the horse, not just as it relates to horse racing, but so far beyond it. What is Zenyatta? She is.

I saw her tonight, in her last bow to the public, and I will remember it forever.   

Call to the post.

Forgive this hasty introduction. I am beginning this blog on the eve of Zenyatta's official retirement, so I am far more concerned with capturing her arrival in Lexington, KY, than I am setting it up and seeing to the details. But I will say this: Zenyatta has taught me that there is hope for horse racing. While there are many aspects of this grand sport that are fundamentally broken, there is still a spark there, just like there was in Gondor once the blood of Numenor was nearly spent but before the return of the king (there are probably few true geeks who are also horse racing fanatics; alas I am one of that small number).

My goal for this blog is to show you racing through the eyes of a fan, someone who loves it deep down for its beauty, power and grace, to look at the handicapping and the business of it, but also see beyond it, and how like-minded people can help this sport rise up despite itself.

Fittingly, I'll start with Zenyatta.