Diamond Trot A
Di was a plain looking horse, and that's putting it kindly. Everything about him was too long: his back, his legs, his neck, his face. He was a plain bay standardbred with nothing distinguishing about his looks or his career. He was born in Australia, and I don't know why the trainer at the other end of the shed row shipped him over, sight unseen, as the newest addition to his racing string. Di had had a handful of wins on the other side of the globe, but I suspect that the cost of flying him stateside was probably more than the horse was worth.
I was a lanky, teenage track rat, mucking stalls and picking feet for a chance to be close to what I was convinced was equine royalty. Everything about me was too long too: my arms, my legs, my hair.
When Di unloaded off the trailer, he wasn't much to look at, even to my untrained eye. I hovered quietly in the doorway to barn, trying my best to blend with the whitewashed walls and watching as a groom trotted the horse back and forth in the stone dust driveway. His new owner-trainer watched critically, leaning on his black pick up truck with his brow furrowed. Clearly, he was not impressed with his new acquisition. His new headache.
The trainer stepped away from his truck, waving his hand to dismiss the groom. He'd seen enough. Then he spotted me, lurking in the shadows.
"Well, what do you think?" he asked, probably rhetorically.
I puffed out my chest, eager to give my opinion of the horse. His legs were crooked, his face was unattractive, there was no spark in his movement. This was no champion racehorse!
I felt a pang of guilt. He was a horse, and all horses deserved a chance. I had spent my entire life dreaming of an underdog horse to call my own. What would become of this plain gelding with the knobby knees and too-big ears if even the homely barn girl called him ugly? The brown horse, who was considered aged in racing terms, stood quietly at the end of a loose lead rope, calmly taking in his new surroundings. His eyes were soft and his gigantic ears swiveled in the breeze. His liquid brown eyes seemed to make contact with mine.
I breathed, "I like him."
The trainer ruffled my hair, nearly knocking me over. "Well then, I guess we'll keep him." I am sure that there was defeat in his voice. He'd made a terrible mistake buying this animal, and Di would never make a profit. Still, the trainer was a kind man, and not one to discard horses easily. Week after week, he entered the horse in a race. Week after week, the horse failed to finish in the money.
The flight had screwed Di up, and he was never the same again. His breathing was raspy at high speeds, and he never did get off of Down Under time. Every summer he would try to grow a winter coat, and every winter he shivered even through the thickest stable blankets. He was the laughing stock of the farm, and I don't think the trainer ever lived down his decision to buy him.
Still, there was one very special thing about Di. He was broke to ride. Someone in his youth had taken the time to introduce him to saddle, and I heard rumors that he'd been ridden between races at his old home.
Eventually, the trainer's bad horse-buying decisions caught up to him. His string was absorbed by another trainer, and Di went along with them. He moved two stalls closer to my end of the barn, and I would sneak him carrots after my work was done. Di wasn't much of a racehorse, but he was a kind soul and an absolute gentleman on the ground.
One day, when I was rubbing Di's broad forehead over his stall door, his new trainer walked by and casually asked, "How would you like to ride him?" In all honesty, he was probably looking for a way to get one useless horse off his training schedule, but to a horse-hungry girl it was the greatest kindness anyone had ever bestowed. I nodded silently, but eagerly.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
In the afternoons, when the racehorses were tucked in their boxes for the night, gleaming from head to toe, and when the training center was quiet save for the sound of horses chewing hay and barn sparrows chirping in the rafters, I would slip down to Di's stall and pull him from his mid-day slumber. I would groom him meticulously and talk quietly to him, telling him that it was ok to be slow and plain.
I had managed to salvage an old jumping saddle from a pile of discarded items in a shed on the far side of the farm. I spent hours cleaning and oiling the brittle leather until it was supple and presentable enough to use. Di's trainer had removed his blinders and overcheck from his driving bridle and gifted me with a set of ancient cotton reins that had probably been white at one point, many horses ago.
Our rides started as mere jaunts around the farm. I would trot Di down the straightaway from one freshly-dragged track to the other, leaving a lone set of hoof prints on the surface. Eventually, I got brave, leaving the rows of whiteboard fence behind, and wandering into the woods and down to the creek. The horse, in my eyes, was fearless.
One day I timidly asked if I could take Di off the property to extend our rides. His new trainer replied without even looking at me, "I don't care what you do with him."
We rode up the road, Di plodding along with the sound of his worn racing plates echoing on the asphalt. I sat quietly on board, the reins on the buckle, completely unaware of the dangers of blind turns, no shoulder, and speeding cars.
Gradually, our rides grew longer until I discovered a nature preserve just up the street. My eyes were wide as saucers at the prospect of the endless adventures this opportunity presented. I spent the summer playing a new game with Di. We would ride out, out, out into the relative wilderness of rural New Jersey, until I no longer knew the way back. Then I would drop the reins and tell Di, "Take me home, bud!" He never failed to find the way back.
One afternoon in particular stands out. On our way home, our wanderings took us to a dead end trail that led to a pond. I let Di mosey to the water's edge for a drink. To my surprise he strolled right in, standing chest deep in the shallows. Figuring that it was a hot day, and the cool water probably felt good, I dropped my reins to let Di rest. That was all the permission he needed! With a powerful push of his haunches, Di surged into deeper water. I grabbed a fistful of mane and shrieked as my mount took off swimming for the far end of the pond. I had never done such a thing on horseback, and the experience was both wonderful and terrifying. As it turns out, the trail continued on the far side of the pond, and Di knew that it was the fastest way home!
That fall, I left for college, leaving the charmed life of the track behind. At the time, the change seemed temporary, and I had no idea I was leaving racing for good. I still came home some weekends, and I would slip down to the stable in the afternoons to pull Di from his stall and go gallivanting in the woods. Our rides grew longer and longer, until I was disappearing for hours and only returning when the sun disappeared behind the hills of the training center.
We rode solo, his powerful racing trot eating up the grassy lanes in the nature preserve. We jogged the single track in the forest, and cantered on the edges of wide fields. My favorite trail ran along the power lines, high up on the ridge. From the top, the whole town was visible, with purple mountains stretching out in every direction. I would canter up to the peak, and halt Di, breathing deeply and taking in the view. He always stood quietly, as if he knew that these moments helped me center myself, leaving the chaos of my rapidly changing life behind. My world was complete. The pull of the mountains, the yearning for a horse to share the wilderness with, was fulfilled.
Then, a funny thing started to happen. On the weeks that I came home and rode, Di started to race well. He placed consistently in the money, and even won two races. I smiled when his trainer told me, not yet knowing what this change meant. To me, the message was clear. Di enjoyed being ridden, and this time that was so beneficial to me, was also helping him. It was my own storybook ending.
As it turns out, Di's improving statistics signaled the end of our riding days. One day, while I was away at school, Di was entered in a claiming race, and against all odds, someone snatched him up.
I came home that weekend, not knowing what had happened. I walked into the breezeway, breaking carrots into pieces, my helmet slung over my arm.
"Ready to go for a ride, bud?" I asked, finally looking up at Di's empty stall, expecting to be greeted with his trademark wheeze of a nicker, and his over-sized ears, always pointing at me.
At first, I thought it strange that Di would be racing on a Saturday night. He wasn't good enough to go in that company, and was more of a Thursday-afternoon horse.
Then the breath left my chest all at once when I realized the stall had been stripped and the door had been padlocked. Di wasn't coming back, and his trainer couldn't even make eye contact with me when he eventually told me.
I sat on the cold barn floor sobbing. He hadn't been my horse, but I had been the only one who wanted him. He had been my anchor to my childhood, and now he was gone. I stopped coming home on the weekends, focusing instead on my life at school. I quit my job at the track and found work in the breeding industry instead.
On the weekends, the ache would set in. I closed my eyes and imagined the view between those long, brown ears. I could feel the push of his ground-eating stride. I could smell the wet earth beneath his hooves. I could envision the mountains falling away as we sat on top of our world. There was a hole where once there had been hours in the saddle, and I hoped that some day I would experience the joy of wandering unknown trails on horseback again.
I was a lanky, teenage track rat, mucking stalls and picking feet for a chance to be close to what I was convinced was equine royalty. Everything about me was too long too: my arms, my legs, my hair.
When Di unloaded off the trailer, he wasn't much to look at, even to my untrained eye. I hovered quietly in the doorway to barn, trying my best to blend with the whitewashed walls and watching as a groom trotted the horse back and forth in the stone dust driveway. His new owner-trainer watched critically, leaning on his black pick up truck with his brow furrowed. Clearly, he was not impressed with his new acquisition. His new headache.
The trainer stepped away from his truck, waving his hand to dismiss the groom. He'd seen enough. Then he spotted me, lurking in the shadows.
"Well, what do you think?" he asked, probably rhetorically.
I puffed out my chest, eager to give my opinion of the horse. His legs were crooked, his face was unattractive, there was no spark in his movement. This was no champion racehorse!
I felt a pang of guilt. He was a horse, and all horses deserved a chance. I had spent my entire life dreaming of an underdog horse to call my own. What would become of this plain gelding with the knobby knees and too-big ears if even the homely barn girl called him ugly? The brown horse, who was considered aged in racing terms, stood quietly at the end of a loose lead rope, calmly taking in his new surroundings. His eyes were soft and his gigantic ears swiveled in the breeze. His liquid brown eyes seemed to make contact with mine.
I breathed, "I like him."
The trainer ruffled my hair, nearly knocking me over. "Well then, I guess we'll keep him." I am sure that there was defeat in his voice. He'd made a terrible mistake buying this animal, and Di would never make a profit. Still, the trainer was a kind man, and not one to discard horses easily. Week after week, he entered the horse in a race. Week after week, the horse failed to finish in the money.
The flight had screwed Di up, and he was never the same again. His breathing was raspy at high speeds, and he never did get off of Down Under time. Every summer he would try to grow a winter coat, and every winter he shivered even through the thickest stable blankets. He was the laughing stock of the farm, and I don't think the trainer ever lived down his decision to buy him.
Still, there was one very special thing about Di. He was broke to ride. Someone in his youth had taken the time to introduce him to saddle, and I heard rumors that he'd been ridden between races at his old home.
Eventually, the trainer's bad horse-buying decisions caught up to him. His string was absorbed by another trainer, and Di went along with them. He moved two stalls closer to my end of the barn, and I would sneak him carrots after my work was done. Di wasn't much of a racehorse, but he was a kind soul and an absolute gentleman on the ground.
One day, when I was rubbing Di's broad forehead over his stall door, his new trainer walked by and casually asked, "How would you like to ride him?" In all honesty, he was probably looking for a way to get one useless horse off his training schedule, but to a horse-hungry girl it was the greatest kindness anyone had ever bestowed. I nodded silently, but eagerly.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
In the afternoons, when the racehorses were tucked in their boxes for the night, gleaming from head to toe, and when the training center was quiet save for the sound of horses chewing hay and barn sparrows chirping in the rafters, I would slip down to Di's stall and pull him from his mid-day slumber. I would groom him meticulously and talk quietly to him, telling him that it was ok to be slow and plain.
I had managed to salvage an old jumping saddle from a pile of discarded items in a shed on the far side of the farm. I spent hours cleaning and oiling the brittle leather until it was supple and presentable enough to use. Di's trainer had removed his blinders and overcheck from his driving bridle and gifted me with a set of ancient cotton reins that had probably been white at one point, many horses ago.
Our rides started as mere jaunts around the farm. I would trot Di down the straightaway from one freshly-dragged track to the other, leaving a lone set of hoof prints on the surface. Eventually, I got brave, leaving the rows of whiteboard fence behind, and wandering into the woods and down to the creek. The horse, in my eyes, was fearless.
One day I timidly asked if I could take Di off the property to extend our rides. His new trainer replied without even looking at me, "I don't care what you do with him."
We rode up the road, Di plodding along with the sound of his worn racing plates echoing on the asphalt. I sat quietly on board, the reins on the buckle, completely unaware of the dangers of blind turns, no shoulder, and speeding cars.
Gradually, our rides grew longer until I discovered a nature preserve just up the street. My eyes were wide as saucers at the prospect of the endless adventures this opportunity presented. I spent the summer playing a new game with Di. We would ride out, out, out into the relative wilderness of rural New Jersey, until I no longer knew the way back. Then I would drop the reins and tell Di, "Take me home, bud!" He never failed to find the way back.
One afternoon in particular stands out. On our way home, our wanderings took us to a dead end trail that led to a pond. I let Di mosey to the water's edge for a drink. To my surprise he strolled right in, standing chest deep in the shallows. Figuring that it was a hot day, and the cool water probably felt good, I dropped my reins to let Di rest. That was all the permission he needed! With a powerful push of his haunches, Di surged into deeper water. I grabbed a fistful of mane and shrieked as my mount took off swimming for the far end of the pond. I had never done such a thing on horseback, and the experience was both wonderful and terrifying. As it turns out, the trail continued on the far side of the pond, and Di knew that it was the fastest way home!
That fall, I left for college, leaving the charmed life of the track behind. At the time, the change seemed temporary, and I had no idea I was leaving racing for good. I still came home some weekends, and I would slip down to the stable in the afternoons to pull Di from his stall and go gallivanting in the woods. Our rides grew longer and longer, until I was disappearing for hours and only returning when the sun disappeared behind the hills of the training center.
We rode solo, his powerful racing trot eating up the grassy lanes in the nature preserve. We jogged the single track in the forest, and cantered on the edges of wide fields. My favorite trail ran along the power lines, high up on the ridge. From the top, the whole town was visible, with purple mountains stretching out in every direction. I would canter up to the peak, and halt Di, breathing deeply and taking in the view. He always stood quietly, as if he knew that these moments helped me center myself, leaving the chaos of my rapidly changing life behind. My world was complete. The pull of the mountains, the yearning for a horse to share the wilderness with, was fulfilled.
Then, a funny thing started to happen. On the weeks that I came home and rode, Di started to race well. He placed consistently in the money, and even won two races. I smiled when his trainer told me, not yet knowing what this change meant. To me, the message was clear. Di enjoyed being ridden, and this time that was so beneficial to me, was also helping him. It was my own storybook ending.
As it turns out, Di's improving statistics signaled the end of our riding days. One day, while I was away at school, Di was entered in a claiming race, and against all odds, someone snatched him up.
I came home that weekend, not knowing what had happened. I walked into the breezeway, breaking carrots into pieces, my helmet slung over my arm.
"Ready to go for a ride, bud?" I asked, finally looking up at Di's empty stall, expecting to be greeted with his trademark wheeze of a nicker, and his over-sized ears, always pointing at me.
At first, I thought it strange that Di would be racing on a Saturday night. He wasn't good enough to go in that company, and was more of a Thursday-afternoon horse.
Then the breath left my chest all at once when I realized the stall had been stripped and the door had been padlocked. Di wasn't coming back, and his trainer couldn't even make eye contact with me when he eventually told me.
I sat on the cold barn floor sobbing. He hadn't been my horse, but I had been the only one who wanted him. He had been my anchor to my childhood, and now he was gone. I stopped coming home on the weekends, focusing instead on my life at school. I quit my job at the track and found work in the breeding industry instead.
On the weekends, the ache would set in. I closed my eyes and imagined the view between those long, brown ears. I could feel the push of his ground-eating stride. I could smell the wet earth beneath his hooves. I could envision the mountains falling away as we sat on top of our world. There was a hole where once there had been hours in the saddle, and I hoped that some day I would experience the joy of wandering unknown trails on horseback again.
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