Monthly Archives: March 2011

The 2011 racing season is coming up fast

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Only five weeks until Derby Day!

The Kentucky Derby is always held the first Saturday in May. The 1 ¼-mile race is the first jewel in the Triple Crown and has been ran at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Ken., since 1875.

It suddenly hit me today (while I was thinking I needed to do a new post) that I really need to get cracking on some Derby Day prep. Not only is it five weeks until what I’ll begrudgingly call the most famous race of the year, but it’s five weeks for me to make a lot of decisions.

Will this be the year I finally attend in person?

If not, then I need to find some sort of shindig to commemorate the event here in Fargo. In that case, I better start planning and I better start shopping for the most important part of all: The hat.

I might possibly love the Kentucky Derby for that reason alone: I looooovvveee the hats!

On the other hand, I do look forward to Derby Day for non-fashion-related reasons. It’s sort of the soft opening for our racing season.

Canterbury used to open up for thoroughbreds on the first Saturday of May then the mixed meet (thoroughbreds and American Quarter Horses) opened Memorial Day weekend.  That meant only about a month until Mom moves herself and the horses to the track.  

Although Canterbury opens later in May this year, the mixed meet still begins around Memorial Day weekend. I might not live near the track anymore, but that won’t slow me down in getting there to help.

In the meantime, I’ll get this Derby Day stuff straightened out. So, if anyone has any suggestions for good Derby Day parties in the F-M area, send them my way.

A (not so) graceful fall

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If there is a hard road and an easy road, I almost always seem to find the hard road. That’s especially true in learning my lesson, on or off the horses. In this case it was both.  

When I swung up onto the saddle, I knew it didn’t feel as tight as it should. But, my mom had saddled my horse for me and I thought it should be just fine.

We took off down the road and started the training pace of a fast trot, an incredibly bumpy ride but good for conditioning horses for the track. We do long distances at a fast trot to help build muscle on the horses because they have to work harder to keep pace without breaking into the smooth, long strides of a gallop. Mom and her horse moved ahead of me. I started to notice the slippery saddle, but I’d grab the horn and pull it back to center.

Still, it kept moving to the left and I was really starting to have a hard time making it stick.

It didn’t take long before I found myself in quite a pickle.  Part of the problem was I was on a racehorse which could see another horse pulling ahead and frankly, did not like it. My mom was so far ahead at this point, she couldn’t hear me screaming for her to stop – my horse was taking a cue from her and thought it was time to run faster.

Even though I was trying to stop my horse, all the bouncing of a slippery saddle was likely either scaring her or signaling her to run faster.

I had just enough time to consider all of these “problems” I was having before I found myself on the side of my horse, no longer on her back. My head was bobbing just a few inches from her moving legs and I was now pretty close to riding under my horse.

The escalating circumstances got the best of me and I decided it was time to jump ship.

I thought to myself, “Just tuck and roll.”

I stretched out my arms like superman and dropped.

I hit the ground hard. Really hard.

I landed on my side but right on the point of my hip bone so I stayed down a minute, dazed and a little stunned.

Once I dusted the snow off and found all fingers and toes still pointing in the rightful direction, I was mad. Mad at my horse, mad at my mom and mad a neighbor had just seen the whole thing. He thought I really hurt myself so he jumped into his truck and raced over to the “scene.” 

My lovely mother, who had started the whole thing by saddling my horse and taking off in front of me without looking back, had finally stopped. The neighbor made it over to me before she did.

I ended up being happy he was there since it made for at least one witness that was concerned and not just amused. My mom was too busy laughing to ask if I was OK.

I grabbed my horse (who decided she would stop once I was off and also seemed to be laughing at me) and right-sided my saddle. I finished out the ride with nothing seriously hurt but my pride.

I liken my lesson that day to the old proverb, “Trust in God but lock your door.” I know I can trust the ones I love but I’ll tighten my own cinch from now on.   

As for my mom, even though it was mainly her fault (she was, after all, supposed to be tightening my cinch) she still laughs until she cries when she thinks of looking back just in time to see me make snow dust as I planted the ground.

That wasn’t so bad

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Over the weekend I headed out to Montana with my mom and five saddle horses that she had put in the sale. I was not looking forward to this particular trip. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I knew this sale would not be like the Heritage Sale, where we usually buy and sell. The Heritage Sale is almost exclusively for race bred-horses. All of the horses are stalled indoors, and stadium recliners line the sale ring where buyers and sellers of all economies come.

Instead, in Montana, it was a lot of big belt buckles, shiny spurs and big trucks. The Montana sale was definitely more of the rodeo crowd, which was why we were bringing the horses we did. Even though I’m pretty sure I could ride circles around anyone that might have thought I didn’t know what I was doing, I mostly just felt out of place.

That feeling may  have had more to do with selling the horses than the people who were there to buy them.

Horses are like people, they need a purpose. These five didn’t have that at our house anymore. With about 30 head of horses at home, not every one gets ridden like they should and since we focus much more on racing, it made sense they go. We’ll likely pick up a few more racehorses later this year.

Knowing that doesn’t particularly make it any easier.

Saturday three of the horses sold and with the last two going on Sunday morning. Rosie and Alibos were the hardest on me since they had both been at the track and had been  under my care so I had grown close to them. Especially Rosie, who is the kindest, gentlest mare: her downfall as a racehorse, actually. She was too polite to kick butt.

It turned out, the horses did really well at the sale. When we got the list of buyers, Rosie and Alibos were going to the same place. A Wyoming man who had come to the sale just for La Bo, took him home and a Minnesota man got Cisco. Our mare, JB, went to Canada to a man who also made the trek just to buy her. All in all, the horses were all going to good homes. Still, at one point on Sunday before Alibos’ new owner picked him up, I refused to go back to his stall so I wouldn’t have to see him and again consider hopping on and riding him back to North Dakota. 

Since most things I learn with the horses can be equated to some big life lesson, I suppose I thought I’d get some grand epiphany on letting go or saying goodbye. On the way home, I started to think I never did have anything like that.

I suppose I didn’t need one. I mean, I should be used to this by now. Goodbyes never get easier. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how close you are to something. It’s something you just have to do, especially if it means it is for their best interest.

Well I guess there was something I got out of the trip: I drove home. I rarely drive when we are using the big trailer. It was good practice. I only got the, “Remember your trailer!” shout once or twice.