To Horse Racing With Love
Storytelling

To Horse Racing, With Love

These are the people…

They are the faces molded by moments of triumph and tribulation, eyes pried open in disbelief as races unfold in feats of glory. They are the leathered hands that have laid claim to the greatest trophies on earth. They are the mouths thrown open, aghast, as bold moves are made, as champions are anointed. They are murmur makers as they dissect each specimen, eternities of knowledge interwoven to create perfection. They are the aching bones, old in time but unwilling to sit this one out, stitched back together once more, giant expectations for the next ride. They are the new voices, finding their way in this world, beaming with brilliant ideas of change – of betterment – fighting to prove their place. They are the feet in the irons, the white-knuckled fingers gripping reins, the voices in the soundtracks of our memories, the yells that rumble from deep within. They are the bodies overcome with emotion: hearts thumping, palms sweating, lips quivering. They are the passionate lovers of this sport; they are the fans; they are the people of horse racing.

These are the places…

They are the sunrises, kissing the morning fog as it’s whipped by galloping hooves. They are the green expanses, dotted with mare and foal tucked in the safety of their keep nourished with the blades of grass that have grown champions for centuries— their stories live within the very soil from which life grows, whispering of legends past. They are the oak trees, ex-pansive in their protection of young budding hopefuls who frolic, finding the boundaries of their own abilities. They are the mountainous backdrops, watching intently over the Earth below— the rolling seas, ever present but never threatening—the stark-white pinnacles, unmistakable and proud—the winged stallion ever stationed at his post. They are the grandstands, beckoning the crowd to their steps for another adventure, yearning for the days when bodies packed so tightly that children sat atop the shoulders of their fathers, fighting for a better view. They are the barns, huge and hallowed, holding space for the infirmed, the injured, the in between— each wall within alive with years of allegories abounding, if only these walls could speak. They are the nurseries, the schools, the stages; they are the places of horse racing.

These are the horses…

They are the holy grail— the beginning and end of everything. They are the poetry in motion—the crimson mass of muscle so perfectly poised in place, the silver arrow pulled back and held to the utmost point of tension. They are the coils, wound until they can be wound no more and then released in an explosion of will and heart and athleticism— robust as the melody of a song, fragile as the wings of a bird. They are the brilliant faces, traceable from even the topmost point of view— each one hand-painted with the utmost precision, no two truly alike. They are the trusted ponies, chasing down runaways, calming even the most uncontrollable, nuzzling toddlers at the rails despite the weariness from a hard day’s work. They are the retired, the off track, the born again into another life, another role. They are the very keepers of our dreams— carrying atop their withers the weight of the world. They are the thousand pound thundering Gods of this earth— both benevolent and bold; They are the racehorses.

Together, the people, the places, and the horses create the moments that turn into stories…

They are the stories that will be told through time, of the greatest instances in our collective history. They are the stories both bitter and sweet— some stinging down to our very bones. They are the tears, the salty secretions that silently slip, wiped away in a race against that moment when they teeter at the precipice, one blink away from falling into existence. They are the troubles, the losses, the eulogies; they, too, are the triumphs, the celebrations, the victories, remembered through glittering smiles, and heartfelt regrets. They are the orange embers, ever emblazoned in our minds; carried upon the back of a coal-black hero departed, his memory bound by the people’s voice— they are the embers that linger still, where the palms once stood, now ghosts akin to souls irreplaceable, and dearly missed. These are the times that will live within the walls of our memories. They are the stories we can only hope to tell as movingly as the moments themselves, were. They are the stories that turn fellows to friends, and friends to family; they are the stories that bind us.

As another year of moments comes to an end, another chapter to a close, another year of stories awaits being told; for today’s moments become tomorrow’s stories, and tomorrow’s stories become the legends recalled long after we have gone. May we be ever present, in each instant, absorbing the way the stories of yesteryear, meet the moments of today, and create the memories of tomorrow. May we live them, may we write them, may we read them, may we in our hearts, know them.

This Post Has One Comment

  1. Joyce Reply

    Just beautiful. What a lovely tribute

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