Raja, Story of a Racehorse

by Anne Hambleton

  When Diana returned, Paddy took a long drink then turned his attention to me and started to file my back teeth with a big metal rasp. Beth began throwing flakes of hay into the stalls, speaking while Paddy worked.

  “Normally, we try to find homes for them as soon as they come.”

  She came over to pat me on the nose and pick a burr out of my mane. “With this one, I want to wait until we get him a little fatter and in better health before I get on him and start advertising him. Excuse me. I’ve been trying to find the time to look up his race record.”

  She looked at my tattoo, wrote down the numbers and went into her office next to my stall. A few minutes later, we heard a scream.

  “Diana! I was right!”

  “Right about what?” Diana called to her.

  “My skinny horse. Slim. Guess who he is? I can’t believe it! I knew he was special. His name is Raja. He was bred and owned by the Sheikh. He broke his maiden at Saratoga and won the Champagne, a Grade One Stakes. He was a close second in the Fountain of Youth. He must have had an accident because he was headed for the Derby and then nothing. He hasn’t raced since. I’ll bet that’s what the scars are from.”

  Paddy whistled long and low and stood back to take a look at me.

  Diana looked sad. “I can’t believe that a Derby prospect ended up headed for the slaughterhouse. That’s insane. He was worth millions just a couple years ago. Now look at him — sold at auction for $400.” She held her thumb and forefinger close together. “He was this close to being horse meat.”

  “That IS insane,” Beth replied. “Normally I try to call the breeder when we take in a horse, but the Sheikh sold his farm a few years ago and I have no way of tracking him down.”

  “If you two hadn’t bought this horse, he wouldn’t be alive today.” Paddy nodded solemnly, “It makes you angry, doesn’t it? You can tell he’s a class horse, a diamond in the rough. He looks intelligent, regal, even. It’s hard to believe this horse was heading to the Derby judging by the shape he’s in now. He looks like he’s had more than his share of troubles, poor lad.” Paddy shook his head. “Well, his teeth are better now. I filed down the hooks on his back molars. He should be able to chew and start to put on weight. I’ll bet the two of you have the most aggressive de-worming program east of the Mississippi.”

  “You betcha. You should see what comes out of some of these guys.”

  Diana snorted, “Gross.”

  He gathered his tools and placed them in a bucket filled with water before giving me one more look. Then he fished a roll of something out of his pocket, unwrapped the paper and held out a round treat.

  Mmm, a mint!

  He smiled at Beth and Diana. “Polo mints, from England. My niece, Dee, lives in New York City and gets them for me. Horses love them. Now then, I’m ready for the next one.”

  It’s finally time!

  “Today we start Raja. I think he’s healthy enough to ride. Poor thing, I wonder when he was ridden last. It’s been almost four years since his last race. I doubt that anyone has sat on him since then.”

  Beth came out of the tack room carrying tack.

  Racing tack: an exercise saddle, yoke and nylon bridle, it’s been quite a while since I’ve worn that!

  She carefully put the bridle and saddle on, adjusting the cheek piece so the fat snaffle bit sat evenly on the bars of my mouth.

  “Diana, could you please get me another saddle pad — one of those sheepskin ones? He has high withers. Oh, and another girth. This one is too small. It’s a 52. I think I need a 54. Thanks.”

  She buckled the girth after making sure the saddle fit comfortably and led me out to the courtyard, walking me around a circle in the driveway several turns, gradually tightening the girth with each turn until it was snug.

  She turned to one of the volunteers who had been watching and waiting. “Let’s do this in the sand arena. Please keep him walking while Diana gives me a leg up. Watch out. Remember that horse we had that bolted whenever anyone tried to get on him? If he pulls away, just let go. Don’t try to hold him. Got it? Horses bolt if they’re scared. It’s the flight instinct — like rabbits or deer. They’re prey animals. I don’t want you getting hurt, so keep your eyes open and move slowly to keep him relaxed. No sudden movements. And keep away from his hind end. Even if he kicks at a fly, he could get you instead. Good job. Thanks.”

  I was slightly amused by all the precaution as the volunteer led me down to the arena dotted with jumps and surrounded by shade trees with a group of plastic chairs and a stone mounting block in one corner.

  “Walk another turn. OK, Diana, when you’re ready.”

  Diana put her hand under Beth’s bent leg then easily hefted her up and over. Gracefully transferring her weight from her hands on my withers, Beth slowly and lightly lowered herself onto my back, keeping her feet out of the stirrups, then gave me a pat.

  “Good boy, Raja.”

  BRRRINNG! The phone in the barn rang.

  “The vet was supposed to call. I’ll be back in a sec.” Diana ran for the phone.

  Beth slowly put her feet in the stirrups and took up the reins, keeping a couple fingers hooked around the yoke, the “sissy strap,” the boys at the track used to call it. She took a deep breath and with a light brush of her leg against my side, urged me into a walk. I rounded my neck, walking straight and evenly, pushing from my hind legs.

  Dressage, I’ll show you dressage.

  Her leg whispered against my side again — up into a light springy trot. She was soft and well balanced. Not as light as Michelle, but close. She took up more contact in the reins. I trotted effortlessly in perfect balance, accepting her contact, enjoying and understanding her signals, speaking her language. I felt her leg gently squeeze against my side more firmly and responded by leg yielding across the arena. That surprised her! Then she did a half-halt. I re-balanced. Next, a figure eight, bending in each direction. Finally, we did a canter–walk transition into a perfectly square halt. We turned at the end of the arena, picked up a trot and headed toward a cross rail. I took it perfectly, showing off my springy trot as we approached the fence. Then, into a light canter, and we headed to a bigger fence.

  I’m enjoying this.

  “Diana!” Beth shouted, her voice alive with excitement.

  “Come quick, you have to see this. I feel like I’m like riding air…or butter...I’m not sure which. Raja has an education! He was schooled by someone, someone good, after he raced. He knows what he’s doing and he’s perfectly soft, light and balanced. Let’s see what he does with a real fence.”

  Diana came out of the barn to watch as Beth headed me toward a big oxer.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Diana called.Again, I cantered down to it in perfect balance and popped over it lightly, enjoying myself so much I gave a little lighthearted buck after the fence.

  “Wow! That was beautiful. His knees were up to here.” Diana held her hands to her face, cupping them.

  “I know! Isn’t he amazing? What a mystery. Not only was he a talented racehorse, he’s had great classical training somewhere along the line. And boy, can he jump!” She patted me. “Good boy, Raja. You’re a special one!”

  By now, my mane was pulled evenly, my rain rot gone, and I was starting to build muscle. Beth and Diana fed me delicious feed and their field was full of the sweetest clover I had ever tasted. I felt stronger, fitter, more like my old self. Beth rode me every day. She was right. I was starting to feel like a “real horse.”

  “Diana, it’s such a pleasure to ride a horse that’s so well educated. I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

  Diana steered the wheelbarrow around a stack of hay bales that one of the volunteers was throwing down from the hayloft.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do? Are you going keep him? We should figure out how many stalls we have open before the fall racing season, it’s always our busiest. You know how all those race trainers panic about keeping unprofitable horses for
the winter.”

  Beth carried the saddle — the heavier jumping saddle she rode me in now — into the tack room, returned with a rub rag, and started to rub the spot on my back where the saddle had been. It felt good. I reached around and nudged her, hoping for a carrot. She pulled one out of the plastic bag on the grooming shelf and gave it to me.

  Yum!

  “I’ve been wrestling with that for weeks. I’d love, love, love to keep him and get back into eventing. When I ride him, I feel like I could go and do an event tomorrow. Heck, I feel like I could go around Rolex again, but I can’t afford to keep him. Eventing is so expensive. All of those entry fees and stabling and lessons add up. I need to spend my money rescuing horses, not competing. Besides, the stall he takes up for a year could be occupied by ten horses that might otherwise go to the killers in that time.” She shook her head. “He’s really, really special. He can’t go to just anyone. He’s so talented. I’d commit hari kari if someone got him and ruined him by pushing him too soon. He’s been through a lot.”

  I want to stay!

  She frowned in concentration for a while, then her eyes lit up as a smile jumped onto her face. “I think I know just the person!”

  “Yuri, it’s Beth, how are you?” I heard her speaking on the phone in her office next to my stall. “It’s been a while. It seems like yesterday that we were hanging out at the team headquarters with your grandfather.” She walked out of her office and started to throw hay into the stalls, continuing the conversation perfectly, holding the phone to her ear with one hand while she doled out flakes of hay with the other. “How’s the NYPD mounted unit? Really? I’m good, the farm is great. Yeah, I know it,” Beth laughed and smiled, “you too, it’s been too long. Listen, I heard that your horse went lame and I’m calling to tell you I have a surprise for you. Come this weekend if you can. I’ll pick you up from the train station. The express from New York gets in at three o’clock. You won’t be sorry. Good. I’ll see you then.”

  Diana appeared with the wheelbarrow and a pitchfork and started to pick out stalls as Beth swept the aisle.

  “I might have found a home for Raja,” Beth told her. “Yuri Belanov is an old friend and the most incredible horseman I know. He’s coming down this weekend to try him. Do you want to come for dinner?”

  “He’s a pretty amazing guy — a genuine horse whisperer with a classical education and cowboy attitude. We both had summer jobs when we were 16 working at the U.S. Equestrian Team stables in Gladstone for his grandfather, Colonel Nicolai Belanov, who was coaching the Team.”

  She blushed a little, a small smile stealing across her face. “I’ll admit it, he was my first boyfriend. I think you’ll like him. It’s hard not to.”

  Beth began to measure out the afternoon feed, accompanied by a series of low nickers and high pitched whinnies. The horse in the stall next to me banged his stall door impatiently with his front leg. “You’d think we starved them. Anyway, Yuri grew up surrounded by the world’s best riders and horses when his grandfather was preparing them for the Olympics and World Championships. Pretty amazing education, eh?” She paused to dump a small bucket of feed into my feed bin.

  “Does he train or compete? How come I’ve never heard of him? I’ve heard of his father, of course. Everyone involved with horses during the last forty years has.”

  Beth shook her head. “He could. Easily. He rejected the elite equestrian world to make his own path. He never talks about his grandfather. Don’t ask me why. It must be complicated being the grandson of a legend. His father died when he was young, so Nicolai raised him — when he wasn’t off coaching at international competitions. Truly, I think the horses raised him. I’ve never seen anyone communicate with horses the way Yuri does.”

  “So what does he do? Why does he need a horse?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s a mounted police officer in New York City!” Beth laughed as she started to unwind the hose to top off our water buckets. “Yuri and Raja have got to meet. Oh my god, I’m late. I’d better go and pick him up at the train station. Can you finish watering for me? Thanks! Dinner tonight?”

  “Ah, Beth, you’re a miracle worker. This isn’t a horse. This is a dream, a poem — out of a legend.”

  The big, deep, accented voice perfectly matched Yuri’s confident, erect, yet loose-limbed bearing and blazing green eyes. He wasn’t someone who faded into the scenery. Your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to him — in a good way, I mean. He reminded me of a racehorse: fit, athletic, focused and ready to go.

  The minute he stepped onto the farm, we all felt the energy change. Colors deepened, heartbeats quickened, things got more exciting. His hearty laugh and quick smile charmed every person and animal in his path, regardless of age, breed or gender. The teenage volunteers watched him in awe. Even the farm’s collection of three-legged dogs followed him around, smitten.

  He and Beth and Diana were outside the front of the bank barn where one of the volunteers had led me out to show me.

  “Look, Raja has the Mark of the Chieftain! See the whorls on his forehead?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Beth replied.

  “You’ve never heard of the Mark of the Chieftain? It’s an old Bedouin legend. They can read a horse’s character and destiny from the whorls on a horse’s coat. See the way his hair grows on his forehead? These three interconnected whorls?” He traced my forehead with his finger. “Cossacks read whorls too. This particular mark is extremely rare. The Godolphin Arabian had it and his fastest descendants have it. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that Raja comes from his line, just like Northern Dancer and Secretariat.”

  Yuri placed his hands on me and stroked me all over in a gentle rhythm. He stopped to push his unruly bangs out of his eyes. “I almost forgot.” Winking, he clicked his heels together and bowed from his waist, then reached into his bag and drew out a package with a flourish. “I brought you some bagels and bialys from my favorite Russian bakery. I remember how much you love them.”

  For the first two days, Yuri just sat in my stall and watched me patiently, quietly learning me, and letting me learn him. First, he blew on my nose, letting me sniff him and his unique and complex smell: saddle soap, leather, cedar and pine. I loved his smell. He smelled like deep, endless woods. Gently touching me all over with both hands before grooming me, a brush in each hand, like Speedy used to, he hummed and sang to me in a low voice. I couldn’t understand the words, but I understood the tone and relaxed as if I was being worked on by Michelle’s massage lady.

  “Russian lullabies, like your grandfather.” A wistful smile stole over Beth’s face as she walked by us, “The apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

  “Trust me,” Yuri seemed to say with his voice and his stance and his hands, wordless, yet more clearly than if he had spoken, as if he were saying, “I respect you and want you to respect me. We’re partners, after all.”

  From the first moment he stepped in the stirrup and swung his leg over my back, settling lightly into the saddle, we were in perfect sync, as if reading each other’s mind. Light, balanced, clear, and precise, like Michelle, with a daredevil streak like Pedro, he made me think. He challenged me. We were better together. I had to pay attention, because I never knew when he was going to suddenly turn and head for a big fence — just to dare me to keep up with him.

  Dare away. I’m with you, no matter what you throw at me. I like this game.

  I matched him step for step. Walk…to canter. Lengthen, then shorten, the strides…into a gallop. Suddenly Yuri leaned over, one leg over the saddle and fell off, or that’s what I thought at the time. Then he was back up, laughing triumphantly and sitting up gracefully, rein contact light, holding me into a motionless halt with his stomach, legs pressed against my sides.

  “I can’t believe you are still doing all of that trick riding,” Beth watched us from her plastic chair by the side of the arena, “you just can’t resist showing off, can you?” She shook her head, smiling. “B
y the way, I checked Raja’s bloodlines. You’re right. His great-great-grandfather is Northern Dancer. You win the bet.”

  Yuri urged me up into a hand gallop, heading directly for Beth and the volunteers, then halted me, less than ten feet in front of them. Reins in one hand, he dropped his feet out of the stirrups, lifted them onto the saddle and stood up in a single, graceful movement. Before I knew what was happening, he dropped the reins and sprang off, feet over his head, flipping over backwards and landing lightly on the ground.

  “Ladies,” Yuri bowed deeply, “you’ve found Raja a new home. I’ll call the police re-mount school to book a training session for the two of us. We’ll go next week. I’d like to have him ready for patrol in six weeks or so. Also, I know some say it’s bad luck to change a name, but Raja needs a Russian name. Henceforth, he will be Sasha.” Break out the caviar and balalaikas. Tonight, we celebrate!”

  8

  Ten-Foot Cop

  October, Manhattan, New York

  “So this is our newest mount, eh?” Troop Captain Dennis Rourke patted my neck as I took in the tidy, high-ceilinged, light-filled stable, looked down the two aisles of 20 or so horses, and tried to identify the strange new smells: saddle soap and brass polish mingling with diesel from the boats splashing on the river next to the stables and trucks rumbling along the road on the other side.

  “He’s a looker, isn’t he? What a beauty. He’s going to bring this troop up a notch or two. Welcome to the Big Apple and the New York Police Department, Sasha.”

  Fresh, clean shavings and full hay net waited for me in a large corner stall. After drinking deeply from the slightly metallic-tasting water bucket, I rolled.

  Ah! fresh shavings, my favorite.

  As I stood up and gave my body a good shaking, a dark brown, dished face with wide eyes and a shaggy forelock popped up and stared at me through the stall dividers.