coming for you

[Dante]

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ROYAL ASSASSIN

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workout with
ERIN TRUBELL
for the
AZALEA CUP COLTS[/b]
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Results from Prince this year had been a hodgepodge, a grab-bag, and almost random, from the stellar to the stinky. But what Erin did know is that the bay two year old beneath her could run. He could preform if he wanted to, when he wanted to. Or rather, when he worked hard and did things right. Like now. Like for the Azalea Cup. Last year the colts version had gone to PHS. Erin Truebell didn't like the chances of it going to PHS again, but she was going to give it her best shot. So was Prince. Royal Assassin pranced beneath her, wanting to get a move on and run. He could see the turf in front of him, the gates and the grandstands. He knew what it meant.

"By all means, let's not deny him." Skylark laughed as he saw Erin's face contort in the frustration of getting the thoroughbred to stand. "Better he keeps the momentum then stand right now."

"True enough." The ginger jockey grunted, wheeling Royal Assassin around and towards the gate. "Let's hope he saves some for the real race."

The mock race, however, was going to be a test to the real thing. Seven furlongs. Turf. Just like the real deal. Erin liked to polish things up, and for the frontrunner it generally yielded excellent results. Loading him into the gate was a little bit of a difficult affair, but Erin took it like winding a spring. It was hard to wind it tight, but once you did, it took off. Prince was much the same way. Wind him up and let the pressure go, and he was off, he was out of those gates and gone in the front of the pack in the blink of an eye, that was how he ran. That was how he got stuff done, and once he was out there, he was in front and all he thought of was staying in front. Prince would let Erin do the rest. He was like a train, a train with a one-track mind.

With a bone-jarring clash, the gates sprung open, and with them leapt Prince. He was out in front and near the rail in a blink of an eye - not that Erin was going to blink at a moment like this. With an explosive frontrunner and a shorter race, there was no time to blink, the race could be settled in a blink. Distance frontrunning was all about outlasting. Frontrunning a sprint? That was about being the roughest, toughest, fastest machine you could be. There was no outlasting, there was only outrunning or choking on the butts of the other horses. There was no adjusting, going back, or altering. That was why she loved Prince's one track mind. There was no need to adjust or alter the one state of mind her had: race. It would suffice, and Erin would do the rest.

The colts legs blurred as they rounded the corner, Erin used size to counterbalance and keep them going fast. Being a six foot tall jockey did have its merits, even if most of her combinations only came up to her hip (you had absolutely no idea how many times she got her head cut out of pictures because of it), even if she did, at times, look comically large. Those people could suck it. She was on a roll, baby! It was weight that was the major thing, and she was light. Prince had no problems with her on his back, and they were out for ribbons, if not blood.

At the five furlong marker, Erin let go. She could feel the power running up through her arms and into her spine as Prince towed her along. They moved to the rail and fro there they left the imaginary field behind. Prince moved like a train, with one purpose. To run. To run, to pass, and to keep ahead of everyone else. That was what he did best, and that was what Erin was there to help him do.

And Skylark, of course. The jockey-turned-trainer was marking down the time in his clipboard when Erin rode Prince on back. He wore shorts, and the reason of his retirement from the track was clear. Two prosthetic legs. He had balls, Erin had to admit, to wear shorts and not care what people thought. "He gave it his best, and it shows." Skylark said with a grin. "Put on that red lipstick, let's hope for some luck and we might have it bagged. We'll see."

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WORKOUT STATS

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words| 761
workout surface| Turf
distance| 7 furlongs
horse| Royal Assassin
jockey| Erin Trubell
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