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A Changing Wind

He wasn’t the only Thoroughbred on the track that would kick and bite you; he was just a bit quicker and meaner about it than most.  A magnificent black colt, I never knew his name.  “Whoa, son,” or “Get up here, son,” was the universal name and language for all male horses on the track. 

“The backside” of a racetrack is where the horses are stabled, a separate world where nothing matters but the genetically orchestrated hot blood running through the veins of the Thoroughbreds and the hardness needed to live in their world.  Rooms full of show trophies and ribbons at home impressed no one here.  On the backside of the track, nerves of steel and emotional detachment are barometers of success.  Coming into the barn I would hear, “Heads up, greenhorn on the backside,” echoing down the aisles, as riders and grooms alerted each other to my inexperience. 

After eight months on the job, my skills and confidence had improved, and I got the opportunity to ride as well as groom.  However, when the black colt came under my charge, he reminded me that I was still, very much, a “greenhorn.”  He drove my emotions from awe and admiration to anger and fear on a daily basis; and on a stormy day in March, in the midst of chaos and terror, he endeared himself to my heart.

It was unseasonably warm that day despite the on and off pouring rain. The air was thick with the smell of pine trees, horses and straw.  Two rides that morning had left me covered with a crust of mud, but for the most part it was just another workday.  I led the black colt in single file under the shed-row (where the roof extends past the stalls) with the other horses in the third set as we waited for the order to “leg up” riders onto their mounts.  

It was a claustrophobic position for the rambunctious colt. Two weeks earlier, in a similar situation, he bit down on my arm and flung me into a wall.  Remembering the pain and embarrassment, I prepared myself this time.  I tucked a hoof pick in my hand with the point sticking out between my fingers like the old groom taught me.  According to the groom, with my fist armed in this way, a quick jab would teach the colt some manners, and I would be able to stay in control when he tried to bite me again. It would be a strategically placed jab - landing on his mouth.  It was supposed to hit the gums or lip - straight in and out.  If I didn’t drag the pick across the soft muzzle, there would be little, if any, blood.  Nobody would know except the black colt and I (and maybe a few approving, savvy grooms).

A change in the wind made it a day I will never forget.  We had walked about three laps when an eerie quiet and calm settled around us. I could actually feel the weight of the warm moist air pressing down.  Then the wind began to howl and rain started pelting the tin roof of the shed-row.  Horses began dancing sideways at the end of their leads and trying to bolt from their handlers. The wind continued to build as the sky became a dark, angry purple unlike any color I had ever seen.

A portentous roar began to grow.  It did not blast my ears, but shook the ground and resonated in my chest and throat.  The wind began wreaking havoc.  Muck sacks with manure residue on them and the pitchforks that filled them went flying through the air along with buckets, brushes and tack.  The horse in front of me kicked out and dislodged the bottom bale of straw from a towering stack.  I saw the rows begin to topple.  The black colt flew backward, slamming into the side of the barn.   I yanked on his lead, and he bolted forward, jumping the two bales of straw that had landed right in front of us.  The hoof pick fell from my hand as his lunge wrenched my arms against their sockets and lifted me off my feet. I could smell leather and feel heat through my gloves as I fought to keep the lead strap from slipping through my hands.  Regaining my footing and a semblance of control, we ducked out from under the shed row into the blinding rain and raced toward his stall in the upper barn.   Just as we got inside, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut, sending us both leaping into the back corner of the stall.  We stood there huddled together, two mortal beings defenseless against the magnitude of the storm.

Pressed against his massive shoulders, I wrapped my arms around his neck.  We both stood trembling as the tornado shook the walls of the stall.  His nostrils flared, and his ears constantly flipped forward and backward, like radar antennas trying to read the storm.  I laced my fingers in his mane.  In my fear, I was oblivious to the dangerous position I had placed myself in.  He could have easily swung his head around and bit a chunk out of my side, struck me with his front hoof, or spun away from me and kicked me in the head--all of which he routinely tried to do.  But he didn’t.  He allowed me to cling to him.  I felt his heart pounding like mine as we listened to the terrible roar, the shingles ripping off the roof, trees snapping.  I believe we were both thankful not to be alone.

When the deafening roar quieted and the walls no longer quaked, I stood for a moment and silently stroked him.  There passed between us a moment of closeness and humility.  For all the power of his being and imposition of my presence were nothing compared to the forces that had just passed above us.  Thankfully, the tornado didn’t touch down on any of the barns and there was no serious damage or injury.

I wish I could say the black colt never tried to kick or bite me again.  However, I do think he was not quite as mean spirited afterward; or maybe I was just a bit more keen.  I never carried a hoof pick in my hand again.  And every once in a while, late in the afternoon when the barns were all quiet, he would let me slip inside his stall and pet him without the restraints of a halter or bridle.  No one ever saw us, and to the best of my knowledge, I was the only person he allowed such privilege.  Those rare occasions helped rekindle my spirit and, in time, allowed me to find my own measure of success in the horse world.