Post by S u N f r O s t ~ on Jun 25, 2012 23:14:40 GMT -5
DASHING IN THE FIRELIGHT AND HENNA TURATH
BREEDERS CUP MARATHON WORKOUT
It was in the weak light of dawn that Henna chose to work her prized mare, the mare that had captured her heart as no other mount had. Dashing In The Firelight - what a brilliant, all consuming name. It could be taken figuratively and literally. Literally, she was the light bay mare that not only looked like the color of flame but would run in the flames as well. The heat would not bother her, the destructive properties that came with it would not hurt her. Even if they did, she would bravely forge a path. Even if it was a conflagration none alive would dare to mess with, Fire would, simply because her brave heart would not allow for weakness of will or spirit when faced with such a case. Now figuratively, it could describe her spirit, the spirit she had shown this year. Defeat after defeat had thundered the spirit of the mare's jockey down, but never had the mare herself been defeated. The fire of a champion burned within those eyes, incinerating those who claimed she was not a champion.
She had proved them wrong. She had become grade one. She had won the Consumato Derby and then the Palm Tree Paradise Invitational. Who could hold a candle to that? Who could look at Fire now and claim that there had not been a shred of talent in her strong bay frame? Henna stroked said mare as she thought of her. She had just groomed her, and she looked magnificent. Her black mane stood out in stark contrast to her extremely light bay coat, and she was the picture of a racehorse as she waited with eagerly baited breath for the first command to run to come from Henna. She knew it would come. The track meant business, and business meant running, and running meant joy. This simple equation, this chain of events, had been discovered in the mare's four year old season. A calm juvenile season, an injury sideline in her three year old year, and then the steady rise to greatness last year. And now she was on top of the world. She would be leaving the racing world doing what she loved. She just had the Breeders Cup Marathon and then the Risorgimento Cup. The final races of her career. Henna's eyes watered at the thought.
She hadn't been lying when she had let the love she felt for this mare soak through her voice at The Wire Social. She loved Fire as though the mare was her lover - and that was going into the realm of the unexplainable. She was devoted to this mare. She would do almost anything to make sure she was happy and okay. It was almost a human relationship that she shared with her, and she thought that if the true depths of it were ever discovered by the racing world they would cast her out as a freak. How could a human love a horse as a human would love a human? But then they wouldn't be jockeys, wouldn't they, if they didn't love their horses as they did. It was the natural order of things. There was always one horse who stole your heart and held it captive for the rest of your life. Even after they died your devotion remained. Fire was such a horse for Henna. None would replace her. Not even her foals.
They warmed up, trotting and cantering a full lap around the dirt, enjoying the feel of the sun on their skin. It took Henna's slightest touch to get Fire to go. It was almost as though Fire read her mind and knew what her rider wanted. Or maybe she was just good at guessing, having known Henna for the majority of her life? As they cantered, Henna ran through the Breeders Cup Marathon scenario. They had come second in the race last year, and Henna wanted the win this year. They were close, so close. Knight Rousseau, Xalbadora, Furious Passion, Euphorion - a fascinating field had come together to challenge for the win. It was a worthy test of Fire's worth. If she could come out on top in this race, they'd be golden. They were in top form and were also mid packers. The fact that there were a fair amount of horses in this field meant they would be in their element. Fire was an expert at threading her way through horses and coming out of nowhere. They were the oldest pair in the field, and not too much of a long shot, either. The Marathon was a mile and a half long. Fire loved distance. The longer the race, the happier the mare. Distance was her friend. It gave her more time to lay out an intricate strategy or be guided by her rider through one.
Amber had shown up by now, and they trotted over to her. Henna kept Fire moving as she was given her prep instructions. They were to go through a mile long gallop. Amber didn't want anything fast. They had just raced, after all, and the Marathon was long. They were also against a talented field. They needed every ounce of talent that they possessed to make it through. And even if it didn't, they would have expressed themselves on the track. Their expression would be their message and legacy. It would leave a final impression in the minds of the public about the horse that everybody had discounted this season. They wanted this. They also wanted to gallop, and the time had finally come.
Henna let Fire out slowly. The mare gradually accelerated, her feet moving faster and faster and breathing quicker and deeper. Her eyes blazed a trail ahead of her. It was a gaze that would have both wilted and grown the turf track. Wilted, because the gaze was so intense, but grown, because it was full of an impressive desire and passion of the speed and movement of the gallop. As a racehorse, Fire danced. Henna imagined the race in front of her. They had just broken from the gate, and were likely on the outside. Losing ground? Potentially. But Fire had this wide, swinging stride that made her stride length a bit longer than the average horse's. That was why she was such a distance runner. This advantage had been shown from birth, singling her out for distance races. So they swung along.
The mile distance would be occupied by Henna positioning Fire minutely, so that they would be ready to go when the time came. And then when the time would come, at around the tenth or eleventh furlong, they would swing into action and hopefully sweep the win. The margin did not matter. It didn't matter if it was even a photo finish. Henna just wanted to express Fire's passion towards racing with a win or a splendid performance. The Breeders Cup was all about dreams being made or broken. Henna's dream would be served simply with a fantastic performance, enriched with a splendid victory. And then she would be saddened, as Fire would be retired, and they wouldn't express themselves anymore.
They slowed after the eighth furlong. They slowed all the way to a stop and surveyed the dirt track. The strength of their similar, determined expressions said all that needed to be said.
