Page 35 - The Game August 2006

Your Thoroughbred Racing Community Newspaper
The Literate Rider
If I hadn’t achieved a good work ethic before I arrived at the racetrack, I was destined to acquire one during that first gruelling year. On the track or in the shedrow, the racing life is a fiercely competitive one. As women jockeys in the 70’s, we faced the solid bastion of tradition, which included a strong component of prejudice along with the expected male rivalry. To make our presence felt, we showed up every day, rain or shine, snow or sleet. I was convinced if I missed a single day, my precious mounts would disappear like ghosts vanishing into the mist. Colds, flu, pulled muscles, nothing kept me out of the saddle. I could blow my nose at a gallop and stuff the Kleenex into my boot without missing a stride. (I never perfected the art of blowing out one nostril at a time over the horse’s shoulder.)
My daily schedule left little time or energy for entertainment. Day racing was the norm at Suffolk Downs, so movie mati- nees were impossible. Evening shows began only minutes before my bedtime. I knew that I needed to escape without physically leaving my surroundings. My second passion, writing, gave me that
A Head at the Wire
The eighth in a series of real life stories
The Game, August 2006 35 Becoming a published author demands the perseverance of a winning jockey. I sent my script off to a man who had been at the top of his form in the days of Seabiscuit and War Admiral. That should have been
my first hint.
It was soon obvious that my writing
skills left much to be desired. I spent my days in the saddle, my evenings reading all of my favourite authors to learn their secrets of success. For my second novel, Rumours, many hours were spent in the library researching the medical background for my main character. (My work ethic was serving a double purpose). Just as I learned to switch sticks, I practiced typing until I could use an equal number of fingers on both hands, usually two or three.
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common occur- rence). In the hall- way, I passed a woman doctor and realized, here was my main character. I didn’t know a lot about the medical profession but I
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escape. I began to create satires involving jockeys and trainers. I read these stories to the girls in the jock’s room and we relaxed by enjoying a good laugh, often at ourselves. Soon, I needed a bigger challenge, perhaps a novel. Could I actually complete one? Who could the main character be? Surely not a jockey. I was writing to provide a diversion from my work, yet the rhythms of racetrack life were all that I knew, the underlying pulse of my life. How could I create the main character?
The next day brought an answer as I visited a fellow
jockey in the
hospital (an all-too-
was very familiar with the revered halls of Massachusetts General. I began my writing career that very afternoon with the first page of my first novel, Illusions. (Richard Bach did much better with his version.)
While Bouncing Bessie, The Heckler and other horses taught me the lessons of the racetrack, Illusions broke from the gate and stumbled a few times in the back- stretch, but finally galloped under the wire. It was a writing sprint, completed in six months.
I soon learned the irony of the title.