Post by S u N f r O s T ~ on Jul 4, 2009 8:06:36 GMT -5
The dark bay stallion was lean and athletic. Each stride was bouncy and full of energy, and he pulled at the bit eagerly, wanting to run. As soon as we walked onto the SOPS turf track I let him go, and we entered a canter where each stride held energy being slowly released and burned off. He covered ground easily, soaring over the track at a slow pace that covered the ground at a fast pace. He continued to quietly pull at the bit, and I knew his eyes would be sparkling with eagerness - but he had to warm up first, and then we would have our blowout workout to prepare for the Melbourne Cup. The Melbourne Cup was one of the most prestigious turf races on the calendar. SOPS had always narrowly missed scoring a victory in this race, but Passionate Class was a huge bet for the win.
We cantered along the outside of the track for a couple furlongs before I asked for some small circles. Classy responded swiftly, executing the circles with a powerful stride and somehow managing to move forward. I grinned as I felt his body warming up, a smoothness overcoming the energetic power and making the ride even nicer than it was. Classy's pace remained the same, as his current eagerness couldn't be covered up by the bore of warming up. We were nearly ready to gallop - I just needed to turn him around so we could start at the finish wire. We were working a mile on the turf today, and the Melbourne was ten furlongs. I would see how he was progressing through the end of his four year old season and make adjustments to work on any weaknesses.
We reached the finish wire at his smooth canter, and I turned him around in a half circle and then slid him smoothly to a stop. We stood standing, facing eight furlongs of open turf, and excitement trilled through the stallion. He could see that the time had come to run, his favorite activity. I leaned forward, releasing a bit of rein, and poised in a crouch, ready to gallop him. One.....two.....three! I thought, and released Classy when I reached three into his wide-strided, bounding gallop.
We broke a bit slowly, but that was typical of the bay and suited his closer style. I immediately asked him to take the inside rail, and he obeyed, swiftly angling to the inside just as the turn came up. He nearly brushed the rail as he shortened his stride to keep from making a sloppy turn, slowing almost imperceptibly. I knew that, had this been a race, his opponents would also have slowed, and this helped me not worry about the outcome of the race.
As soon as we reached the backstretch I let him accelerate slightly, enough to pick off one or two horses. We maintained this speed for the next furlong, preferring to let the front runners tire out or go down fighting. Classy breathed evenly, and the wind cutting through us both didn't bother him one bit. In fact, it made him feel revitalized and eager to keep going, to race the wind and beat that as well.
He was totally ready to go when we reached the final furlong of the backstretch. I released the colt into his wonderful closing stride - fire added to gasoline. He swept up the track eagerly, still full of run though covered with a light sweat, and I angled him the outside to avoid the crush at the inside that always happened at the turn. We seemingly flew along, each stride energetic and threatening more, and the thoroughbred gained more speed at a steady pace that we had worked on for months in order to gain advantage. When we entered the final stretch Classy was going near top speed, no doubt in third or something similar now.
I imagined the horses that could be in front of us currently - most likely Sand Storm and/or Simply A Flyer. Both of them had to go down, so I steered Classy a bit more to the outside and let him out completely. The swiftness of his strides caught the two in my head, and he would bound past to a length victory in the final furlong. I punched the air in victory as we galloped under the wire, feeling confident of our chances in the Melbourne. But I couldn't get too confident, or I'd probably make a reckless move and lose the race.
Classy pranced slightly as we slowed to a canter, then a trot. I patted him on the neck in praise of his good work, and he responded with a low, affectionate whinny. His eyes were no doubt still sparkling with eagerness, and I found within me a huge love for the bay thoroughbred. No matter if he won, no matter if he lost, he would always be my champion.