Wings for Legs

What horse racing is... for real

May 5th, 2008

The morning was still early. Very, very early, actually, but I was awake already, and I wasn’t the only one at Churchill downs who was. It is the morning before the Kentucky derby, and the air held a certain buzz to it; a nervousness that every horse in the stable felt even though the sun wasn’t even up yet, and nor were the stable hands and humans that came with it.
I peer over my stall front at the colt across the isle from me. He’s been up as long as I have and is already starting to break a light sweat on his chest as he silently dances in his stall. For most of us here, this was our first Kentucky derby. Most racehorses only ran it once, as three year olds, but some of the unsuccessful ones came again at four. I’m especially nervous as I am the only filly running, for no filly had run since 1999, when Excellent Meeting and Three ring ran. They came in fifth and nineteenth. I’d won the Kentucky oaks the day before, which was just for fillies, and felt a tiny bit tired from it. My owner decided yesterday that we’d stay for the derby, too, and run against the boys.
So here I am: standing in a stable of colts, nervous as ever, waiting for my jockey to come and get warmed up for the race. After standing with these colts for another few hours and eating breakfast with them, we all get a little less nervous, although it comes so gradually I can’t say when it happened. Some of the colts I recognize from previous races, but most of them I don’t. I wonder if they are used to this by now or if they still miss their homes, which I bet were just as green and pretty as mine in Delaware.
I doze on and off for a little while longer until I hear footsteps in the hallway. Two jockeys emerge into sight and I scan their faces trying to see if one is mine. From a distance, it’s had to see who is who when they don’t have their racing silks on yet. I hear them talking, and instantly identify mine.
“Hey, Calvin.”
“Morning, Gabriel. Getting Eight Belles?”
“Yup. Are you fetching Denis?”
“Indeed,” Calvin replied. Then he lowered his voice and I had to strain to hear it. “Do you really think she should be running this?”
“It’s Larry’s decision, not mine. But I do think she’s strong enough to go against the boys.”
“I do hope so.”
“I know so,” Gabriel replies stopping in front of my stall. Calvin joins him and gives me a pat on the neck. “Do well, Eight Belles,” he says to me. “Just make it past the finish line. It doesn’t matter what place you two get. Just pass the line.” And then he departs to fetch his horse, Denis of cork.
Two hours later, Gabriel and I are accompanied by my friend, a buckskin horse about two hands shorter than I am. His rider talks to Gabriel for a few minutes before fastening a leather lead rope to my bit and giving me a gentle pet. It’s almost time to make our way to the gate. We walk down to an area where all the other horses and lead ponies are standing. I recognize the colt that slept across the isle and whinny to him. He whinnies back, nervously, but sweetly.
“Pyro!” His jockey says with a sharp jerk of his bit. “We’re not getting in a fight with the filly.”
Gabriel smiles in apology, but his notion is lost when the man organizing us nods to the jockey of the horse with the program number 1, and sends him onto the track. The crowds cheer as the announcer reads his name. Horse number two follows, then three and four. I’m number five, and when the buckskin and I step onto the track, the crowds go madly when the annoncer says my name, jockey’s name and my gender. The things that set us apart.
Nervously, we make our way to the gate. The crowd is overwhelming, but the calm disposition of the buckskin leading me keeps me quiet. It might be the only thing that is. Eventually we gat to the gates, and as we unclip to park in the stall, the buckskin gives me a strong whinny of encouragement and heads on his way. I blow out in recognition and wait patiently while all the other horses make their way to the stalls. They are so tight, these stalls, it surprises me that some of the colts still have the energy and courage to throw a small rear or buck. They must be very nervous or ready to run, I think. Perhaps they’ve been drugged to run.
Suddenly, the pistol shot strikes and the gates blaze open, setting us free. I feel Gabriel’s heels dig into my sides and I lunge forward, just as the others do the same. The race has begun!
For the first quarter, I’m so full of nervous energy, but Gabriel is holding me back. I knew this drill, and it was especially important in the Kentucky Derby. Save the power for the Final Stretch, where you’ll need it most. By the second quarter, I settle in a bit more. I’m just focusing on running, not on the crowds cheering or the announcers constant yelling of the names of the horses in first, second and third.
The race feels long, it is, a mile and a quarter, but at the same time Churchill Downs is flying past me and the race is almost over. The Final Stretch comes up fast, and Gabriel lets go of my mouth and hits me hard with the crop. I jump forward and begin making my way forward until I’m in third place. Just two horses In front of me now, Denis of Cork and the popular favorite, Big Brown. I see the finish line coming up and lunge forward again until Denis is behind me. Just big Brown now and I’ll win the derby. But while I’m focusing so hard on winning, I don’t notice a small rock on the track. I stumble on the rock, hurting one of my front legs, but not too badly. I keep running.
I’m so close behind Big Brown now, I can feel his out-flying tail in my face. As the finish line comes, though, he pounds forward and crosses it just five lengths before I do. I don’t slow down right away, none of us do. And thus is why I didn’t notice a hole in the track.
I trip awkwardly on the hole and stomp down on my injured leg to spare the other one, which hurt awfully from stumbling. My legs feel like they’re on fire. Gabriel pulls me up, hard and strong, and I wobble as he dismounts. Several lead ponies and their owners come over and ease me to the ground. I’m unaware of the other horses as they pass me, other than a familiar and distressed whinny I reckon is Pyro. My legs hurt so bad they’re almost numb. I hardly hear the golf cart pull up, but when I see a veterinarian jump out of feel relieved. I try to stand up for him, but Gabriel and the lead pony people push me down. As Gabriel talks to the vet, he starts crying. That’s odd, I think as I try not to focus on my legs. Gabriel never cries.
I hear words tossed around, but none of them seem to be anything I don’t already know. The vet looks at all of us after examining my legs and says, “One’s fractured, the other is shattered.” All around me, people are crying and yelling as the vet prepares a syringe.
“I’m so sorry, girl,” he says to me. “I can’t let you hurt this badly. Everything is going to be okay.” Then I feel a prick in my neck as he inserts the syringe, and then... and then...

Author's Note

Everything in this story is true. The names, events, times; all of it’s real. All of it’s wrong, but I can’t stop it alone. Help end horse racing at peta.org/horseracing, and stand up for the hundreds of horses each year that end up with the same fate as Eight Belles.