Page 13 - The Game January 2006

Your Thoroughbred Racing Community Newspaper The Game, January 2006 13
Check Carefully
A Head at the Wire
The third in a series of real life stories
by Paddy Head majeek05@hotmail.com
Check Carefully was a blaze-face chestnut mare who had a flair for drama. All of my experiences with her were memorable but two in particular stand out. The first was early morning as we approached the - in gap‚ at Blue Bonnets. It was Check Carefully’s habit to bolt onto the track for a short sprint before willingly coming back to the rider. Any force applied at take-off was met with great resistance. On this particular morning, as she was about to launch, a horse appeared, coming off the track through the wrong gap. I immediately recognized the bandages and saddle cloth of the great filly, La Prevoyante. I wanted to be famous but not for killing Canada’s top stakes horse. I had no choice but to abort the launch and pull back with due force. Unable to go forward, Check Carefully chose the next option, up, standing on her hind legs in true hi ho Silver stance. La Prevoyante walked sedately out the - in gap‚ while her rider glared at me and bemoaned the fact that women were allowed on the track.
The next most memorable experience was my first race. Nervous in the gate, Check Carefully was always loaded last. I was warned to be prepared and had set my hands and feet the way I’d been instructed. The mare’s movement was uninterrupted this time and she propelled herself to the lead. With the wind whistling past my ears and the bright lights shining on the freshly harrowed track, I passed before the grandstand and under the wire of the five-eights bullring before reaching the first turn. Feeling like Willie Shoemaker, I covered the entire length of the backstretch and the second turn without interference. Into the stretch for the final run, I had visions of glory as the wire loomed closer. Suddenly I was surrounded by horses, whips
and screams. Beaten a mere 1/2 of a length, I finished fourth.
My first attempt to stand up in the saddle failed miserably, my legs having turned into melted rubber. A second attempt proved just as useless. I could see the outrider waiting in the backstretch. He’d predicted, loud and clear in the cookshack, that he’d pick me up before I fell off. The smirk on his face made
me doubly determined. I stood up, locked my knees together (a habit well practiced in the tackrooms) and pulled back on the reins with the little strength I had left. I think it was the tone of my voice, a pleading from one female to another, that brought the mare to a halt three strides before the outrider’s reach. Turning, I galloped triumphantly back to unsaddle.
In that summer of ‘73, Blue Bonnets was short of mounts, begging trainers not to work their horses but instead, put them in a race. I watched one of the horses in Jack’s barn, Hubie V, ridden by Peppy Nunes, win three in a row, knocking several seconds off each successive race.
Finally, Nina Count’s race filled. It was to be a rerun of my first race except for Nina’s habit of grasping the side of the gate with her teeth. Sometime later, I deduced that this strange habit was the key to Nina’s success out of the gate. She sensed when the juice was turned on and was breaking as the latches opened. Once again, I went to the lead and stayed there for five furlongs. Unfortunately, this was a six furlong race and I ended up with a mouth full of dirt. Ten days later, Nina and I were back in the post parade. As I galloped off, I sensed an unusual tenseness in the mare. In a flash, we were at full speed, careening down the backstretch. I decided it would be too embarrassing to be run off with in front of the grandstand and headed into the distance chute. Surely the big white wooden fence would stop her. Two strides away from the fence, we were still at full stride and no brakes. It must be innate in the female gender that even in moments of crisis such as this we think about the horse’s safety. Just before contact I turned Nina’s head to the left so she wouldn’t hit it face on. I was then thrust into a silent
movie. As I
lost contact
with the
horse, pieces
of wood
were floating all around me. The earth came up to catch me and I remember the sensation of soft dirt cushioning the fall before I came into contact with the harder surface beneath. Only after standing up did I think to check for broken bones. I was walking so obviously there wasn’t any real damage. Time to find my mount.
The outrider met me halfway along the backstretch, with Nina in tow. He gave me a leg up and we headed off for a vet check. The vet proclaimed us both fit to run. With a mere six horses in the race, they didn’t want any scratches. Nina and I went to the lead, this time for only four and a half furlongs. The exertion took its toll.
My next new experience came a few weeks later when I rode my first distance race and the first time in the mud. My mount was aptly named, Blessed Hour. I’d practiced removing the top pair of goggles a thousand times, but somehow it isn’t the same in a race. I managed to angle between horses throughout the race and avoid
Paddy Head
most of the mud. Approaching the wire, my last speck of clear goggle disappeared and I reached up to pull the top layer off, managing to pull them all off. The horror of having mud flung into your eyes is almost impossible to describe. And to make matters worse, the outrider had to pick me up. I couldn’t see his face but there was no mistaking his laugh.
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