Right from the starting buzzer, Oakley “kicked on” and rode faster. I heard him counting to me, trying to keep the rhythm. I concentrated, feeling like a cat, effortlessly stretching and shortening my strides, turning, balancing, and lightly jumping the fences. After the vertical, Oakley did a strong half-halt, turning inside the oxer.
“Let’s go, Raja!” I felt his heels on my sides and sprang forward, opening my stride as if I was jumping out of the starting gate; one, two, three, four. He sat up again. I shortened my stride, one more stride for five, and up and over the first fence in the in-and-out. One tight stride, then back on my hocks, and up and over and out.
“Ya!!, Raja!”
I galloped fast through the finish flags with my neck stretched out as a huge cheer arose from the crowd.
“A clear round and 27 seconds for Raja, our winner.”
Oakley hugged me as we galloped triumphantly around the arena.
“Raja, you have so much power, it’s like riding a rocket.”
Winning is the best feeling ever.
“I knew you could do it!” Michelle greeted us at the gate, “very nicely ridden, Oakley. Raja, GOOD BOY!” She patted my neck.
“You’re a very special horse. You have the talent and brain to be an international horse. I’m sure of it.”
“Six hundred thousand,” a loud voice interrupted, “that’s my offer. It’s a nice price for a junior horse. Cash. We can do the deal today.”
Michelle recoiled at Tony DeVito’s cigar in her face, but smiled politely. “Oh, thank you so much, but this horse isn’t for sale.” She patted me and smiled, once again connecting in her special, intimate way. “This horse will never be for sale. He’s doing the Grand Prix next week.”
The Grand Prix! I can’t wait. I know I can win it. Finally, my chance!
April, Ocala, Florida
I was resting in my stall watching Oakley organize buckets, trunks, shavings and feed to take to the show.
The Grand Prix is this weekend! I can’t wait!
“Oakley,” Speedy rushed into the barn, limping slightly, with a worried expression plastered across his face. He didn’t pay attention to the pack of terriers that followed.
Speedy never got worried — something is wrong.
“I just got a call from Bob. He’s at the hospital with Michelle. She was in a car crash last night. A drunk driver hit her while she was stopped at a red light. The car was totaled. He says it’s bad, really bad. Her neck is broken and she can’t move her legs. It don’ look like she’ll ride again. Heck, she might not walk again. She’s gon’ stay there for a few weeks and then probably move to a rehab hospital.” He shook his head dejectedly, “The Lord do test us, don’ he?”
Michelle, poor Michelle! When will I see her again?
I missed her so much. The way she listened to me and spoke with movements instead of words, and the way she made me feel like I was the best horse in the world.
5
The “A” Circuit
June, Ocala, Florida
“Tally ho…a hunting we will go!” Prism said in a funny accent, then burst into a fit of giggles. “Has anyone seen a fox? I must chase it. Cheerio!”
She was trying to cheer us up and she was pretty funny, I have to admit. Now that the barn was closing, Prism and Holzmann were going to Pennsylvania to foxhunt with the kids of one of Michelle’s owners. Prism was amused by the idea and spent a week speaking with an accent.
Despite her efforts to lighten it, a heavy air hung over the farm. We worried about Michelle and missed her terribly. We had heard Speedy tell Oakley that she was in a special hospital and needed to sell her horses and the farm to pay the bills.
I was now for sale. Tony DeVito came to the farm with his trainer, Karl Arnaquer, to try me for his daughter. Outraged, Prism stamped her hoof angrily.
“Did you know that he offered Michelle a million dollars for you? She can’t afford to say no because of the bills. That Karl Arnaquer wants to show you. Mark my words, he’ll figure out how to ride you while he pretends that you’re there for the girl.”
I was SOLD. I couldn’t believe it.
She pawed at the ground, distressed. “Karl’s a fraud. All he’s really good at is chatting up rich owners and buying expensive horses. Watch out for him, Raja, I mean it. I heard that he uses drugs so his horses can keep showing when they’re lame. Be careful!”
As they walked into the horse van, Holzmann and Prism and I whinnied and whinnied for each other. I thought of my mother’s words about getting attached.
Why did things have to change?
June, Fairfield County, Connecticut
“Higher, set it higher,” Karl barked to Claire, his groom, as he drilled me every day over the big fences set up in his arena. And the pole — I hated the pole that Claire rapped my hind feet with in mid-air as I jumped.
They don’t need that, I’m going to win. That’s what I do.
If I had to think of a word to describe my time with Karl and Gabriella, it would be “lonely.” Other horses and people were around, I wasn’t alone, but I just didn’t connect with anyone. Horses are social, you know, herd animals. We need to bond. I thought about the ways I had bonded with the people in my life: Pedro and I shared a love of speed; Willie and I loved to win; Michelle and I wanted to be the best in perfect style.
There’s no one here — horses or people — that I want to bond with.
Even when we were at Karl’s home barn, we didn’t get turned-out much. I spent most of the time dozing in my dark stall. We moved around so much: Wellington in the winter, Connecticut in the summer, living more at horse shows than at the farm. The “A” Circuit, they called it: Devon, Upperville, Saugerties, Lake Placid, and, of course, the Hampton Classic. They were all the same. We lived in stabling tents, with no fields to stretch our legs or have a roll. Grooms tacked us up and groomed us and the kids came and rode and then handed us back to them. Sometimes I got the feeling that I was just another pretty accessory, like the shiny new cars the kids all had.
It was strange. Karl always wore his sunglasses, even in the barn. I never once saw his eyes. He wasn’t big on patting and rewarding or trying to hear me. It was as if I were a car or tractor — just turn me on and go. He was always in a hurry, never a moment to take a deep breath and focus. Not like Michelle, who radiated calm and a relaxed awareness of everything I was feeling. All that rushing made me edgy. But he liked edgy, he thought it showed spirit.
“He’s going good. Let’s think about the Grand Prix at the Hampton Classic.” He meant with him riding me, not Gabriella. Prism had been right. Karl was riding me more and more in competition. But I was a winner and I won for Karl, despite the severe bit he rode me in and the way he yanked me around roughly with his heavy hands rather than using his legs and weight subtly the way Michelle had.
“Whoa, baby, whoa.” Gabriella clutched the reins, terrified, when she rode me. On course, she panicked, misjudging the fence distances and throwing me off balance, sometimes even falling off just from being loose when I jumped with a little extra spring.
I always felt on edge when her father, Tony, came around the barns. “Come on Gabby, stand up straight, smile! I spent two thousand dollars on that orthodontist — show off those teeth! I bought you a new Hermes saddle. Six thousand dollars — do you like it? It should make you win. After you lose some weight, we can measure you for a custom-tailored show coat — nothing but the best for my little girl.”
Gabriella just hunched over more, looking miserable, as if she were trying to hide or blend into the ground. “Thanks Daddy, you didn’t need to. I’ll try harder.”
The other girls teased her so badly that most days she hid in my stall and cried, hugging herself and biting her nails. Often she hugged me and cried into my mane.
How can people be so mean to one another?
I felt sorry for her and I remembered my mother’s words about being kind, and tried to live up to them. Now I knew what Prism had
meant when she said she gave kids confidence and taught them. I tried to give Gabriella confidence. And we did win, when she stayed on. But it wasn’t always easy with all of that clutching and grabbing and yanking my mouth and dropping me in front of a fence and getting left behind.
With Gabriella, I never felt that shared joy from a perfect jump off or fast work — that feeling of being better together. But we won, despite the bad riding. Most of the horses doing the junior jumpers were older campaigners that had already reached the top of their career and were on their way down. I was younger, stronger, and sounder than all of them.
“See here, you behave,” Claire shouted when I jigged and danced, full of pent up energy from no turn-out. She jerked a chain lead shank over the soft part of my nose.
What did I do? Why am I being punished?
“What’s going on tonight? Heard about any parties?” Claire leaned forward and offered the farrier a cigarette, pulling her frizzy blonde hair with its dark roots out of its pony tail and shaking it loose as she leaned against the side of his truck while he trimmed my hooves.
“Don’t tell me you smoke around the barns.” He shook his head, disapprovingly.
“Rules are meant to be broken, don’t you agree? I’ll bet a big strong man like you has broken a rule or two.” She winked, sidling closer as he backed up a step.
She broke quite a few rules, but Karl didn’t seem to notice. Most days she didn’t feed us until quite late in the morning and when Karl was away, she didn’t come in the morning at all. When she showed up she wore sunglasses and moved slowly, complaining of a headache. Often, I drank all of my water after I was ridden and spent the night thirsty. She put hoof dressing on so I looked good, but she never picked out my hooves and I got a bad case of thrush, which made me sore.
August, Bridgehampton, New York
“Welcome to the Hampton Classic. The official show time is eight o’clock.”
I heard the loudspeaker as two seagulls fought over some old french fries someone had spilled on the ground outside my stall. It was a hot day and a big fan at the end of the stabling tent was making a lot of noise but not helping much. Karl was writing a chart of ride times for his students in the tack stall next to me.
An efficient young woman with a handful of cut pieces of yarn looped through her belt stood on a grooming box braiding a veteran “A” circuit Medal Maclay horse, Wimbledon, who stood patiently in the stall on the other side of me. The woman paused to wipe the sweat off her forehead with a rub rag. Wimbledon took the opportunity to turn his half-braided neck with its row of 30 or so skinny little braids waiting to be pulled up and tied toward me for a chat.
“You’re so lucky jumpers don’t have to be braided like us “big eq” horses. It’s so itchy — especially when it’s hot like this. First time at the Hampton Classic for you, eh? The Classic is a special show. It’s a big deal, especially the Grand Prix. Rich people and celebrities spend their summers near the beach close by and they come to watch. Half the people here are more interested in watching celebrities than horses!”
Gabriella and one of Karl’s students, Wimbledon’s rider, paused to watch the braider before walking into the tack stall. “Those braids look beautiful! Thanks! Hi, Karl — what time should I start getting ready? Wow, it’s hot out there. This tent isn’t much better. We’re going to the beach tonight after the show. Oh my god, there are sooo many famous people here. Hey, Gabriella, did you see that Rod McCabe and his royal girlfriend are here? Isn’t he your favorite movie star? Paparazzi are all over the place. Maybe you’ll get your picture in People magazine if you win,” she laughed.
The Hampton Classic did feel different. The fresh, salty sea air permeated everything, overpowering the usual horse show smells. The spectators dressed up more, too — like the people at Saratoga. Big white tents overflowing with food-laden tables surrounded the main arena. High-heeled ladies in colorful dresses and hats with wide, floppy brims chatted with men in crisp, navy blue jackets.
On Saturday, the day of the Grand Prix, I was surprised to see Flash Jackson towering over a group of people in one of the tents. I wondered where Max was.
I miss Max and Shaddy — will I ever see them again?
Later that day, Gabriella and I were walking back to the stabling area after our class and I smelled it…
Gardenias and peppermint!
I stopped suddenly and raised my head sharply, looking into the tent where the smell was coming from. A tall, thin woman with dark hair down to her waist was speaking to a deeply tanned man with dark hair and sunglasses — the curve of her back was familiar. She raised her graceful arm, lined with colorful bracelets, to tuck her hair behind her ear.
It’s Princess Ayesha!
I stopped suddenly and pawed the ground impatiently. A high-pitched sound, halfway between a nicker and a whinny escaped from me as I tried to get her attention.
Look over here! Princess Ayesha, I’m here, 20 yards away!
“Come on Raja,” Gabriella kicked me forward. “Omigod, there’s Rod McCabe. He’s even hotter in person than the movies.” We stopped once more.
I squeal-nickered again, this time louder, pawing the ground excitedly.
I’m here! Look this way!
But Princess Ayesha still didn’t look in my direction. Gabriella gave me a tap with her crop and I walked on, dejected. That night I thought about Princess Ayesha and Bob and Pedro and Chris and Willie and Michelle and Oakley and Speedy.
I’m so lonely. What are Max, Shaddy, Holzmann and Prism doing right now?
My mother’s words came back, “Don’t get attached to a person, or another horse, or your heart will break.”
The next morning, I had a surprise.
“I rode this horse when he was with Michelle. Do you mind if I give him a carrot?”
Oakley!
It was sooo good to see him. He fed me a carrot as I nibbled his fingers and rubbed my head against him, drinking in his minty, liniment smell. Oh, how it reminded me of Michelle and all of my friends! He stopped by every day after that.
“The official show time is two o’clock. There is a hold on course,” the loudspeaker boomed as Gabriella and I trotted around the warm up ring. I spooked as a loose flap on one of the sponsor tents billowed then snapped in the wind. Next to us, a woman wrestled to hold an exuberant fat pug at the end of a bright green leash while she carried a cardboard tray overflowing with french fries to a group of junior riders. I noticed dark clouds assembling in the distance. A hat flew off one of the ladies in the tent next to us, whirling and dancing across the arena with the lady in pursuit, struggling in the sand with her high heels.
Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it.
Suddenly, a jagged yellow arrow of lightning hit the stabling tent, followed by an earth shaking boom.
LIGHTNING!
My heart started to pound and a roaring sound filled my ears.
Get out! Now! Run!
I forgot about Gabriella and bolted across the showgrounds and out onto the road, running as fast as I could. Past a blur of colors and sounds: cars and trucks honking; and big houses hidden by tall hedges. I ran for miles until I reached a big sandy area next to a huge expanse of water.
The sand is deep!
I kept running, laboring through the heavy going. Everywhere I turned, people were sitting on the sand on towels or packing up their picnics as they looked at the approaching storm clouds. I heard a scream as a woman snatched up her child after I jumped over their towel and plastic box. I swerved left, narrowly missing a big pile of sand shaped like a house and kept running, jumping right and left, dodging people and umbrellas. I heard voices shouting, “Catch him! Heads up! Watch out! Runaway horse!”
A man with his nose painted white blew into a whistle and jumped off a wooden stand, running straight at me waving his arms. “Stop! Stop right now!”
I cut left then right, passing him.
Ow!
As I passed him, I twisted my front
leg in the deep sand and felt a shooting pain, like something popping.
Ow! That really hurts.
I limped to a stop, suddenly realizing that Gabriella was still on me. She slid off and collapsed onto the sand.
The man with the white nose and whistle came over to us. “Are you OK?” Gabriella just sobbed. “I’ve called the police and animal control. Would you like to use my cell phone?”
She nodded and sniffed, taking the phone from him and punching in a number. “Claire, hi, it’s Gabriella. I’m OK. Raja ran off with me for miles,” she sobbed into the phone, sniffing louder. “We’re at the beach and he’s hurt. Can you come get us?”
As she and I waited and watched the seagulls circling above us and surfing on the waves and the sandpipers pecking at clumps of green and chasing each other across the sand, I realized that this was the longest time we had ever spent together.
The next morning, I couldn’t put any weight on my leg. It really hurt. I stayed in the stall all day until Oakley came over to visit.
“Raja ran for miles and came home lame. Aren’t you going to do anything?” Claire just shrugged.
“Well,” said Oakley, trying to contain his anger, “would it be OK if I look at him?”
“Whatever,” she replied, smacking her chewing gum and lowering her sunglasses slowly with one hand, the other hand on her hip.
“The leg is hot and swollen. It looks like he might have strained or even bowed his tendon. He needs a vet to look at it and may need months, or a year off for it to heal.” He looked at her with disgust. “You should be ashamed.”
For the rest of the show, Oakley grazed me every day and fed me carrots.
“Raja, you are the most incredible horse I know. These people don’t deserve you. I wish I had the money to buy you,” he whispered angrily.
Destiny, hah! What was my destiny now? Was I destined for despair, not glory? Maybe I had been wrong all along.
Raja, Story of a Racehorse Page 7