Visions of flags waving, crowds cheering, and feats of such incredible physical prowess seldom seen, and once seen, never forgotten, weave through my dreams this night. I dream of horses great, and not so great. I dream of a feat of pure physical strength I had witnessed. They came around the last turn five wide, and the horse on the far outside, ridden by a wisp of a man named Real, stumbled as they straightened to drive for home (missed the lead change my partner whispered, he’s gonna fall); but the jockey, seemingly in mid-air and about to fly over the head of his fast charging mount, used forearm strength and gave a mighty pull and I swear he lifted the front end of that horse and kept it on his feet. He faded, and did not win. The memory does not fade. Remembering the day the horse saw a creature in the shadows at his feet 5 yards from the finish line. Took the only escape he could and jumped the rail. Horse and rider laying quite still on the ground. It seemed forever, and was a very long time indeed, before first the jockey, then the horse regained their feet, and walked slowly back to the barn area. The jockey no longer rides; and the horse has become a mighty fine show jumper. Dreaming of Junior - the horse I never owned. A huge, ornery 2 year old. My partner and I looking at him in the barn, ignoring warnings not to get too close - Junior rearing up and kicking out, banging his head against the sloping roof. My partner and I huddling, deciding. Wait, he says, let’s watch him run before we buy. A monster in the barn, uncontrollable on the track. Dropping, ever dropping in class. And finally moving to another country, and disappearing. I miss the horse I never owned. Another memory that does not fade: on a different day on that same track a diminutive 3 year old maiden claimer falling in the stretch. Evoking the memory of great ones whose names shall never be forgotten, she tried to get back up, and did, momentarily. Then fell again. And stayed on the track until the great box shaped vehicle arrived and she was removed. Her name is lost to time, but the chilling hush of the crowd lingers in the soul. Grizzled old men in dirty wrinkled suits still have the need to turn their head and wipe their hand across their face when asked about that day. I dreamt of horses throughout time: of the great Assyrian racing stables of 1500 B. C.; of the first harness race in Greece in 650 B. C.; of Bucephalus, immortalized and revered by Alexander the Great; of Ulysses S. Grant astride the huge black, Cincinnati; of the war hero Comanche, lone survivor of the Little Big Horn with seven arrows in his hide; of the courageous Polish Cavalry mounting the last great cavalry charge against the Panzer Division; and Black Jack, escorting JFK with grace and dignity. I dreamt of thoroughbreds seen and unseen: the foundation sires and the Immortal Eclipse; of Janus, who became the founding father of his own line; of girls racing boys and winning, and of girls racing boys and paying the ultimate price; of Excellor’s outstanding feat and inglorious end; of great weight carriers asking for more; of record setters and record breakers; of horses who broke hearts with ease. Such dreams I had that night before my journey commenced.

I awake to the song of a solitary bird, and torch in hand, commence the Vermont leg of the journey. I soon break free of civilization and run south, then east, spying the rolling green of the Equinics’ home. I do not stop to rest until I break free across the border. Thinking as I run, horses do not run for money, they may not even run for glory; they run for the love of running. I find myself on a back one lane road (some call it the Vermont Interstate) when an overwhelming fatigue overtakes me and I feel like stopping. Call it what you will, but I swear it is true: I look to my left and see Big Red with flashes of blue and white check. I shake my head and look to the right and see Big Red, flashes of blue and gold silks. I get my second wind and escorted left and right move ever onward. Running through the rolling green mountains, slowing as I climb, gaining ground as I move downward. Sneaking peeks left and right at flashes of red. I come at last to a long straight stretch of road and increase my pace as time wears on. A convoy of big flashy cadillacs, funny looking jeeps, and silver BMWs with California plates and bumper stickers that read Bet It All On The 5 zip by me, push me close to the edge, but I prevail and continue running. A loud horn blares in my ear and shakes the Big Red’s from my sight. I turn and see a huge tractor (a modern tractor with stereo and coffee-maker and a sleeper, not one of those 1920 green John Deere’s that is running through your head) pulling what looks like 2 or 3 hundred horse trailers. It pulls up beside me and a grinning face with a stubby cigar sticks out the window. Wanna ride? I am tempted, but recall the words of Ldyssecret and politely refuse. I catch a glimpse of red in the woods as the tractor quickly accelerates and I watch as trailer after trailer of cigar smoking horses pass me by. Must be heading to the Equinics, I think. The last trailer has a bumper sticker that reads Sal’s Back. I ponder the meaning as I continue my run. I hear the sound of pounding hooves behind me and turn yet again: a tall in the saddle, Fu Mancho mustachioed gunslinger is gaining quickly. I slow, then stop. He is an immense man, made larger by the beautiful mare he sat astride. Crossed bandoleers of spare ammunition (a man can never have too much ammunition you know) crossing his immense chest he shouted as he passed: Get out of my way you fool, can’t you see I am on my way to get another medal? At that point I noticed the mare was covered in medals, she even had one or two braided into her tail. Most impressive. She could have done without the paint job on her side though, I thought. I could not make it out exactly, but it said something about Serious, or something like that. Must have been one of those Holy Rollers out to convert the world to his point of view or something, they always take themselves so seriously. Still running. Man, I thought this was one of those small states. I was starting to tingle though, so I know I was getting closer. Looking to the left, then to the right. Still with me. Feeling like a charioteer being pulled along by a once in a lifetime team. A sleek, chauffeured limo pulled up beside me. A smiling face poked its head out the back window and asked politely if I wanted a lift somewhere. Hearing giggles from the rear I decide to pass. A most generous offer I thought. As the limo quietly slid past me I saw a trunk bulging with gifts and a magnum of champagne. The bumper sticker elegantly stated: To The Victor Belong The Spoils. Yes, I thought, and the honour, and the glory. Perhaps that was the referenced spoils? I decide to veer off the beaten path and make the last stage of this leg in quiet isolation. Regaining once again my escorts left and right. Perhaps they had never left my side? Breaking through a gap in the heavily wooded mountain I come to a pasture and spy horses frolicking in the meadow. Holding mock races. Laughing with joy at having pure, old-fashioned fun. Affirmed and Alydar neck and neck. Stopping, starting, changing places. Ever entwined. Phar Lap and John Henry exchanging stories about the great weights placed upon their backs, each outdoing the other with abandonment. Dr. Fager, needing an extra scrap book to hold accounts of his still standing records at the mile and 7f. The gentle Landaluce who left before she had a chance to become the legend she was ordained to become. Bayakoa. The Queen whose feats were doomed to be overshadowed by the tragic and heroic Princess. Go For Wand. Their names roll from the mind so easily. The ‘ones who are too small to be a racehorse ‘Seattle Slew and Northern Dancer’; too bad they never made it eh? Too small indeed. Thoughts of the ‘size of the heart’ float through the misty day. And others. Names and feats entrenched in track lore. The gigantic Playfair, still biting his rivals in the meadow as he bit them on the track; Whirlaway, he so loved his fans he would run on the grandstand rail and turn his head, begging to be petted, and still win (the Shoe was loathe to ride him); Citation, some need only to have their name spoke aloud to have immortal recognition;. Regal, majestic, courageous, beauty personified. Knowing their spirits will be at the Equinics track, as they are at every track, for every race. Soft whinnies as Big Red leaves my side. I re-enter the green forest and after a short while I see and hear again the sights and sounds of civilization.