Post by Dante on Mar 2, 2012 15:34:48 GMT -5
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ROYAL ASSASSIN
workout with
ERIN TRUBELL[/b]
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Whiskey and cigarettes. Erin had to say she didn't like Connor, but she did like whiskey. Pity now wasn't the time to have any from that brown paper bag he had with him - Erin wasn't going to jump onto a racehorse tipsy, and she'd kicked the smoking habit years ago, after starting at the tender age of fifteen. Who said this girl was innocent? That was BS. In high school, she'd been the resident bad girl. She liked to think she only somewhat grew up out of it. Or at least, Peter got her out of it....
"C'mon, stop daydreaming, Erin, and get on the pony." Connor interrupted the ginger's thoughts, and she nodded, hopping up onto Royal Assassin. There wasn't much point in dwelling on the past now. That was long gone - instead, there was Prince's future. He'd already shown great potential. After a miserable first race, Prince had kicked into gear and figured out this racing thing, and made it into the winners circle every time after that. Today's little run was to be six furlongs on turf, in preparation for his next race.
The little bay sprinter was spirited, and pulled on the bit as Erin rode the colt to the gate. He had the blood of a racehorse and the mindset of one too. He wasn't overly distractable (though Erin supposed as soon as the hormones set in more fully that would change), and he was very one-minded. If Erin could get him into thinking "win the race" it would consume him until he won the race. Perhaps it wasn't a sign of great intelligence, but it was a sign of a lot of drive. Given he was a sprinter and a frontrunner, drive was a more desirable thing than intelligence; Erin could make up for that herself just fine.
He went into the gate, and Erin pulled down her goggles, running her tongue over her bright red lips. A strange good luck habit, but she had to have it - red lipstick. She shifted and bent over the colt, adjusting her frame to his, and then...
SLAM! The gates went open, and Prince broke strong, Erin already using the stick. In a sprint, for a frontrunner, the start was everything. If the start was tardy, you were doomed to the middle of the pack. Erin demanded speed from the colt, and he obliged, but Erin maintained control with ease. Size did come with benefits, after all.
Horse and rider went for the inside rail very quickly, leaving about one horse width at most between them and the rail. The style of a frontrunner was generally the simplest of all the leg types - run ahead of everyone else, though how much was the question. Prince did his best as a "tease", if you would. He'd stay just barely ahead of everyone else, not letting them drive him any faster than the minimum needed, then, when everyone tried to make a move for the front, they'd have enough fuel to kick it up a notch and stay in the lead.
Hooves thundered under Erin as they tore up the turf, wind in their faces. Erin leaned down more, her chin practically at Prince's ears. Once he grew a little more, she wouldn't look so silly, but hey, results were results. He still had balance as they took the corner and pulled and pulled, getting fed up with the static pace into the forth furlong. Just a little more, a little more...NOW!
Erin gave Prince the reins and the colt let himself fly, speeding up and ahead of the imaginary field he was just barely keeping on front of. Some would say he wasn't a strong front, but at the end of the race, he had more power than most of the frontrunners, and that power should be channelled whenever needed.
They crossed the marker and just like that the mock race was done, and they went back to Connor, who was trying to write down the time. "God." Erin grumbled. She dismounted, holding the reins in one hand, and wrote down the time with the other, while Connor held the clipboard. "There, now..." She grabbed the brown paper bag, took a swig, and was back on Prince in a second, cantering away from an angry Connor.
Just another bonus to a frontrunner with staying power.-----------------------
WORKOUT STATS
words| 731
workout surface| Turf
distance| 6 furlongs
horse| Royal Assassin
jockey| Erin Trubell
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