Backstretch Blues

Backstretch Blues c2012

By

Hugh Morshead

The pony boy slips the lead as we walk on to the track; the two-year old colt prances and tosses his head. I feel the raw power of the 1200 lbs horse beneath me. Just ahead is his stable mate, both bred in the purple.

      The trainer leans on the guardrail, a short man in oversize winter boots and padded jacket oblivious to his thrift store appearance and in sharp contrast to his sleek muscled horses about to have their first workout.

        The transition from walk to gallop is precarious. At full gallop, your boot tips are jammed hard against the stirrups, your upper body straining against the momentum, your hands locked on the reins and braced against the horse’s withers. The three- point contact glues jockeys to horses as it does mountaineers to rock faces.  I casually gather the reins and we trot forward. Both the horse and the railbirds perceive me as the embodiment of Zen-like nonchalance. If I allow my fear to travel down the reins the colt could scoot sideways or claw the sky with his front feet.  At the racetrack many things are illusory and right now, I am the pilot, however, Pegasus could hijack the controls at any time without reason or warning. However, this was the only part of my life that was uncomplicated, my wife, Kim’s quest that I get a job with a future jingled through my head as the horse jiggled down the track.

     Our instructions are to canter once around the track and work from the quarter mile pole on the second lap. We stay to the outside of the track with the other slower moving horses. Choosing the optimum length of rein is critical. If I move my hands to adjust the reins while we are cantering he could take off at full gallop, too short a rein and he will fight the pull on his mouth, too long and I have no brakes and the speed will increase to a head-long gallop.  Other riders give us space, we are all in the same boat, and if one rider is thrown, then the careening loose horse can have a domino effect on the other horses.

      I crouch forward to align my center of balance with my mount’s. A light squeeze of my lower leg, a quiet click of my tongue and we canter down the track. He bowls along with neck bowed.  I can feel that the colt is enjoying himself and revelling in his latent power, we both are. The rhythmic backbeat of hooves, heart and muscle provides the bass line, like the thump of blues from deep in the bayou, only the lyrics are missing – they come later when I get home.  On the second lap approaching the ¹/₄  pole I glance behind me to my left, no horses are coming fast on the rail. I pull my goggles down, pick his head up and tightened the reins. The pace quickens.

       “Are you ready?” shouts Juan, the other rider.

       “Yes, I’m right behind you.”

       A quick glance back shows the guard rail is clear. We peel off from the center of the track to the rail, like F15s on the final approach to attack. I throw my weight to the left, the horse switches to lead with the left leg, I lift his head, boot him, slap the whip against his shoulder and yell an explosive ‘garrr’.  The two colts burst down the track on the rail, head an’ head.  Moments later, we max out at 60 kph; buffeted by the slipstream our stirrups clang against each other.  The horse’s ears are flat back against his mane and briefly we share the sleek high performance profile associated with the jet set. Exactly twenty-four seconds later we pass the finish line, I let him drift slightly off the rail and gradually slow to a walk.  The horses’ flanks heave and his nostrils steam in contrast to the relaxed breathing of Juan, a journeyman jockey.  Professional jockeys have the same level of fitness as middle distance Olympic runners and swimmers. Waves of well-being flow through my body from the unleashed endorphins. I do this because I am an adrenaline junkie and every morning it is as if someone threw me the keys to a dozen Maseratis, Ferraris and Porches and said - ‘take them for a burn’.

       “How was he, Rory?” asked the trainer.

       “Good,” I replied.  Words are not necessary. He could see from the colt’s effortless ground-eating stride that this one was a pay cheque.

        Horseracing is a money game, the colt is a business unit on a conveyer belt, and all of us on the backstretch get our cut. Only one in twenty horses makes it to the winners circle at the end of the conveyor belt, most fall by the wayside to be replaced by next year’s crop of promising two year olds. Horses are modern day gladiators and, as a rider, I am in the ring with them. The risks were not only on the track – they were also at home.   

       “Your home early,” said my wife, Kim, with a questioning look; her red plaid shirt mirrored her volatility.

       “I have a splitting headache.”

       “You had another fall, didn’t you?”

       “It’s nothing,” I said offhandedly, collapsing on the worn couch.  “The rain closed the track and we rode them around the shed row. A filly spooked and there was nowhere to roll, I banged my head against a locker. 

       “You are thirty years old with two kids. What will we do if you can’t work?”

       “This is my life, I’m really good at it. Do you know how few really good riders there are...?”

       “How about being a really good dad,” her voice rising, “you promised you would call Joe about the job – have you?”

       “I will, I will.” It wasn’t just the thought of a soul-destroying life laying inter-locking brick; I would be jettisoning my youth.    

        “I can’t go on like this worried sick, waiting for that phone call – it’s either the track or your family. You choose.” The ultimatum turned the headache from throbs to hammer blows. I sank into the couch with my head in my hands.

       “Okay, Okay, I’ll call him at the weekend.” Anything for relief, the Tynanol wasn’t working. Neither of us voiced the real reason.  We had met at the racetrack and lived the lifestyle of fast cash and passions, an insular world were relationships are as precarious as the horses.

        “Take care out there,” said Matt, the groom, as he saddled my next mount. Taciturn by nature, his usual comment was a clichéd, “send em’ and burn em’”.

        “Why?”

        “The Doc was here yesterday.”

        “And?”

        “He was giving them shots. I only heard him say something to the boss about a new tranquilizer.”

       Damn. The horses are athletes and when not worked, high performance becomes high anxiety.  When extreme weather closes the track for a day or two horses’ sanity was maintained with low-level tranquilizers.  The intention was safety, the reality was big Pharma, because horses are wealthy investments and not subject to the restraints that apply to humans, veterinary practice is at the cutting edge of medical breakthroughs. Many of the advances, like repairing torn tendons with stem cells, are life-enhancing. The dark side is the unpredictable nature of tranquilizers.  

        Matt gave me a leg-up and the pony boy led us to the track. It was as if we were leaving the Paddock for the starting gate prior to a race. He had that awkward gait that is neither a walk nor a trot and impossible to sit. We cavorted onto the track.

       The colt reared. I grabbed the mane as we went vertical. I thought he’d smash down onto the pony boy, but instead of dropping back to the ground, he did the seemingly impossible and danced backwards on his hind legs. I clung to him like a limpet, paralyzed with indecision. I want to bale but my brain is hard-wired to stay at the helm.  A jolt of fear shot through me, I was going backwards fast in a tower of terror.

       Crash! The guardrail splintered and we rolled backwards together down the embankment. I lay there in a fetal position unable to move. Para-medics rushed from the pair of ambulances stationed by the entrance to the track. Somehow, they attached the cervical collar and strapped me to the backboard. My upper body was seized solid like block of concrete, I no idea whether I would ever walk again. We had fallen onto the guardrail and it had sledge-hammered me diagonally across my midriff. The shock shut down my senses and I disappeared into a mist of pain.

      “You have two broken vertebrae,” said the doctor with a clipboard in his hand.

       “Am I going to be in a wheelchair?”

       “No, fortunately.  It’s the prosthesis, the wing-like protrudances that extend from the center of the vertebrae.”

       “Am I going to be okay?”

       “Six weeks bed rest and you should make a full recovery. However, if there are any problems see a doctor immediately. You have suffered serious trauma.”

            The trainer met me in the waiting room and drove me home, his concern came through in his voice, we both knew that injuries are an occupational hazard. I told him not to worry; I would be back in a few weeks.

       The codeine and the hot tub reduced the stiffness enough for me to hobble around the house. Two days in bed was all I could take. I knew from training horses that recovery depends upon blood flow to remove the toxins and repair tissue. Kim doted on me like a mother hen; it was a side of her that I had not experienced before. I lay there and thought about our future. The track opens at 6am, three hours before most jobs; many of my friends juggled two jobs.  I could too. I just could not give up the adrenaline rush and sense of well-being, not yet anyway.  Kim and I had pillow talk about our future. I was not going to spoil our intimacy by mentioning my need to thunder down the rail; instead, I caressed her flat tummy. My hand slid up her body and felt her firm breasts under the shot silk nightie. Her nipples were on high beam.

       “This is not a good idea.”

       “Oh, you feel so good,” I murmured.  My hand said much more.

       “You have a broken back, you can’t move.”

       “I’m just going to lie here, you can do all the work,” my fingers continued the conversation and then she lowered herself on top of me. Her rhythmic thrusting dissolved the pain as no drug ever could.

        “Oh, that feels so good.” Waves of pleasure washed through my body. Then the waves turned to muscle spasms that seized my chest. I couldn’t breathe.  

        “I can’t breathe,” I gasped softly. Panic became terror as my chest became concrete. I tried to will air into my mouth, but unable to move my chest, no air went into my lungs. I wildly gestured to Kim to do CPR. She straddled me again and with rhythmic pressure for the second time that evening brought relief.  Shallow breathing was just possible, I still felt panicky, I wondered if my kidneys had shut down, the doctor had said that I had suffered major trauma. Kim dialled 911 and put on the outside lights. I waited for the ambulance wondering if I would live to see the dawn.

Unlike my previous visit to Emergency, when I received immediate diagnoses and was in and out in less than three hours.  This time after an initial inspection, I was wheeled away and left for several hours isolated on a screened-off gurney. I could do nothing but think of life, how precious and precarious it is. Kim had always given me her unconditional love despite my waywardness. I thought of our relationship and how important it was, and yet so difficult.    Why is it that men and women’s bodies slot together like a jigsaw puzzle, yet their minds are so difficult to align?  When I get out of here, I will call Joe and see if that job is still open.  Perhaps working with inter-locking brick will help me master the mysteries of alignment. Kim at also suggest I apply for the manager’s position at the new horse park. That would be perfect for both of us.