My Writer's Cramp Pieces

At the Race Track

A woman's brother recommends a horse. The thoroughbred is everything and more.

At the Race Track

         Out at the racetrack, the horses were snorting to go. The early morning air sparkled with crispness. I felt anything but sparkly. My bones hurt, my throat felt raspy, and I hadn’t yet had a single cup of coffee. My brother, Chris, had a horse to show me. I did my best to look interested.

         "Wait ‘til you see him, Sis,” Chris raved for the hundredth time.

         I scanned the nearby horses and saw nothing remarkable. I yawned loudly.

         “Tanya, stop that,” he said, grabbing my elbow and yanking my arm up and down. I disconnected myself from Chris' enthusiasm and slammed my hands back into my coat pockets.

         The horses had finished their warm-ups. It was time to see some action. Despite my sleepiness, I leaned forward over the rail, and studied the thoroughbreds. The six two-year-olds were arching their necks, dancing the dance. They were hot as lit firecrackers and ready to blast off. I prepared my stopwatch and listened for the shot.

         Bang! Seven thousand pounds of horseflesh sprang forward, noses stretched out like pulled rubber bands. I studied the horse’s legs he'd told me to watch and studied the fine muscling of his flanks and chest, the grace of his gallop. I had to admit it. Chris had chosen well. Tiptoe was top drawer, all right. He was a real winner.

         “Is he for sale?” I asked my brother, not taking my eyes off the horse.

         “Sure, if you've got $20,000,” Chris laughed. “You told me to watch for a good race horse, and I did, but I never promised he’d be cheap."

         What my brother didn’t know was that money wasn’t an issue for me. Since my husband, Charlie, passed on, I hadn’t even touched the interest off the million he’d left me.

         I watched Tiptoe’s trainer calm the horse down after the race. The animal had spirit, but he wasn’t mean or roguish. I nodded my head, my decision made.

         I wanted to see the animal up close, but first I stopped off to buy a coffee at the mobile canteen. The rising steam of the brew misted my face. The coffee sent currents through me. I suddenly felt Charlie's presence. What was he trying to tell me? I listened. I know I heard him. He was saying “Go for it, honey."

          “I love you, Charlie,” I mouthed as I played with my wedding ring, the one I still wore on my left hand. A tear trembled at the corner of my eye. I brushed it off and sipped the coffee.

         Chris bought a couple of doughnuts, and then we set off for Tiptoe’s stall. The half-door was open. We peeked in. Tiptoe was there, but so was a man attempting to scoop up piles of manure. His shovel was only half-full because a small pig kept getting in his way.

         “What on earth?” I exchanged a puzzled look with my brother.

         Tiptoe’s owner had come up behind us to see why we were there. He chuckled when he heard me.

         “That colt was raised on a farm. The pig’s his adopted brother,” the man told us.

         Chris let out a super-sized guffaw. “Looks like you have to buy a pig to get a horse,” he said.

         The owner shifted so he could see my brother more clearly. “That pig’s not for sale! He goes with Tiptoe. The two of them are inseparable.”

         I stepped on my brother’s boot warningly and spoke before he shot off his mouth again. “I like the looks of the pig, but I like the horse better. What kind of price would you put on an untested animal like that?”

         “Untested? You saw him race!” the owner argued, running a quick scan of my personal attire as if by doing so he could count the dollars in my wallet. “Miss . . .”

         “Mrs. Running Brook,” I told him. “And this is my brother, Chris Hamer.”

         Introductions ended. We ran through a couple of lines of “my horse is not for sale” and then launched into the real conversation. After agreeing that they must both pass a vet’s inspection, Tiptoe and the pig were sold to me for $17,000. My brother almost fainted.

         However, two years later, Tiptoe won the Kentucky Derby. His stud fees alone could keep me in champagne. I’d say if I ever counted up the winnings, Tiptoe has probably netted me a cool million and a half. Believe me, I often thank my brother for his recommendation because that was one cold morning worth losing some sleep.

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