Ghostsnapper

We have a winner!

2012-01-30T17:32:00.001-06:00

Thank you to everyone who participated in my camera phone photography contest. It was very difficult to narrow it down to only one photo, but ultimately, it all came down to this eye-catching shot of Havre de Grace in the paddock before going on to dominate in the Grade I Beldame. Congratulations to the winning photographer, Derek Brown! Here is Derek's entry:

Several aspects made this photo stand out among the rest. For one, this was a contest for pictures taken with a camera phone, which makes the general process of photography tougher than usual. Taking a good picture of a race horse in a paddock can be extremely challenging--even with a professional camera. The subject's movement is usually erratic, and the shadows from trees make lighting tricky. Not only is Havre de Grace in focus in this shot--Derek actually froze the subject in motion while panning his camera phone--she appears to be looking right at him. Add to the fact he caught a nice moment between horse and trainer, and you have a unique and striking photo. Here's what the photographer had to say about his picture:

"Belmont's Super Saturday card had so many great horses, but the star of the entire show was clearly Havre De Grace. I scouted several spots in the paddock to try and get a shot of her before heading out to the track. The horses only go by one time once the riders are up, and from past experience shooting with an iPhone, it's pretty easy to mess up the shot. I found a spot just before the horses leave the paddock that wasn't crowded and snapped a shot as she was walking towards me. The picture was horrible - it ended up cutting half of her off, along with jockey Ramon Dominguez's head. I tried once more as she was directly in front of me and ended up with this photo. I brightened it up a little bit in Camera+ with the clarity effect, then used the Lomo-fi filter in Instagram. It wasn't until looking at it later that I really noticed how Larry Jones looking at her - that look was so genuine and conveyed exactly how much he loved that filly. It's an amazing feeling to be so close to greatness, and watching her win that day gave me chills."

Follow Derek on Twitter @NJDerek. Congratulations, Derek!

Photography Contest!

2012-01-19T17:55:00.002-06:00

Yup, this is what you'll get if you win.

Horsephotos.com puts out a racing calendar every year, and as I am one of their photographers, I get a complimentary calendar for my contributions. This year I have an extra, and thought it might be fun to hold a photography contest and give it to the winning entrant.

To put things on a level playing field, I decided to make the subject matter limited not just to racing, but to all animals. (I wasn't able to journey to my first horse racing track until I was a senior in high school, after all--how would 17-year-old me feel?) Even though technically, humans are animals, please no people shots. (Though if you sent me a fantastic picture of Bono, I would possibly make an exception. He sort of roars like a lion, right?)

Also, this photography contest is limited to pictures taken with a camera phone. I know what you're thinking--but you're a professional photographer, why would you hold a contest taken with the most basic and dinky of cameras? Because I want this to be a fair fight, that's why! Now I know not all camera phones are created equal, so just try to do your best.

In short, THE RULES:

Photo must be taken with a camera phone. Please be honorable about this and DON'T CHEAT. I will more than likely be able to tell if you are fibbing and I will throw out your entry.
Photo must be of an animal. It doesn't matter who owns the animal, just as long as I don't get any pictures of your Uncle Ted sleeping after Thanksgiving or something. Pictures of people will be tossed. This probably goes without saying, but if you send me any pictures of animal abuse, I'll retaliate by sending you a virus that will explode your computer and cause your house to burn down.
Pictures must be submitted in high-resolution. A tiny cropped photo is simply hard to see and probably means you're trying to hide the fact it's of poor quality.
Pictures may be edited using Instagram, etc. But, in all honesty, the less Photoshopped the picture is, the better chance it has of winning. I'm not crazy about excessive use of photo editing.
You must be following me on Twitter or be a fan of my photography on Facebook. I don't know how you would find out about this contest if you aren't already doing one of these, anyway...
Only one entry per person. Make it count!
Entries must be sent to me at wowhorse@gmail.com by midnight Central Time on January 27, 2012. Please include your first and last name in your email and put PHOTO CALENDAR CONTEST in the subject of the email.
Contest is open strictly to the United States and Canada. I'm really sorry to all of my friends down in Oz, but you're basically a whole planet away. Then again, if you're willing to pony up the shipping cost, sure, go crazy.

Pictures inside this 12-month calendar include Zenyatta, Victoire Pisa, Animal Kingdom, Shackleford, Ruler on Ice, First Dude, Game on Dude, Stay Thirsty, Cape Blanco, Havre de Grace, and Drosselmeyer. If you're into that kind of thing, I'll sign it for you. My favorite photo of Zenyatta I took happens to be on my birth month.

I'll post the winning photo here on my blog. Good luck to all the entrants! May the Horse be with You!

Mighty Eclipse Winner

2012-01-19T15:20:00.001-06:00

Mighty Mayberger at Hollywood Park

Let me tell you a secret about horse racing photographers: Not all of them even like horse racing. Pretty sad, isn’t it, as they are given some of the most intimate, up-close access to our great sport? These are the people who don’t know the names of the horses, don’t follow the race results, and don’t know the difference between an outrider’s pony and Zenyatta.

Then there is the other side of the coin. There are racing photographers out there who love the sport so much, they will travel across the globe to take thousands of breathtaking photos that most people will never see. They follow individual horses for the sheer love of the sport. (And the fact they are positively, one hundred percent, certifiably addicted to shooting the races.) They’re called crazy by some people—by those who just don’t understand.

I will have been professionally photographing Thoroughbred racing for only three years this June, but I have met nearly all of the best racing photographers in that amount of time, because there are so few of us. It only takes about a single minute to figure out the motivation behind each of them. When I came upon the horse paparazzi at Belmont Park for my first time as a credentialed photographer, I had no clue I was about to meet people just as whacked out of their minds about racing as I was. I met every mindset of photographers—but in those so-called “crazies,” I found my people.

Of course, we were all there for the Belmont Stakes, so all the best were in town, including this guy who sort of did his own thing and stayed off the monkeybars with the rest of us, Bob Mayberger. I found out fast he was a good photographer to follow, because not only did he know the track, he liked to take photos of every single aspect of the race—the walk over, the paddock fauna, the post parade, everything—just like me. Of course, I’d never done this before, so I was a racing maniac on top of a tourist. I’ve kind of maintained that, as have the best of the devoted. We just can’t let a moment slip by, because anything can happen at any given moment. A horse might sneeze, for instance. (Only kidding. Kind of.)

It also helped that Bob was one of the nicest photographers I’d had the chance to meet, and as I came to find out, not all of them are like that. It was a rainy day at Belmont the first two days I went out with credentials, and he was one of the only photographers slopping around in the muck and mire with me. When the rain really started to come down, he leant me his spare lens jacket so my equipment wouldn’t get soaked. I found out later his claim to fame was the shot of Big Brown’s bent horseshoe in the 2008 Belmont Stakes—the only person who seemed to have gotten this photo (or at least culled through his pictures enough to realize it). It quickly became apparent Bob was one of the good guys, someone who loved to capture the beauty of the sport and actually cared about the horses themselves. He wasn’t going to be one of those people who got a thrill out of snapping a shot of a horse breaking down. (Sadly, those photographers exist, too.) At Belmont, the other photographers even had a nickname for him—the Mighty Mayberger.

I met him again the next month, in a very unexpected place—Hollywood Park. This is when I began to realize that Bob was just as “crazy” as I was. We were both in town for the night races prior to Hollywood Gold Cup Day, and it was the first time to that track for both of us. We found it to be a photographer’s paradise, in disbelief some people referred to it as “the Aqueduct of the West.” Just another example of his appreciation for the beauty in racing others fail to see. That was the weekend I really got to know Bob, and nearly shook him off a crate in my excitement over Rail Trip winning the Gold Cup. (We fashioned a makeshift photographer’s stand out of a bucket and a dilapidated crate we found in the infield, and had to push them together to hold each other’s balance to shoot the race from the inside.) Due to our equal enthusiasm for racing, I ended up shooting with him at several other tracks; he became more than just a friendly face on my side of the rail, he became a friend.

Of course, this was during the glory days of Rachel and Zenyatta; it was a gift to be a fan during this period, and our luck we were able to shoot these living legends during their prime. When I was heartbroken I couldn’t be there in person to see Rachel run, Bob picked me up Rachel swag and mailed it to me. He understood what it meant to be a fan. When I got pictures of Zenyatta and found Bob lurking in the background, he was the first to see them.

Over the following years, I became aware of how unique Bob was and why he so rightly deserved the “Mighty” moniker. He is the only photographer I have ever met that travels the world to shoot horse racing on a regular basis. He shot 637 stakes races over the past three years, 207 grade or group Is. Outside of California and two at Keeneland, he has shot every major grade I race in North America. He has a passion to shoot at every racetrack he possibly can, from Golden Gate Fields to Royal Ascot. He doesn’t do this because it’s a good business move—Bob globetrots for the love of the sport. The horse paparazzi could not ask for a better spokesman, and that’s why his win in the 2011 Eclipse Award for Photography is such a big deal. Nobody else puts forward the kind of dedication and effort he does, always looking to capture a new perspective and show off the best sides our sport has to offer. So many times, the Eclipse has gone to a photo that highlights the tragic side of racing, or doesn’t offer up anything we haven’t already seen before. Frankie Dettori always performs his flying dismount after a stakes victory—how many times are we going to award this famous shot an Eclipse Award?

Bob's Eclipse-winning photo

How ironic it is that Bob, world-beating extraordinaire, should win the Eclipse for a photo he took at Saratoga, which is practically in his own backyard. This goes to prove how he is always looking for a fresh perspective, no matter how many times he’s shot at a racetrack; the photo itself, of a montage of horses leaping over a jump like they were picked out of a dream, is a perfect example of what makes his photography so special—his appreciation for the majesty in the Sport of Kings.

It’s a shame people don’t see more of what Bob photographs, but that’s the way the industry is. He doesn’t really hear much feedback about his pictures, because he’s not connected to social networks, and he doesn’t have the time to post his photos to Flickr or a blog; when I tell him I saw one of his photos on a website, he usually acts surprised. As a photographer myself, I can tell you how any feedback at all makes a big difference, and this award is the ultimate reward for someone so deserving.

Chalk one up for the good guys. Congratulations, Mighty Mayberger.

Breeders' Cup Saturday: Lost in the Afterglow (Part 2 of 2)

2011-04-27T13:51:00.003-05:00

I admit I was looking forward to seeing Zenyatta put to the test. This was uncharted territory for the mare, and something I had been beating my drum about ever since she won the Ladies’ Classic. More than anything, I had wanted to see her run on dirt against the boys. I had even gone so far as to play devil’s advocate and hope it would rain to see her put to the ultimate test—the mare had never seen an off track in her life. And here the track was, a strange wet mix of cold dirt. It had been watered almost too much, in my opinion. I had mud sloshing up my pants. I saw on the tote board that it was rated as “fast,” but personally, it didn’t feel fast to me as I strode over it to my spot. Churchill’s dirt is a thick clay-like dirt, and when it’s wet and properly dried out, it doesn’t have puddles quite like it did this night. There was no sun to dry it up; the chilly November air kept the dirt hard and muddy. But what do I know? I’m just here to take pictures.

Kent Desormeaux demonstrates a great jubilation shot (AP)

I found a to-die-for spot on the rail, almost exactly where I would squat if there were only four other photographers, and not a hundred, on a smaller stakes day at Churchill. It would be a perfect place to take the “jubilation shot” I had been assigned to. In what seemed like no time at all, the post parade began for the Breeders’ Cup Classic. It was the single most bone-chilling call to the post I’d ever heard on trumpet; not for a minor key or an ode to Halloween, but for what it meant was about to go down. This was it. This was the moment we’d all come to witness. For us photographers, this was do or die. We had complete and utter darkness to work with, with one single beam of light draped over the finish line—and only when they crossed at the finish, mind you—as our sweet shot. On TV, the lights look all awesome and glorious at night. I can tell you in actuality, it is a photographer’s worst nightmare. The light emanating from the newly-installed lights at Churchill are great for the human eye, but they’re not enough for a camera trying to freeze the rapid motion of a horse running balls-out down a racetrack. Cameras also have a difficult time focusing on things they can’t properly see in the dark, which makes night photography even more fun. So here is basically what you have in a night race: two, maybe three frames (if you’re lucky) that are actually well-lit at the finish line. The rest is a complete crapshoot that can only be saved from the miracle of Photoshop or if you’re trying to do a side-pan shot so the horse looks blurry to artistically show motion.

The post parade came so close to us squatting beneath the outside rail, the horses were breathing down our necks. It was impossible not to be a fan in those moments, with so many champion shadows passing over you. I took my last photos of these horses before they made their way to what would be, for some, the last gate they’d ever break from. Your heart swells up really big in your chest when your favorite horse passes you by that close on the way to the starting gate. Especially in a race like this. In one of the last pictures I took of Zenyatta before the race, she is looking off in the direction of the sunset, and Rajiv Maragh, on Musket Man in the background, is looking over his shoulder at her; Zenyatta fills up the frame.

I had to move further down the stretch after the post parade, because I was apparently too close to another shooter on the team. I looked up and saw the packed rail from here to no-man’s land and thought I was going to faint dead on the track from stress. But then I found the two photographers I had squeezed between for the Juvenile and Dirt Mile and they graciously let me reclaim that same spot. It pays to make friends. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. Once I was safe in my spot, I debated and retested my camera settings like crazy until the last possible moment, not sure whether to sacrifice shutter speed over ISO or vice versa. Did I mention I am a control freak and only shoot manually? (Cue the crazed artist laughter.) No, really, manual is the only way to go in a tough lighting situation like this. Truth be told, I felt like I’d been granted a small miracle that night, because the Classic turned out to be the best race I ever shot.

My nerves were standing on their toes and screaming once the distant sound of the bell rang and the crowd erupted to the start of the Breeders’ Cup Classic. What surprised me was that I could actually hear the voice of track announcer Trevor Denman calling parts of the race above the roaring grandstands. I clearly heard him say moments after the break, “…and Zenyatta is dead last!” as the crowd responded with a huge guffaw.

It’s a long way down that stretch from where the horses start to the Clubhouse Turn, so I saved the buffer on my camera and started shooting just when First Dude came leading the cavalry charge past the finish for the first time. I lingered my focus to the back of the pack and picked up Zenyatta running clear at the back of the field. I became instantly concerned when I saw exactly how far back she was from the rest of the horses; it was almost like Mike Smith couldn’t get her going after them, as if she were struggling over that not-exactly-fast track. She wasn’t getting much dirt in the face, because she was that far behind the rest of the field making their way into the first turn; I have pictures of Zenyatta being pelted with dirt at Oaklawn, and this was nowhere near as much kick-back. She looked hopelessly far back at that point, and I started to grow desperate for Mike to get her closer. The horses were bunched into two groups, with First Dude leading a small band of speed horses on the lead, with a gap of about seven lengths separating the closers; Zenyatta was trailing off that pack, so she was a total of about twenty lengths from First Dude. She hadn’t been that far from the lead horse in some time—in fact, in her most recent races, Mike had been trying to keep her a little closer so she didn’t have so much work to do at the end. This spelled all kinds of trouble for the big mare. I admit, I was becoming furious with her jockey as the race played out.

I watched all of the race that I could on the Jumbo-Tron, and I saw Blame separating from the rest of the field, with Zenyatta only just beginning to get up close to him. I really thought for a minute, as I’m sure so many of those 70,000 fans did, that Zenyatta would once again make it there only by the grace of God. But then, the impossible happened.

Both horses crossed under that single beam of light, and both horses were in focus in my lens, but one was slightly in front of the other… and it wasn’t Zenyatta. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Having practiced a sharp eye for the best-moving horse, I kept my focus trained on Blame. Zenyatta never once passed a hair in front of him, not even in the gallop out. I got the “jubilation shot,” but it wasn’t on jockey I’d expected. In my best-lit shot, Mike Smith’s head is down, as if hanging in agony as the two horses cross the finish line. Even though Zenyatta never accelerated enough to pass Blame, I couldn’t help but feel Smith had given her too much ground to make up, too much to overcome in a race where the conditions were stacked against her.

And then, as the flurry of horseflesh passed and the last of the dirt fell back to earth, I clearly heard Trevor Denman’s voice echo, “Zenyatta… second.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What I had just witnessed. That wasn’t supposed to happen. When I lowered my camera from my face, all I could say over and over was, “Oh my God.” I searched the faces of the photographers around me. I was the only one gaping around like a buffoon, but the gravity of the moment was settling over me like a lead blanket. I turned and studied the crowd, something I never do. I searched their faces as I walked toward the winner’s circle. I took in the towering lights illuminating the scene of stunned fans, listened to the murmurs and hum of surprise. But even when the order of finish was final, and a clear 2 was put up next to Zenyatta’s name on the big screen, I didn’t see anyone crying or going postal. In fact, people looked a lot happier than I ever expected to see. Maybe some of them fainted, or cleared out, because I didn’t see any people clad in turquoise and pink waving a threatening program at anyone else or crying foul.

I didn’t even know what to feel, myself. As I passed the grooms and connections readying to collect their losing horses, my eyes caught Mario Espinoza’s, and I gave him a sympathetic glance. And he laughed. Like it was nothing.

That jarred me; I hadn’t expected that, either. Mario had never collected Zenyatta and helped unsaddle her in front of the grandstands next to the rest of the losers before. It was a very sad sight, even though he had walked over to her with a twinkle in his eye. I guess to him, she still ran her race, and that was all that mattered. Maybe Zenyatta was now too big for such trivial matters as the outcome of a race. Maybe he was just happy to get her back, sound. Maybe she proved she was just another horse now, and he could relax.

The sprig from Garret Gomez's flower bouquet

I made my way back to the firing squad of horse paparazzi and found myself kneeling in the dirt next to the Mighty Mayberger to shoot the gallop back of Blame. I can’t even remember if we said much to each other besides, “I can’t believe what just happened.” Bob and I ended up sitting in the middle of the track beneath the twin spires as the winner of the Breeders’ Cup Classic paraded in front of us, and Garret Gomez dropped yellow flower petals over us like party confetti. I grabbed a sprig of thistle from the dirt and stuck it in my pocket. Gomez was jubilant. I can’t remember ever seeing him smile so much. I felt badly so few people were cheering Blame’s coronation and entry into the winner’s circle. Blame was a great horse. And this was his moment. I was happy for him. And I also felt guilty, being his good luck charm. I’d probably just inadvertently made a lot of people unhappy.

I paused before walking through the tunnel to the auxiliary room and looked up at the spires and the purple sky. I tried to take it all in. My brain was empty; no thoughts ran through my mind. All I could do was soak it in. I wanted to observe more. I felt that was all I could do to make sense of what I’d just seen.

A press conference immediately followed the Classic inside the media auxiliary room. John Shirreffs and Mike Smith were there to take questions; the mood in the room was as if someone had died. Zenyatta’s jockey, still wearing those famous teal and pink silks, was sitting up on that stage with tears in his eyes. Even the eager reporters looked hesitant to make him speak. While Shirreffs just looked disappointed, and a bit angry, maybe, it was obvious Smith was crushed. Maybe rightly so—only he would know for sure—the jockey was blaming himself for the big mare’s first loss. The snapping of camera shutters seemed as loud as sledgehammers between questions. I took two shots of Smith. He is pounding his fist on the table in front of him. I couldn’t take anymore after that.

I disappeared for a while after I gave my memory card to the team and got in trouble for it later. I wanted to be around people who understood the gravity of what had just gone down. There was no one to talk to in the media auxiliary room; all the other photographers were busy working on their photos, and my team was busy uploading all of ours. All of the reporters had abandoned ship. I left the building and all of my camera equipment behind, then made my way to the press box. I told someone I was going to find some better food. (This was partially the truth. I was convinced the food in the photographer’s room was last year’s leftovers warmed up.) When I got to the press box, I checked the buffet and found it had been picked over like a flock of vultures had dropped on top of it. Next, I searched for anybody I knew, but I didn’t see anyone at first. I listened to the babble of the turf writers for answers. I wasn’t sure what the question was, actually. It was like I was looking for the Dalai Lama to pop up and tell me what kind of lesson could be wrought from watching a previously undefeated horse lose her last race.

I think I was also looking for like-minded people—someone else who was trapped in this fog of disbelief. I watched the entire replay of the race for the first time just standing in the aisle of the press room, looking like a lost, starving disciple. And then someone found me. It was Joe Nevills, the @MIbredclaimer and penman of racing articles far and wide, from Thoroughbred Times to Arabian Finish Line. He looked a little lost, too. I didn’t recognize him in a suit at first; he was usually seen wearing a baseball hat.

Joe told me he had boxed Blame in a bet, but felt guilty cashing the ticket. Then he got over it and tried to cash the ticket, but the window in the press box had closed and he would have to wait until the next day to claim his winnings. He said it must be bad karma for betting against the big mare.

We watched the race again. I must’ve watched or listened to it in pieces twenty times that night. The reality of it just lay on the surface, refusing to sink in no matter how many times it replayed. I walked back toward the media auxiliary room and passed the empty paddock. Fans were still lingering, and some were posing with the bronze Breeders’ Cup statue and taking pictures inside the stalls, reveling in the access never granted to the public. Discarded programs, tickets, cups, tip sheets, cigarette butts, and other bits of debris decorated the cobbled pavement in the wake of that overflowing crowd. Their cheers were still ringing in my ears. That spine-tingling trumpet call resonated in my bones. This was the dust of history; Ground Zero of an event never to be eclipsed.

I wandered through it like a ghost, searching for something I would never find.

Breeders' Cup Saturday: Showtime (Part 1 of 2)

2011-04-26T19:08:00.002-05:00

Some things need to marinate in you for quite some time before you’re able to adequately put your observations into words. At the track, it can be especially difficult for a photographer to let all of the surroundings and gravity of history soak in, because we’re hyper-focused on the action and getting the shots we need for an assignment. It’s also easier to just let our pictures tell the tale; sometimes, there are no just words to describe what it truly feels like to be within the eye of the universe.

Night racing at Churchill Downs

While the undercard races (meaning the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile Turf, Sprint, Turf Sprint, Juvenile, Mile, Dirt Mile, and Turf) all seemed to rush by in a blur for me that championship Saturday, I was able to force time to slow down for the big show long enough to catalog every moment in my memory. It’s taken me a while to want to share these thoughts and reflections, because that night, I witnessed what I believe to be one of the all-time greatest races in modern history, and being in the presence of such an overwhelming event is humbling. It also feels a little sacred, to be honest. I am so lucky to have been a part of it.

Like the previous day, I was assigned to wander to different locations to shoot each race. I had a list written up of every stakes, what lens I would use, and where I would shoot the finish from. I was fairly worn out from toting around the hulking 600mm lens on Friday, so I was numbing myself up with Advil and adrenaline to be able to carry through Saturday’s card. I won’t go over every race, but there were a few moments I wanted to mention before getting to the big show.

The game plan

I couldn’t even believe it was time for the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile when the race popped up in slot 7 on the card. In most respects, there were three races on Saturday everyone was most buzzing about—this, the Mile, and the Classic. A young champion was going to be crowned this day. New blood; next year’s hope. With Uncle Mo and Boys at Tosconova, it seemed we were ready to have a great race on our hands. I barely had time to get excited about it. Before I got a chance to even glance much at the program, the horses were saddled and parading in front of me. I was nestled under the outside rail between the finish and the Clubhouse Turn, and shooting with the 400mm lens. The 400 is a little too cumbersome for me, I’ve found. It’s heavy and requires a monopod to hold and aim with, much like the 600, only it won’t kill me if I drop it and it lands on me. Neither lens is easy to pan with a moving subject; but this probably has a lot to do with the way I shoot. This was the reason why I missed Uncle Mo the first time the horses ran by me; he was parked outside and behind a group of six passing the finish for the firs time, and I couldn’t pan quickly enough to see him settling closer when the horses rounded the Clubhouse Turn.

But when the horses came rounding that famous final turn and the challengers began to fall away from Uncle Mo, my jaw dropped. “Oh wow,” I said to no one in particular as he began to draw away. It was the most impressive race of the day thus far, and it was a laugher for Mo. He proved himself to be the real deal on the stage it mattered most. I started shooting a little too early then paused, and missed Johnny V looking over his shoulder to see where the rest of the horses had gone. Funny enough, though, I did get Ramon Dominguez, on Boys at Tosconova in second place, looking over his shoulder, as he had also drawn away from the rest of the field, though well behind the dominant Mo.

I got a great shot of owner Mike Repole hugging Todd Pletcher, the both of them laughing while Mike high-fives John Velazquez. What Pletcher lacks in showing emotion, Mike made up for it ten-fold, his jubilation completely infectious in the moment. You couldn’t help but be happy for people who acted so excited and full of emotion; this is the kind of good stuff that you miss most of the time on simulcast TV.

The next race—Holy Bull-oney!—was the Breeders’ Cup Mile, and the return of the 2-time Breeders’ Cup Mile champion, Goldikova. For this race, I had to shoot from the roof. It was a kind of torture being so far away from this marquee event—I’m decidedly spoiled and want to be right up in the face of the champions every chance I get—but the high angle on the turf was a unique perspective.

Proviso wins the Diana at Saratoga

Only in a blue moon do I place a bet, but in this race, I felt like there was being a crime committed and I had to take advantage of it. One of America’s great turf mares, Proviso, was going off at ridiculously generous odds, so I placed a wager on her in the press room before the event. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to see Goldikova make history—but I had a soft spot for Proviso; the last time I’d seen her in person, she was winning the Diana at Saratoga, and the shot I took of her in the race was one of my favorites from that trip.

When I got up to the roof, I found that I wasn’t alone, for once. A man and a woman were soaking in the great view from the ledge and taking pictures of themselves in front of the twin spires, which were off and below to our left. As it turns out, these two weren’t even members of the press, which you would need to be in order to get up there in the first place; they had on wristbands from the day before, and some security guard somewhere along the line had just waved them by when he didn’t recognize the color of the band. These two fans had managed to sneak up to the greatest view in the house on racing’s biggest day. They asked me to take their picture in front of the spires, and I complied without hesitation. What a story they would have to tell. I didn’t get their names, only their faces, but that’s the best kind of mystery. Probably thinking they had pushed their luck as far as it was going to go, they left before the Breeders’ Cup Mile, hand in hand. Soon after they left, a couple other members of the press joined me near the ledge. I didn’t mention the fans to them.

Far, far away, we watched the contenders of the Mile parade in front of the grandstands and warm up on their way to the starting gate. The sunlight was just beginning to move so that the horses wouldn’t be in complete shadow from my angle. And then they were off, and I lost sight of Goldikova going into the first turn, though I knew she wasn’t near the lead. The TV coverage was actually much more exciting than my view from up top in the first half of the race—but then the game mare came absolutely flying down the stretch, from out of the clouds, moving like no horse I’d ever seen before. Her strides—she was like a rabbit streaking out of the brush! The rest of the horses fainted in her wake. The sound of the crowd swelled beneath me, and goose bumps flushed my arms. Goldikova had just become the first three-peat winner of a Breeders’ Cup race. I was so excited, I ran off the roof and started my descent to ground level, when it hit me I had forgotten to wait for the gallop back. I zipped off the elevator and found my way to the grandstands, where I somehow weaseled my way between a cluster of fans on the second level. A bit smashed and impressed by my 300mm lens, they no quarrels about letting me get between them to take photos of Goldikova’s coronation. (Ah, the kindness of inebriated strangers!) Over a few heads, I managed to get my shots of Goldi’s parade beneath the garland of yellow and purple flowers; my shutter took in Olivier Peslier’s triumphant raising of the French flag and a confetti of golden petals. It wasn’t until afterwards I heard about the famous scene of Goldikova’s exercise rider running down the track during the stretch run and celebrating his mare’s victory; if only I had known to anticipate it beforehand! Ah, well, that’s why we have ESPN.

Well, my Proviso finished off the board, in the worst placing of her career, but no embarrassment to be behind the likes of Goldikova, Gio Ponti, Paco Boy, and the like. This is why I don’t bet on horses—my favor must surely curse them. I didn’t bet on the Breeders’ Cup Classic, not even for a souvenir ticket. It was probably more for lack of time than superstition, because after the Dirt Mile was over and Big Drama was cheered home, I grabbed my 300mm and didn’t come back to the media auxiliary room until dust had settled over the Classic. I had been assigned to shoot the BC Turf from the roof, and had to worry about two things: being able to get down to a spot on the outside rail following the BC Turf for the Classic, and having a memory card with enough space on it to last me through the Classic.

Me with "Big Bertha," the 600mm

We were supposed to use a fresh memory card for every race, but I didn’t have enough to do this and had been reusing cards after my team had loaded up my pictures. The card I had in my camera for the Turf was my largest card—16 GB. I convinced my boss my shots from the roof during the Turf weren’t going to be the most coveted shots from our team, (as no one ever uses roof shots for headline photos unless something really weird happens) so I was free to shoot and run. And run I did.

I admit, my BC Turf roof shots turned out beautifully. The sun was waning over the grandstands, making the colors pop in autumn splendor—the grass was a ring of emerald, and as the horses charged into the sunset, their hides shone like polished gold. Even the hedge was dappled in opalescent shadows. If only the Classic had been run under such beautiful light. With the utmost patience, I waited for the winner to gallop back and perform the victory parade in front of the line of horse paparazzi. I even got a few nice shots of this moment—then, when I was satisfied, I booked it downstairs like Speedy-freakin’-Gonzalez on crack.

Why was I in such a dire hurry, you might be wondering? Two main reasons: One, the photographers were all designated spots with duct tape on the outside rail. I had no such spot, yet I was still supposed to find a place to wedge myself in and take the “jubilation shot”—that pose where the jockey is standing up in his stirrups, fist in the air in triumph after the finish. This was my assignment, and I was certain that all friendliness between photographers would go out the window once it was post time for the big show. I knew I had one slim chance of slipping in between two photographers I’d become friendly with during the Juvenile and the Dirt Mile—two people who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t have my name on the rail, and were courteous enough to let me invade their space. That spot was my one chance at diving into position without having to be shuffled far, far down the Clubhouse Turn and into no-man’s land. I feared no-man’s land like the devil fears Jesus riding an ice storm through the gates of Hell.

But I couldn’t get to my spot when I busted tail to get down to the hallowed ground that awaited me. The contenders for the Classic were already on their way up the track to enter the tunnel to be saddled in the paddock. I made it just-in-time to find a place in the firing squad of photographers lined up across the track to welcome them. By that time, it had gotten dark. The sun was setting, and only a surreal bruise of light hung on the horizon. It was up to the garish yellow spotlights to illuminate this tense scene before us.

I was there for Blame's triumphant Steven Foster.

First in line was Haynesfield. Poor Haynesfield. Then came my man, The Road, my horse Romeo, his tongue tied and forelock sticking up like a mohawk in all his studly cheekiness. It was his last race. My gut clenched. It wasn’t fair all of these great horses had to bow out in one final bout against each other. I didn’t want to see any of them lose. There was only one first place, one second, one third… and so many of them didn’t deserve anything but a finishing in the top three. Then came Etched, Paddy O’ Prado, Fly Down, First Dude, Pleasant Prince (Pleasant who?), then Blame. Ah, Blame, that dark, venerable challenger. I looked at him with a wary gaze. It had only been three months since he had vanquished my Road when I was sure my big horse couldn’t be beaten. He had been defeated in his last race, but I didn’t believe Blame was so vulnerable as the Jockey Club Gold Cup made him look—Churchill was his track. And unfortunately, I seemed to be Blame’s good-luck charm. Flashback to the 2009 Clark Handicap, where Blame defeated Einstein in his career bow; then to the Stephen Foster, where Blame won when all seemed hopeless; then to Saratoga, in that crazy Whitney—I had been present for all of Blame’s major conquests. I liked Blame, most definitely, but I knew he was going to be the missile that put Zenyatta to the test.

Lucky fan for life.

Right after Blame came my boy Lucky. Oh, poor Lucky! Hard-knocking 3-year-old thrown to the wolves! I wish he’d skipped this grudge match and would be saved for the Dubai World Cup, for a 4-year-old campaign. He could dominate in 2011 with no one to challenge him in the older horse division. He would be swallowed up alive here. The Japanese horse, Espoir City, followed (didn’t have a prayer), then poor Musket Man. I loved Musket Man; he never dodged a fight, was all in every battle. But he was up against it here.

The cheers from the crowd escalated—all 70,000-odd fans let out a roar when the big mare came into view. No person who claimed to be a fan of horse racing could help but feel the gut tighten when she came up the track, her head bobbing, feet parading, dragging her groom toward the tunnel—a picture of sheer magnificence. The electricity in the air was taut as a wire, waiting to burst. Every one of those bystanders in the crowd had come to see Zenyatta’s show, whether they had bet on her or not. And though she was being heralded as the Queen stepping up to reclaim her throne, nobody knew for certain how this dance would end. Mario swung her out from the line of the rest of the contenders, and this gave us a perfect line of sight without all of the Zentourage in the way. With this clear picture of her marching toward the tunnel—and she did march—the moment she raised her front legs and began to paw the ground, performing her pre-war dance, my eyes began to tear up and my heart began to ricochet in my chest.

She passed by so closely, I could’ve reached out and touched her. The swarm of people pressing against us and encircling the great flared beast was overwhelming. I was drawn after her like a fish caught up in the current of a great ship as she two-stepped into that fateful tunnel, her purple robe billowing in tune with her prizefighter prance.

When she swept down the tunnel with loads of little people following after her, I snapped out of my trance and bolted down the track with the rest of us riffraff not lucky enough to be granted special paddock-access. This is when I started to mentally slam on the breaks and let myself take in the scene around me.

Zenyatta's 16th victory

I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll ever again see anything close to it. This is where words fail me. There was something about the purple sky and the mustard-colored lights, those fans pressing up against the rail with their Zenyatta signs and homemade outfits, the anticipation prickling the air in the final moments before it all came crashing down into one breath; it would all culminate in a matter of seconds—one swirling hurricane of unified emotion. The past two days of carnival and chaos, the past three years of following this undefeated horse on a cavalcade of glory… it was all leading up to these three minutes. We were sitting in the axis of the universe, and it was all about to rise into a history-making crescendo. But what would the outcome be?

My Breeders' Cup Experience: Friday Kick-Off

2011-04-26T14:13:00.001-05:00


This is how we roll at the Downs.

Friday morning started off with a scramble for a parking pass. Around 6am, I finally texted my boss and asked if he had an extra press parking pass, as the night before, I had come to discover I had no alternative than to take the shuttle over to Churchill from Papa John's Stadium. The lady who had given me my credentials at the Galt House had failed to tell me it was necessary to have a press parking pass to actually park with the rest of the media. (Churchill doesn’t actually have a lot for press on the grounds.) One would’ve assumed this would’ve led to her give me a parking pass out of necessity, but that wasn’t the case. She had been much more concerned about whether or not I would be attending the boot-stompin’ jamboree that night. (Which I ended up skipping after she got me tickets.) Thankfully, my boss did happen to have an extra parking pass, and so I wouldn’t be forced to schlep my gear all the way from the fan parking at Papa John’s on foot.*

*For those of you who know what Derby parking is like, it’s exactly the same for the Breeders’ Cup. All the neighborhood lawns are open for business, but I bypass that tradition in favor of actually being able to jet out of Churchill at a decent hour after the dust is settled.

When I arrived at the press parking lot at Papa John's Stadium, who should I find but my motley crew of photog friends heaving their gear out of an SUV and waiting for the shuttle. This sight was an instant relief. I was sure I'd be the only one missing the works that morning, but it seems everyone else had had their fill of works the day before. We were all in survival mode now.

A yellow school bus pulled up for us and shuttled us to Churchill. It felt so appropriately ghetto for us photographers, who muck up the press boxes with our muddy boots and are always toting heavy equipment around like mules. There is camaraderie in our slovenliness; we were all in this journey together, with the same goal, and so the ride to the track was full of good cheer. All of us on that bus weren’t just photographers, but also fans of the game. From the ashes of sleepiness, the air stoked with shared excitement. I kept looking down at my plastic name badge in awe. I was going to the Breeders' Cup. With credentials. That line from the movie Almost Famous echoed though my mind: "It's all happening." It really was like a dream. The school bus pulled right up to the fence closest to the paddock, and we could see Churchill workers preparing for the big day as we began to unload our gear off the shuttle. Our little group arrived just in time to see a cart decked with purple and yellow flower garlands being pushed past the paddock; hints of the glory to come in the morning hours. The little details are what it’s all about.


Goldikova jogging on Thursday at Churchill

The media auixillary room at Churchill is the mysterious white building across from the paddock, and thus we were in the middle of all of the excitement the entire day. We threw all of our equipment in the cavernous room and began to unload cameras, lenses, batteries, memory cards, laptops, you name it. I met with my boss and he explained to me that he wanted to have me be a floater who would use different rented lenses the whole day from different positions; he asked if I had any unique perspectives I'd like to shoot from. I had an hour to try to think up a unique perspective to shoot from at Churchill Downs, and ultimately couldn't figure out an angle that wouldn’t be obscured by fans or one that hadn't been already done to death. While I was in the stands, attempting to scout any unique position, the morning works were still going on. I only just managed to notice I was taking pictures of the great Goldikova as she came charging down the stretch, head low, looking like a restrained battle charger. The jumbo-tron in the infield alerted me to the presence of Zenyatta several minutes later, and I switched lenses and snapped a flip-book of shots of the big mare jogging over the long expanse of dirt. I was one of the only photographers taking pictures from this side of the track, and definitely the only one standing where I was, so I felt like I captured something unique that morning, even though I wouldn't be able to stand there during the races for all the people in my way. I noticed that all of the other people on the track, who usually pay no attention to anything but their own horses, were ogling at Zenyatta as she galloped by; you couldn't help but notice her. It's like trying to ignore an armored tank rolling down a golf course.

After the works were over, all of the photographers were required to attend a meeting in the winner's circle for a run-down of all the rules and regulations for us shooters. This is where we were basically told we'd be lynched if we posted our photos from Friday or Saturday on Flickr, Facebook, or any other site not related to the news outlet we had been credentialed for. This is the reason you won’t see any of my Breeders’ Cup shots in this blog entry. In some ways, I can understand their desire to keep these photos reserved for publications, but as fans can bring in their DSLRs and shoot to their hearts' content without any restrictions, it's sort of laughable. Also, I wondered about the people who missed the meeting who didn’t hear these rules; we didn’t have to sign anything that put our understanding in ink, so someone could really get screwed if they didn’t hear about these restrictions. They threatened we’d never be credentialed to shoot another Breeders' Cup at any track ever again if we broke this rule. Thursday wasn't a blacklisted day of shooting, so some of my photos from that day have been posted to my Flickr photostream.

One of the major points of the photographers’ meeting was to assign our individual spots on the outside rail. On any regular race day, this isn’t necessary, but since there were somewhere around 75 shooters there for the Breeders’ Cup, we had to have our publications duct-taped to the rail to reserve a space for us. This freaked me out. I still didn’t know where I was supposed to shoot the Classic from. The last thing I wanted was to be far away from the action of the biggest race I’d ever see with my own two eyes. I knew it was a very real possibility I could be stuck way out on the final turn, the Clubhouse Turn, or even the roof. To say I was one of the biggest racing fans among the photographers was probably not stretching it much; a lump sat in my gut watching all the good spots get claimed near the finish line. I had never been to a race with that many photographers vying for the same space, so I didn’t know how vicious territorial battles could get. I saw the spots Horsephotos was reserved and saw one spot that I immediately wanted, but as I was the rover, I ended up not having an assigned spot at all. I was basically told to get the shot by any means possible from the location I was assigned. Later, my boss told me the positions he wanted me to shoot from for each race. I would be shooting everywhere from the head-on with the 600mm, the roof, the inside with the 400mm, and from the grandstands. I kind of liked the idea of being the sniper from every position, but the responsibility of being able to get to my location, and then zip back to the media auxiliary room to dump off my memory card made me nervous. I was going to have to bust arse all day long.


"Is this thing gonna eat me?"

I won’t go over the details of every individual race, because I feel I’m already pushing this Breeders’ Cup blog-nanza by making each entry over 2,000 words. So here are some highlights of the day from my point of view…

…I shot my first Breeders’ Cup race, ironically enough, from the grandstands. I found a space in the first balcony level where some nice fans let me squeeze in and shoot the race. It wasn’t exactly thrilled with the outcome of my shots, but it’s always fun mingling with people who are already drunk at 4 in the afternoon. They always want me to take their picture, even though they never ask for my information so they can see it later. A lot of people were dressed like the Queen of England up there, but unfortunately, I didn’t get to rub any royal elbows. It wasn’t until I was delivering my card that I heard about the fracas with Calvin Borel in the now-infamous jockey fight. My husband was apparently at arm’s length for the whole thing. I couldn’t believe he didn’t get a picture of it.


On the far right, looking like I'm manning a small ship.

…I shot the Filly and Mare Sprint, the Juvenile Fillies, and the Filly and Mare Turf with Big Bertha, the 600mm lens. The F&M Sprint was the first time I ever used the 600, and I was nervous because I’d never practiced with it before. I didn’t do such a bad job for that race, but I improved with it later. For night racing, the rocket launcher is pretty sweet. I was proud of my shot of Awesome Feather suspended in the beam of light, the rest of the field shrouded in distant shadow behind her. The F&M Turf was incredibly hard to shoot, because my camera couldn’t focus until the horses were close to the beam of light. Thankfully, Shared Account wasn’t running from the far outside and I got both her and Midday in focus. I swear Midday won it from my angle. That’s the biggest drawback of shooting with a fixed 600mm lens—if it’s a close race, it’s almost impossible to tell who’s in front.

…I completely botched the Ladies’ Classic. Bombed. The worst race I’ve ever shot in my life. I was told to use the 400mm from the roof, and I just couldn’t pan well with it—it was too heavy for me. I was also terrified I was going to drop it on the crowd below. That huge lens would most certainly kill a small army if I dropped it on them. My buffer ran out as the field came for home, as I misjudged the length of that stretch from above, and I didn’t even get a good shot of Unrivaled Belle in front of the beam. It was just as well; Rachel should’ve been there winning it. I was nearly sick over my shots from that race and didn’t want to touch the roof the next day—or the 400. But that vow was short-lived on both counts.

I was so sore after my first day of Breeders’ Cup shooting, I didn’t know how I was going to do another day of it. I probably hadn’t been carrying my 600 properly and was killing my shoulders. I was chomping Ibuprofen like Tic-Tacs. I thought they were going to have to hook up my arms to a couple of slings and have a team of mules drag me back to my hotel. When I left the auxiliary room, I found myself leaving with the same motley crew of photographer friends. We found a white shuttle and climbed aboard and found ourselves with some turf writers and other media people. It turns out we’d gotten on the wrong bus, and it had to turn around and take us back to the track, much to the chagrin of the starving writers on board. Sorry, guys. By the time our school bus picked us up and got us back to the Papa John’s parking lot, the hour was late. So late, we watched as a man on a golf cart locked us in and zipped away, oblivious to the living people staggering on sore legs to their vehicles. Our cars piled up at the locked gate and someone jumped out of their truck and cried, “What is this happy horseshit!” Then there was some curb-jumping and somehow, we all got out of there without having to break the gate down. There may have been some bolt cutters involved. I can’t rightly recall.

All in all, a fantastic first day of the Breeders’ Cup. But the big show was still to come the next day.

**All photos, unless otherwise noted, are courtesy of Bob Newell.

My Breeders' Cup experience: Thursday shenanigans

2011-01-30T14:47:00.002-06:00

After getting my hopes up about the Kentucky Derby, only to have them shot down, I didn't want to get excited about the Breeders' Cup. It was sort of devastating, to be told your lifelong dream-come-true is going to happen, only to find out a week before you leave on the trip that actually, there was a mistake and there wasn't enough credentials for you. (Yes, this actually happened to me.) So all the while I drove down to Louisville, I kept expecting to get a text message or a phone call breaking the news to me in the ninth hour that I wouldn't be credentialed to shoot the Breeders' Cup World Championships after all. I was almost expecting it, all the way up till I went to the Galt House Hotel to pick up my press credentials. It wasn't until I looked down at my name printed on the thick plastic card did I finally feel the pressure release and let myself believe that it really was going to happen. I was seriously about to shoot the biggest two days in racing I'd ever witnessed in my life. What was more, I was going to have a front-row seat to one of the single greatest races of my generation: the 2010 Breeders' Cup Classic, where the great Zenyatta would make her career bow.

That being said, I had prepared a little by creating a “Horse Racing Playlist” on my iPod, which consisted mostly of songs I pictured Zenyatta war-dancing to in the Classic, as well as songs that would dramatically illustrate the pounding hoofs of the field turning for home, and the angelic chorus that would sound as the big mare began to unwind her devastating late kick. So I guess a little part of me did want to believe in miracles. Thankfully, I wasn’t denied mine this time around. This playlist was my constant background music the entire Breeders' Cup, pumping me up each morning and preparing me for the the final showdown at the end of it all. By the time I was shooting the races, "Kashmir" was ingrained in my radiohead on a constant loop.

I drove down on Wednesday, which didn't give me a great amount of time before the Championships began, but it was at least time enough to shoot one full morning of workouts. Thursday morning, after a night of tossing and turning, I woke up before my alarm at some ungoldly hour, my adrenaline carrying me all the way to Churchill Downs, the thought that some other photographer would be getting some shot I was missing spurring me to stay energized. I knew it would be too dark to shoot anything exceptional, but I couldn't stand the thought of the action going on without me being in the middle of it all. When I arrived at Churchill, sure enough, the backstretch was positively teeming with the kind of activity usually reserved for Derby week. Photographers and lucky fans were planted along the outside rail on the backstretch, shutters snapping sleepily in the low light, trying to capture the ambiance of the indigo morning with the surreal spotlights lining the track. There was already a surge of activity going on in the workouts; I could see the royal purple saddlecloths rippling by, the snort of an eager Thoroughbred scatting in cadence to the drumming of his hoofs along the ribbon of his own private dreamland.

I found some familiar faces soon after and immediately felt at ease. There were a slew of photographers I'd never seen before, shooters from newspapers or foreign journalists who had probably never been on Churchill's backstretch, or even witnessed a race there. There were fans back there who didn't even have credentials, as was the case of two older ladies next to me on the rail who had driven an hour to get there that morning and were taking pictures with a point-and-shoot camera. As much as the track felt like my regular stomping grounds, I felt like it had to reimpose my status as a Churchill veteran, because the number of big cameras and professional-looking shooters was a little intimidating. Even though it was the first Breeders' Cup I'd ever been to, I knew this track better than just about any other track I'd ever shot at, and had made it my business to know the grounds inside and out. The only thing I had not been introduced to would soon become my second home, the media auxiliary room.

Thursday morning's works did not disappoint. I got to see every single horse I wanted to see outside of Blame. Only that morning, I had read a rumor on Twitter saying he had a quarter crack and would be scratched from the Breeders' Cup Classic. As I felt Blame was Zenyatta's biggest threat, I was truly concerned about his status in the race, wanting him to be in there to give the champ the biggest test she'd ever faced. His absence on the track worried me, but I found out later he'd gone out first thing in the morning, when only a few other horses had been on the track. I wanted to stalk him on the backstretch to find out the scoop, but the constant stream of Breeders' Cup workers made it impossible to ever leave my spot on the rail. Did I mention it was also freezing? Maybe not technically so by thermometer levels, but it was positively bone-chilling outside. After standing so long on the rail, I almost felt like I was frozen in place, even with all of my layers and gloves on. Standing in amongst all of the people created a wind barrier and was at least 10 degrees warmer than if I'd separated from the pack to go searching for a horse. (I forgot to mention I'd actually made a beeline to the Asmussen barn first thing in one last-ditch effort to see if Rachel Alexandra was still on the grounds. My heart ached at finding her stall empty. She had been spirited away from the track without so much as a peep in the news, I was later to find out. I was now certain I'd never see her again.)

Zenyatta jogs Thursday morning.

The crowd grew thicker on the rail as the morning went on, and around 9:00, when the sun was warming up the dirt into a golden glow, Zenyatta finally stepped out on the track. By then, it was a regular paparazzi event watching her jog from the gap and make a loop around the storied oval. I wanted to move to a better spot for lighting, as a huge shadow was cutting over the track directly in front of me, but there was no finding a better position with this crowd. In fact, you were pretty much lucky if you could move at all at that point, there were so many people elbowing their way in to get a glimpse of the reigning Breeders' Cup champ.

After Zenyatta made her appearance, they opened up training on the turf and allowed the credentialed photographers access to walk across the dirt and take pictures from the outside rail of the turf course. That experience turned out to produce some of my favorite workout photos, as the sun was creating a gorgeous morning scene, and the angle of the horses rounding the turf head-on into the backstretch was a new one for me. Here we were privileged to see the winner of the Arc de Triomphe, Workforce, as well as several other superstar and inspiring grass horses, including Paco Boy, The Usual Q.T., California Flag, Beethoven, and Shared Account. (Goldikova and Midday had already taken a jog over the dirt earlier.) During the grass training is when Shared Account reared up on the dirt course on her way over to the turf; she dumped her rider and proceeded to run in a circle before a few people on horseback close by were able to calm her down and catch her. Even though I later heard that some of the European connections were grumbling around about the American "cowboy methods" of catching a loose horse, I found the moment to be spell-binding. Three horsemen closed in on Shared Account slowly from each side, and she quieted down as she seemed to understand they wanted to help. One of these riders happened to be Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott. It filled me with appreciation for our sport, witnessing the raw instincts of true horsemen snap into place, calling upon the utmost calm to quell the fears of a spooked horse.

The Euros were also laughing at how The Usual Q.T.
runs with his tail up in the air. They weren't
laughing anymore after the BC Mile.

After the works were over, I got together with some of my favorite members of the horse paparazzi and had a late lunch at Lynn's Paradise Cafe on Barret Avenue. I highly enjoyed the funky atmosphere of the place, and the food was great--but the company made the experience, naturally. By this time, we had caught up with the fashionably late Mighty Mayberger, who had rolled into the parking lot at Churchill just as we were leaving, and we happily peer-pressured him into joining us even though he would've rather gotten a taste of Churchill decked out in royal purple. I told him he had plenty of time for that later. Word had gotten around that Zenyatta would be schooling between races two and three, so we all made sure to zip back to the track as soon as we'd stuffed ourselves with omelets, black bean soup, and sweet potato fries.

By the time we returned to Churchill Downs, racing had already gotten under way. I had to pick up my candy before I started the day, however. I was renting a Nikon D3 body from NPS in the media axillary room, as well as an 18-55mm zoom lens; as I was not used to the hummingbird-happy shutter on the D3, I was a little too excited about how many frames per second I could capture versus my D700. Not a moment after I picked up my rental equipment, someone told me that Zenyatta had entered the paddock.

It still feels weird, even after all of my experience with credentials, having permission to enter the famous paddock at Churchill Downs without someone stopping me. I keep thinking that any moment, some security guard is going to say to me, "You're having way more fun than is allowed here. Take a hike." These sentiments must stem from my memories of the Kentucky Derby and fighting my way through the swarm of drunken fans to catch a glimpse of Curlin parading there in 2008. Now, I'm actually legitimate. So instead of running up to the fence to try to catch my shot from between bombastic Derby hats, I'm now opening the gate and striding down the walking ring to join the rest of the press on the grass island--where I have come to believe I belong.

It was as if Elvis was in the paddock.

Zenyatta was hidden at this point to the left.

Being the Churchill veteran, I am aware of the taboos of where to stand in the paddock. Generally, you want to make sure you get the hell out of the horses' way and mind the activity that is going on around you. My rule of thumb is to respect the horsemen and stay as invisible as possible. Exactly the opposite was going on here. A huge group of photographers planted themselves right in the walking path across from the schooling stall, and I was kind of mortified at first and hung back on the grass island. Unfortunately for me, my view was completely blocked because there were these two policemen loitering around Zenyatta the entire time, almost smug about blocking our shots. Begrudgingly, I joined the paparazzi mob, jumping in low to the ground so as to not be in anyone's way. One of the truest Codes of the Photographers is that there is safety in numbers, so if I was going to be in trouble, at least I wouldn't be singled out for doing anything differently than the rest of the group; the other most trusted Code of the Photographers is that if Barbara Livingston is doing it, it must be O.K. As she was standing in the middle of the group, I figured everyone else had gotten the same idea and had generally attempted to stick close to her. My bold move seemed to give courage to other photographers and members of the press, and before we knew it, it was a regular red carpet smackdown trying to get the shot without someone's elbow in your eyeball.

"You taste good, Mario."

Here's where I took a little over 500 pictures of Zenyatta. Some may say this would be a bit overzealous, but those who would say so probably aren't perfectionists aiming for the professional, quintessential Zenyatta portrait. Also, I still wasn't used to the hair-trigger of my D3, and had not had time to change the settings before I'd shoved a memory card in my camera and flew into the paddock. There was a lot of activity going on around Zenyatta, and I wanted to capture the complete scene of chaos surrounding this docile mare and her friend, Mario. All the while we were fawning over the reigning Breeders' Cup champ, other Breeders' Cup contenders schooled in the paddock, including Jaycito, Harmonious, and Awesome Gem. I took a total of about 15 shots of them, respectively. Pathetic, I know.

I missed most of the races that day, because soon after Zenyatta left the paddock, who should come waltzing in but my man, Quality Road. Nevermind the fact that the unbeaten favorite for the Breeders' Cup Juvenile was entering, too. I was a total Road groupie and had little time for juveniles. Unfortunately, Quality Road looked like a cross between a sumo and a punk rocker with this huge cowlick on his foretop, and he kept grinning at me like a beaver over his lead shank. This did not make for the most poised, regal picture. I took a few shots of Uncle Mo, but I was obviously distracted in trying to take an aesthetic shot of Quality Road, because the pictures I have of Mo only amount to a handful. After the schoolers finally left the paddock, I began to shoot the actual races going on.

Uncle Mo and Quality Road: The Changing of the Guard

What happened next I can only attribute to the cold finally getting the better of me. I decided to go warm up in the press box, thereby shooting the next race from the balcony there. In the race was a 2-year-old colt I had been following who had yet to break his maiden: Tapizar. Though he did not win this maiden special, I am still kicking myself for not getting a decent shot of him in the post parade. Every picture I have of Tapizar is from a bird's eye view. I rooted for him all the way, but he ran fourth that day after running wide the entire race.

The only big race on the card that day was the Grade III River City Handicap, which had been moved from Clark Day. I was rooting for a repeat victory for Rahystrada, but it wasn't meant to be. Battle of Hastings, with Joel Rosario up, stole the show, and thus ended our last bit of normality before the tidal wave that is the Breeders' Cup fell upon us.

A lot of my photographer and press friends were attending the Breeders' Cup welcome party at the Yum! Center, but as Toby Keith was providing the entertainment, and I was running on very little sleep, I decided to sit out the hootenanny ho-down. I simply don't function at 100% when I am running on anything less than 8 hours of sleep, and I would turn out to be grateful for the break the next day, which would turn out to be the single most grueling day I'd ever experienced at the track.

Meet my new boy, Tapizar

2011-01-15T00:48:00.002-06:00

Official photo finish of the 2010 Travers

In December 2009, I was lucky enough to have TVG running in the background on a cold, shut-in kind of day when I happened to witness the debut of a 2-year-old at Aqueduct named Afleet Express. I was immediately impressed by his sheer talent to overcome a rollercoaster of a trip to rally from last and breeze past his rivals while still acting green in the stretch. This was a big ball of potential, and I hung on his every workout and race thereafter. If you followed horse racing in 2010, you will know then how I was rewarded with the ultimate pay-off for my loyalty: Afleet Express hung on to win the Grade I Travers by a nose to Fly Down that summer. It was one of the highlights of my year, to say the least--I was screaming like a flaming banshee, my shrieks piercing the windows of my living room and alerting the neighborhood to what they likely thought was my murder. My vocal cords were practically shredded by the time the horses galloped back from that race. I hadn't bet on that race (as I bet maybe twice a year, and only if I happen to be at the track), but I still had my $2 win ticket from my trip to Saratoga when I saw him run in the Jim Dandy, proof of my devotion.

When the juveniles started popping up in 2010, I started to avidly watch all of the baby races on TVG and HRTV, hoping to find my next Afleet Express. This time, it came much earlier in the year, and the performance didn't "wow" me the in same way as Afleet Express, but you'll soon see why. The horse's connections (A carbon-copy of my boy Pyro circa 2008) first gave me reason to like him, as well as the fact he'd finished in the money (3rd) in his only start; there was only room for improvement here in his second start. It was September 19, 2010, a Maiden Special Weight run at 1 mile 70 yards at Monmouth Park. As soon as the gates popped open, everything went horribly wrong for Tapizar. The colt stumbled a step out of the break, and jockey Shaun Bridgmohan flew straight over the juvenile's head. That didn't stop Tapizar, who was by then trailing at the back of the field as the rest left him in the dust. Off he went in hot pursuit while the jockey rolled to safety, and in a few strides, Tapizar had flown up the inside rail on his own volition and took the lead by the time the field had reached the first turn. Riderless, Tapizar assumed the lead by several lengths. The rest of the field eventually caught up to him halfway along the backstretch, and here's where it got interesting. Tapizar dropped back behind eight rivals going into the final turn, and as soon as he began to run around the middle of the turn, it was as if he decided to become Seabiscuit and take another run at those challengers one more time. Most horses will bolt and run for the stables when they're loose, or simply peter out and jog at the back of the pack without any guidance. Tapizar took the initiative and decided he still wanted to win this. The two-year-old son of Tapit circled foes and dove between horses to cut up the inside rail. Then he began to charge along the rail at the leaders, and settled for an unofficial third place after this absurd riderless trip. While the Racing Form would never count this effort on record, it was hard to deny this was indeed, a special horse. Under very similar circumstances in which I had discovered Afleet Express, I entered Tapizar into my barn with hopes I had finally found the colt I was looking for.

Ironically, I was able to witness Tapizar's next two starts in person--and in both of those instances, I happened to be watching him race from the Churchill Downs press box balcony. I didn't plan it this way, and I find it funny, since I'm normally glued to one of the two rails on the track during races. The first time I saw him run in front of me was on the Thursday before the Breeders' Cup. My spot from the press box gave me a bird's eye view of the trouble Tapizar would have in this start--he had drawn the far outside post, #12, and was fanned 6-side going into the first turn. This is what ultimately cost him the race, for he could only manage leaving the final turn running 3-wide, and he ended up finishing fourth that day. (At least this time, it counted.) Admittedly, I was a little crushed by this placing, but as Tapizar hadn't yet been blessed with a good trip in which to flaunt his talent, I was hoping the next time the waters would part for him.

Admittedly, I was a little burned out both emotionally and physically after the Breeders' Cup whirlwind, and I probably hadn't been watching as many juvenile races as I had the year before. But I still remembered that mind-boggling performance by Tapizar at Monmouth, and so when I saw that he would be running while I was at Churchill on November 27th, I became excited. By that time, I was more than a little desperate to discover that one juvenile I could hang my hopes on for the new year. With 80% of my barn now off to the breeding shed, I didn't have a lot left to root for in 2011, and depression set in when not just my precious Afleet Express, but my other fan-since-the-maiden-race horse, Lookin at Lucky, was retired after a fourth place finish in the Breeders' Cup Classic. So I guess what I'm trying to say was that I was really needing Tapizar to win for me that late day in November.

And boy, did he come through. Tapizar was slated to run in the night cap, the 12th race on the card. I knew I would have to do some begging with my husband to let me stay for that one, as we had to drive home to Illinois after the stakes were over and I'd uploaded my photos to the Horsephotos server. Because of the late post times, the last stakes race of the day, the Kentucky Jockey Club Stakes, was run under the lights and would make for a late trip home. Photographing under the lights does not make me a happy camper. Even though the night racing looks pretty on TV, in person, it's a nightmare for photographers. Unless you're intending to get a pan photo, where the horse's legs are blurry, the only shot that will come out is at the finish line, where a spotlight brightens up the area directly across from the finish. I like my photos to be sharp as can be, and let's face it, I wasn't looking to be artistic or experimental when it came down to a horse I was really interested in. If Tapizar had a chance to win, I wanted to get the best shot I could of him.

Tapizar breaks his maiden in a romp at Churchill

The race went off, and wouldn't you know it, a horse fell and threw his rider. Thankfully, both horse and rider (Julien Leparoux) were okay, and the horse didn't happen to be Tapizar. This time, my colt was shooting straight up to the flank of the speed horse, saving ground going into the first turn, and assuming the stalking position like a pro in second. There he stayed glued until the horses began to round for home, and this time, Tapizar saw daylight as they entered the stretch. Nothing between him and his first win but one of the longest stretches of dirt in America. Tapizar accelerated, eating up the ground with lengthening strides, and his competitors quickly became only a distant memory. His margin between them grew rapidly, until he was 10 1/2 lengths in front at the wire. My boy had finally just broken his maiden, and what a coming out party! I practically jumped up and down as I dashed back into the quiet press box to practically attacked the hapless Claire Novak, whom I'd regailed earlier in the day with my tale about discovering Tapizar. I had to share with someone that I hadn't been blabbering on about this maiden two-year-old all for nothing! It was my one consolation to not having placed a bet on him, which is really the only way most horsemen believe you'd picked a winner. (Since I bet only once in a blue moon, anyway, I believe I should be exempt from this rule.)

Now that Tapizar was not only a maiden winner, but an impressive maiden winner, his name was suddenly known by more than a few people. Imagine my elation, a few months later, to see that he was entered in the Grade II Sham Stakes at Santa Anita. My boy, in California, in his first stakes race! And here's where we come to present day.

Lightning doesn't strike twice very often, but I'd like to think that picking talented babies before they've exploded into fame and fortune isn't exactly pure luck. Maybe it is a little, in happening to have the TV turned on to catch a horse run a rollercoaster of a race, or maybe I'm just drawn to such things. Either way, let's hope my journey with Tapizar will continue long into the year, and you can look back at this post and say, "I knew him when." Because isn't that what following two-year-olds is all about?

Wow!

2011-01-10T14:12:00.000-06:00

I'm sure most of you have heard my news by now, but in case you haven't...

I won the 2010 TBA photo contest!

What's a bigger surprise, Thoroughbred Times actually wrote up a short article about it. You can read it here.

Go here to see my page where I thanked practically everyone outside of my dog and cat (But they actually deserve to be thanked for keeping me sane, so thanks, kids!). I hope I didn't blather on too much. I really was humbled by the voting. And thanks to the readers of this blog, who helped me pick out what photo to submit! You guys obviously have great taste. :-)

The Pied Piper of Arlington

Let the voting begin!

2010-12-19T17:29:00.001-06:00

Thanks to everyone who voted for which pictures I should enter into the Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance 2010 photo contest. The overwhelming favorites were "The Pied Piper of Arlington" and "Zenyatta and John Shirreffs."

Today is the first day where you can vote on all of the entries for the contest. You can vote every day through the 25th of December, and the top ten will then go into the final round of voting.

Here is the link to the finalists, where you can vote for your favorite 10: http://tbablogs.com/Photos.php

I was very excited to find several of my friends' photos included in the contest, many of which you will remember from my stories in this blog. :-) Good luck, guys!

I appreciate everyone's support! Happy holidays to everyone this season.

Here are your two favorites from my batch:

Help!

2010-12-12T15:28:00.000-06:00

My entry fom 2009 was well-received, but not enough.

Since I don't have a photo in contention for an Eclipse Award, pretty much all my hopes are banking on a win in this year's Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance 2010 photo contest. Though this isn't exactly on the same level as far as prestige goes, it's still a venerable contest among pro photographers, as well as amateurs. Last year, I gained quite a few votes (but not enough to clench victory) for my popular picture of Rachel Alexandra winning the Kentucky Oaks, but this year I don't have one stand-out photo that screams "I WILL WIN FOR YOU."

So this is where you come in. What follows is a set of pictures I think are my best chances for bagging this contest. Honestly, I've seen a ton of photos by my fellow photographers that have blown me out of the water this year, so I'm not expecting to win, but I have a few good pictures that stand a shot, so what the heck? My thinking is that the most sentimental photo is likely to win, as most people judge with their hearts, not a fundamental knowledge of what it takes to capture a knock-out horse racing photograph. (And when it comes to sentimental photos, I think Zenyatta has the edge this year.) With that in mind, you won't find a lot of win shots or photos taken on the physical track in those that I've selected for your consideration. I may be wrong in this idea, so prove me wrong if this is the case by voting for something else.

Without ado, here are five photos I've taken during 2010 that I am considering submitting. I can only submit TWO photos to the TBA contest. Please help me make this difficult decision by voting on your favorite two in the comments below.

Like a Prizefighter

Fiji: Water of Champions

The Pied Piper of Arlington

To the Winner's Circle!
(Lisa Borel is carried over a sloppy track to meet husband Calvin Borel after winning the Kentucky Derby.)

Zenyatta and John Shirreffs

Entries for the TBA photo contest are due next Friday, December 17th. I will post my final entries on the blog after I've tallied everyone's vote.Thanks for your help!

Who's to blame?

2010-11-15T09:52:00.001-06:00

Originally posted on Smile Politely.

Seconds after the field broke for the 2010 edition of the Breeders' Cup Classic, track announcer Trevor Denman cried, "Zenyatta is dead last!" The grandstand erupted with an appreciative laugh. The whole stage was set for a show, after all, and most of the 72,739 people watching from the stands weren't just your typical race-goers, they were fans of the starlet, Zenyatta. They knew her usual moves, her typical dramatic run as she always came from the back of the pack to sweep past rivals, giving them a performance to raise their voices to ear-splitting crescendos before snatching victory at the wire. It always seemed like she was saved from being buried near the back of the pack, as if carried on angel wings to win by some miracle of God; because doubtlessly, if there is a God, He, too, must be a Zenyatta fan.

But as Zenyatta found daylight off the final turn and started sailing over that hallowed stretch of ground toward the finish line, goosebumps racing down our arms with every great gobbling stride, we watched the birth of history as a stubborn horse by the name of Blame denied her that miracle. Make no mistake, Blame is not evil incarnate. Zenyatta simply met a freight train she could not run down this day. As they bobbed heads past the wire, Blame saw her and sped away from that behemoth, never knowing that great mare would put him in the history books alongside the names of Upset and Onion, the greatest spoilers of all-time. Zenyatta returned to be unsaddled to a standing ovation for her runner-up effort. Despite the jubilations of winning jockey, Garrett Gomez, Blame only received a smattering of cheers for his victory. Like an ending written by the Coen brothers, it wasn't a finale like everyone expected, but it was a finale none would ever forget.

The real tragedy of the 2010 edition of the Breeders' Cup Classic wasn't that Zenyatta lost, but the fact that a public that could've enjoyed the champion for two unbelievable years didn't discover her until her last career race, which, as luck would have it, was the first time she was ever defeated. While a crowd of 72,739 fans packed the grandstands at historic Churchill Downs that Saturday, and millions more tuned in their TVs to watch the coverage on ESPN, the world stopped for three minutes to watch Zenyatta attempt to go out unbeaten with a record of 20-0. But that fairy tale ending just wasn't meant to be.

Featured in W Magazine, Sports Illustrated, and Oprah's O Magazine this fall as one of the top 20 most influential females in the world, the champion racemare was also given a spotlight on 60 Minutes the Sunday before the Breeders' Cup. As it turns out, the public is, in fact, interested in horse racing. With a little renewed attention thanks to Disney's film adaptation of the legendary Secretariat, Zenyatta was given every chance to be a star in the public eye. But this all came too late for a nationwide audience to truly appreciate her.

It's not realistic to think that everyone who witnessed this year's Breeders' Cup is going to rush out to subscribe to TVG or HRTV on their dish, but had this all happened last year, when Zenyatta was going up against males for the first time, think of all the great performances people could've enjoyed. While all save one of her races in her 2010 campaign lacked the crescendo of a match-up versus males, perhaps the grandstands at Oaklawn, Santa Anita, Del Mar, and Hollywood Park would've been standing room only had all this press come before the curtain fell on Zenyatta's career.

So much is said about what the horse racing industry is doing wrong. Horses retire too early to build a fan base; horse racing propaganda is limited to the people who already know about the sport and follow it religiously; too many big races are restricted to specialty cable stations; there are many complaints. What unfolded in the press in the days leading up to the Breeders' Cup was a test of what the industry could do when it had every opportunity to seize the public's interest. People discovered Zenyatta, and they loved her. Is it really a surprise? Here we have the most charismatic equine ever to step foot on a racetrack, a female, an undefeated champion, but the nation isn't properly introduced to her until her final bow. It's akin to discovering Paul Newman in Road to Perdition, his last big-screen role; what we see is a glimmer of greatness, but it's too abrupt to get a taste of a performer who is surely respected as one of the greats of all-time. Think of the tragedy of never having seen the actor at his most dazzling in The Hustler, Hud, Cool Hand Luke, or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid; this is the reality of Zenyatta's legacy with the millions of viewers who tuned in to see her for the first time this past Saturday. They were built up about how great she was going into the 2010 Classic, and they witnessed a performance where the mare put her heart on the line, but they didn't get the thrill or the satisfaction that we in the racing world have become accustomed to over the years: they'll never understand the tears that come from seeing the explosive, against-all-odds, last-to-first kick that come as a result of knowing her.

Zenyatta has done everything right. It's the industry that let her and itself down. Before the 2009 Breeders' Cup, racing had its shot to tell the world about our prized mare. Perhaps it doubted her too much. There were a lot of people out there who didn't, after all, think she could beat males that first time. But this year, if all you knew came from Oprah, W, or 60 Minutes, you wouldn't have thought that she could lose coming into the 2010 edition of the Classic. According to statistics, three times the amount of people than last year tuned in to watch Zenyatta go out undefeated at Churchill Downs. Is publicity only earned from a guarantee? Did any of the millions who may have watched Zenyatta for the first time take away how special this mare was, even in defeat?

Now that Zenyatta has rounded her last field of rivals, has literally danced her last dance, what can the industry take away from the events that elevated Zenyatta's status to world fame? Will it step up to the task of reaching out beyond its already-established fan base and try to bring in new faces? All the public needs is to be exposed to a good story and a good horse. Is that really too great of a task? If not for her record-setting streak of 19 straight wins, I hope that Zenyatta's legacy will be to teach racing how to promote itself and the stars who make it all possible.

Zenyatta has given us the reins, now. What will we do with them?

Three Derbies. Two Weeks. Part III: Discovering Zen in Hot Springs

2010-11-03T17:07:00.000-05:00

Naturally, the first time I ever heard rumored that the showdown of the century might occur, that Horse of the Year Rachel Alexandra and the undefeated Breeders’ Cup champion Zenyatta were to finally meet on the track, I was literally shaking with anticipation. And the moment the news broke officially over Twitter, I was on my phone calling up hotels to book reservations for Hot Springs, Arkansas to beat the influx of thousands of people who would be joining me there that April. It was slated to be the biggest race of the modern era.

As we all know by now, the Apple Blossom Invitational didn’t turn out to be quite the race of the century, or even the decade; instead, it was nothing more than an exhibition race put on by Queen Zenyatta. But for me personally, it was a highlight of the year.

Though of course I was immensely disappointed Rachel would not come to Arkansas to battle with Zenyatta, I felt like it was the right move for the 4-year-old filly. With her loss in the New Orleans Ladies against Zardana, I felt like her camp was trying to rush her into fitness after an extended layoff from the races, and Rachel needed finely-tuned conditioning if she was going to face the most imposing opponent of her career. And so, I was happy to make the trip to Arkansas to watch what would be my first time seeing the big mare run in person and get a double-whammy weekend with the Arkansas Derby the next day.

So after living it up in New Orleans and zipping up to Chicago, it was on to my third derby in two weeks when I trekked down to Hot Springs for the Apple Blossom Invitational and Arkansas Derby. What made this trip all the more fun was that most of my photographer friends who had also been planning on attending the Race of the Century were keeping their plans in tact to watch Zenyatta run, as well as shoot a key prep for the Kentucky Derby.

My husband and I drove down to Arkansas on Thursday, the day before the Apple Blossom. Once we arrived in the city, I called up my favorite fellow adventuring racing photographer, Bob Mayberger (a.k.a. The Mighty Mayberger). The Mighty was awesome enough to pick up my credentials in the press office at Oaklawn for me when he retrieved his own, and gave me directions to Oaklawn’s backstretch for the next morning. I had not wanted to wait to pick up my credentials from the press office when it opened Friday morning, because that would force me to miss much of the morning action.

Though the Arkansas Derby was that same weekend, nobody was really thinking too much about the youngsters on Friday. Let’s face it, the Queen was in town, and the horse paparazzi can never help but zero in on roving royalty’s every move. When I pulled up to the security guard holding court at the entrance to Oaklawn’s backstretch, I flashed my credential and sheepishly asked if there was any way he could tell me where John Shirreffs was stabling his horses. The man looked at me blankly for a second, and so I asked, “Is there any way you can tell me where I could find Zenyatta?”

(And I must digress to explain how the backstretch security guards normally behave: mostly, they don’t want to tell you anything, as if they were guarding some sacred stone in the Temple of Doom, even though I have a credential and thereby permission to be back there; usually, they act as if they are bestowing upon me some great service if they flash me a map of the barn area (though they would sooner throw me out than let me take a copy of the map or take a picture of it). And if you dare ask what barn a certain horse would be in, they usually produce a Sphinx-like smirk and act like they don’t know. You have to play the game and ask what barn the trainer is stabled in, and then pretend you either don’t care or aren’t sure exactly what horses he trains. Mostly. Every track has its own puzzling rules meant to disgruntle you and keep you from walking around the backstretch.)

And here was where I was first bowled over by Oaklawn. The security guard went “Oohhhh” and he said it in such a way I thought surely now he was going to tell me she wasn’t there, or I didn’t have permission to go see her. Instead, he began to give me detailed instructions on how exactly to get to her barn, and told me I could park right across from her barn. Excuse me? I began to suspect I hadn’t actually woken up that morning, and was actually experiencing some very lucid dream. I thanked him profusely and followed his directions. Sure enough, there was a parking lot nicely laid out next to the grassy slope that ended at the long barn where Zenyatta was stabled. Unbelievable.

I got out of the car, expecting it was some sort of trap and I would be ambushed by a Shirreffs-hired S.W.A.T. team. Instead, I walked right up and saw, plain as day, that bright paintbrush-shaped stripe peeking out of a stall. It was Zenyatta. Right there. Easy as pie. And only a few people around. It was like the most wonderful, magical episode of The Twilight Zone ever. What was more, when I approached the barn, I made sure to stand at the far end to begin taking my pictures, behind a tarp that had been shielding light out of half of the barn, so that I wouldn’t be loitering five feet in front of the great racemare. I expected the line would be drawn somewhere around hovering right in front of her face. But then, other reporters and photographers began to show up, and neither the groom, Mario Espinoza, or anyone else shooed them away. It’s like they actually appreciated the media, like they wanted to show her off. I was dumbstruck.

"Fiji: Water of Champions"

It was during this time I got to witness Mario give Zenyatta a drink of bottled Fiji water; literally one of the most intimate and wonderful moments I’d ever witnessed on the backstretch. The groom tried to pour the water from the bottle into her mouth, and the mare would tilt her head to the side and let it fall in her mouth. It didn’t look very effective, but made for an endearing moment and great photos. He eventually broke out a pan and let her drink from that when she had trouble drinking the last bit of water.

That morning I spent shadowing Zenyatta. I watched her walk the shedrow before embarking on the track for a pre-race jog. When I followed her to the track, I found Bob up there, as well as Zenyatta’s personal photographer from California, Charles Pravata. It was like a great West Coast reunion from our Hollywood adventure the previous July. We watched the great mare’s every move; her entrance to the track meant a shower of clicking camera shutters punctuating her every step. And when she was done taking a tour around the golden oval at Oaklawn, we followed her back to her stable. After she took several laps walking through the shedrow, Mario led her to a patch of grass outside her barn, where she was allowed to graze and bathe in the adoration of her public for some time. Here it was that the now famous kitten turned up. Backstretches are often full of feral cats, and Oaklawn was no exception; here this brave tabby cat began to stalk the 17.1-hand horse in the grass. It was all pretty entertaining, to be sure. At one point, Zenyatta turned to face her hunter, lowering her head about a foot from the tabby, and the cat turned tail and shot across the grass to the safety of a barn. He would return to check her out, though, lurking either from behind a herd of bicycles leaning up against the wall next to where the mare was grazing, or gathering enough courage to sniff the hairs of her tail. I’m not sure if the cat found a ticket to a new home after this experience, but there was a lot of talk about “Zenyatta’s cat” and how he may turn up in a house or apartment some day soon. John Shirreffs came out to stand with the now plentiful numbers of press and photographers standing around her grazing patch, and he signed autographs and gave a few people permission to have their pictures taken with her. Thinking it wouldn’t be very professional of me to ask for such a thing, I instead took a couple steps closer than the rest of the crowd and Bob took my picture standing in her presence, which is almost just as good as a posed photograph. I was still plenty giddy to have a shot of me so near this living legend.

Zenyatta and I at Oaklawn

I wanted to wait around and get pictures of Zenyatta being bathed, but I never got to see this while I was at Oaklawn. After all, this was race day for the Apple Blossom, and I had to prepare as a photographer and get my position marked along the rail, as well as hear all the track rules at the appointed time that morning. We bade farewell for now to the Queen and made our way to the infield, where a camper was set up for photographers to transmit photos via Wifi and receive our official vests.

Oaklawn really went to great lengths to make things accommodating to photographers, as well as set up organization that made things work very smoothly. I’d never been to a track so prepared for a media blitz; though I think a lot of people didn’t show up who would’ve been there had Rachel Alexandra made the trip, there was still a large number of photographers on hand. And then there was the enormous number of fans who showed up. It was almost like they were getting ready to watch a Triple Crown race, there were so many people! Hats, buttons, T-shirts, and homemade signs all proclaimed the reason they were here: all to see greatness in the flesh. They came in droves to see the undefeated Zenyatta. Everyone expected to see an exhibition race, and that’s all it amounted to be—a parade for the Queen. Sure, there were other horses in the race, but did anyone know their names? Did anybody give them two looks in the post parade? There may have been a couple other good fillies or mares in that race, but you never would’ve guessed for the people chanting Zenyatta’s name.

Oaklawn was prepared for the masses wanting to display their devotion to the champ and sold Zenyatta buttons, as well as remnants of what might’ve been by also offering Rachel Alexandra badges; of course, being the Rachel freak I am, I bought one of each, as well as an Apple Blossom hat and a shot glass. Why can’t every big racing event have such cool merchandise? I marveled at the homemade hats in the grandstands, and the number of fans stuck like flies on a glue-strip to the rail, refusing to budge the entire day until the big race went off. When I wasn’t credentialed, I would do the same thing, but I was usually the only one in my venture—here, everyone was a diehard fan. Everyone wanted a close look at perfection.

The one thing I wanted to capture with my camera was a good shot of Zenyatta’s pre-race dancing ritual. I’d only seen a couple pictures ever that really captured the charisma of the mare before a race and displayed her trademark two-step as she sauntered to the starting gate. One of those I’d begged for Charles to take before a race in California, and he obliged and posted it on Flickr, much to my excitement. But of course, it’s not the same unless it’s your own photo.

Actually taking a shot that embodies this action is extremely tough. You have to time the shot just right, or you won’t be able to tell that she’s in the middle of an unusual motion with her front legs; if you’re a split-second off her stride, she looks like she’s walking oddly, but not really dancing. And we all know she literally dances. As the horses began to make their trip from the backstretch to be saddled in the infield, I grew almost sick with anxiety. It was completely nerve-wracking. I wasn’t sure if it would be my sole opportunity to ever see Zenyatta run in person, and I was putting myself under a lot of pressure to capture every second she was in my line of vision.

When I first caught sight of her being led down the track, I began to tremble. The roar of the grandstand permeated our senses, rattled our bones, and raised the hair on the back of our necks. Goosebumps swept down my arms. And yes, tears, threatened to leak out of my eyes. It’s hard to explain how some experiences are past the point of withholding emotion, but the Apple Blossom embodied this sensation. I was nervous for my own part, I was sick that something would go wrong and Zenyatta wouldn’t win (though the sanity left in my brain would never believe she could lose such a soft race), and then I began to fear I’d become so overwhelmed by emotion I would simply fling my camera away to cheer her down the stretch when the dire moment came. But mostly, I was happy. I’d never heard a crowd so pumped up outside of a Triple Crown race—and this was even more intense for the fact that this audience wasn’t a bunch of drunk people who barely cared about the outcome of the race—the emotion behind the cheers was evident, and it made me think this is what a trip to the track might’ve been like in the Golden Age of racing. Zenyatta, in a sense, had taken us all back to a time when the whole world stopped for two minutes and watched, breath held, a couple of horses battling to a finish line.

The small field was led into the infield to be saddled, a magnificent backdrop for such a tradition (the underground paddock at Oaklawn is like fluorescent basement, and is too cramped and loud for such a big race day); the white blossoms on the trees made for a beautiful picture. It was here that the announcer named the horses in the race, and though I myself didn’t witness it, this was the moment where Zenyatta literally bowed her head when her name was called over the loudspeakers. I saw her connections laughing and was relayed the story by Charles, who of course saw the whole thing and probably had it chronicled with his amazing sense of timing. Just another story to add to her legacy as a performance artist.

As the jockeys were given a leg up, the horses were led onto the track for the post parade before a full grandstand and clambering infield of 44,973 fans. The photographers were lined up in one cluster on the track so that we could get shots of the horses from the best possible spot (Major props again to Oaklawn for this!). Here is where I had my opportunity to get a clear shot of the dance. Though still the perfectionist in me says the picture could be better, for her head isn’t in view quite as much as I’d prefer, I was instantly in love with the perspective I captured of Zenyatta’s head bowed to the crowd cheering for her in the background; her right leg is cocked out, her other legs spread wide, and she looks like a Lipizzaner on parade, or a Spanish fighting bull lunging toward the matador. I call this image “Like a Prizefighter.” It’s still one of my favorite pictures I’ve taken in 2010. I caught her dance before the race that was practically presented for her to display her charisma and class.

My anxiety did not improve much once the race began. The post time for the Apple Blossom had been pushed back for broadcast purposes (when it was still being billed as the Race of the Century), and the shadow of the grandstand cast over the track, which is sort of a dismal condition for photographers who wish to focus on a dark horse. It wasn’t night-dark, but the lack of sun made the light flat on the subjects, making the color not as appealing if the race had been run an hour or so prior, when the golden sunlight would highlight a horse’s dapples and add a gleam in their eyes. And so I nervously metered the track for the abysmal lighting condition, and re-metered during the field’s first time by the stands when the pictures looked a little too dark (unlike some racing photographers, I shoot completely in manual mode).

Then came the moment of truth. Watching the big screen in the infield, I watched as Zenyatta began to circle the field on the turn and pass the other fillies one by one. She was simply gliding by them, as if rounding horses in a workout. A lump hardened my throat. Tears began to sting my eyes. There is a rare devotion born from the ability to trust special horses as they come into view for the first time around the final turn. It’s the trust that they will always pull through for you, that they will find a way to win; it’s something precious, almost sacred, and only the greatest horses can pull it off time and time again. Zenyatta has never lost. She is the sole horse who can pull off the amazing feat of never disappointing… in a very real way, she is always there for you. How many things can you count on in your life to always come through for you? So rare and precious a gift, the gratitude for this is difficult to hold back if you really, truly appreciate it. Time and time again, I’ve witnessed my champions fail. All horses get beaten if they run long enough. Except Zenyatta. Thus, the tears.

The crowd was deafening, and my whole body shook. It was apparent she was going to win by daylight. This made shooting easier, but still I’d lost my sanity somewhere during the race. I pointed my lens on her on the stretch, focused, and the camera trembled along with me as I snapped the shutter CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CH. Zenyatta breezed through the stretch to an ovation of admirers, winning easily. I exhaled, letting the anxiety release. The champion had done it yet again, and I hadn’t tossed my camera or thrown up from nerves.

I quickly glanced through my pictures before I scrambled to the track to take my place in the receiving line of photographers. In my nervousness, I had actually metered for a darker light than there actually was, so the pictures were slightly too light. It was the first time in a race I’d ever been so discombobulated by nerves, I’d over-compensated on metering for darkness; as it turned out later, under exposing gave me more to work with, and I was able to bring up the colors in Photoshop for a much more pleasing effect than if I’d over exposed.

I joined the rest of the photographers, and we all began to take pictures of Zenyatta’s triumphant return toward the grandstand. Having watched all of her stakes races prior, I knew that Mike Smith liked to parade her after a victory for the fans, and so I wasn’t surprised when the jockey began to wave us out of the way so the big mare could get through. Scattering in her presence, Zenyatta parted through the press and jogged along the stretch. Smith raised his helmet to the sky. The jubilant crowd cheered and hollered like crazy; no one moved from their position on the rail—nobody left to cash a ticket, no one ran to beat the rush in the parking lot—everyone stayed to let the magnificence of her soak in. Smith rode her all the way to the end of the grandstands, and there he pumped his hands in celebration in a gesture of, “Raise the roof!” It was as if Zenyatta understood this was her stage, and she basked in the overflowing adoration of her public.

After this final parade, Zenyatta came back to the winner’s circle in the infield, and I felt time slow down as I captured the image of the great racemare with the pink flowers over her shoulders. Zenyatta has the look of timelessness. Around here it was when I was nearly run over her for the second time. Zenyatta has that spell-binding power over people. You tend to lose track of everything else surrounding you, including imminent danger. Not that I would necessarily mind my end coming by the hoofs of a champion race horse, actually; it would be an honor, in a way. Not that I plan on throwing myself under a horse to serve as their red carpet. Just sayin’… Okay, seriously, I wouldn’t do that. Don’t blacklist me, please. I’m not that kind of crazy.

After the races, the horse paparazzi journeyed back to our transmitting trailer and we began the task of submitting our photos to the world. Naturally, I had connection problems for whatever reason and didn’t get my pictures uploaded until after some of the other photographers had already submitted their first batch. I don’t always have the best luck in these situations (though the next day, I was so prepared I was one of the first to submit my photos, and was rewarded with a cover on NTRA with my Arkansas Derby picture), as I’d just demonstrated at Hawthorne the week before. After I transmitted my photos and packed up, I made one last stop by Zenyatta’s barn in case they were giving her a bath. I could’ve parked closer, but then I wouldn’t be a very good horse stalker, would I?

Lo and behold, there was Mario grazing the still undefeated champion in that same patch of grass outside of her stable. I stood and admired her some more, then finally built up the courage to ask if someone could take a picture of me next to her, since there were very few people around, and they’d all had their pictures taken with her just then. Mario didn’t mind, and I walked next to Zenyatta. Like some sort of bad joke, the picture of me standing next to Zenyatta, with her head raised and posed, turned out to be a close-up of my feet in the dark. I’m not joking. Because of the darkness, and the fact I had my telephoto zoom lens on my camera, the picture-taker couldn’t focus and ended up with the poorest excuse for a snapshot possible. BUT… as I was standing next to her, I reached out and dared to touch her great shoulder with my hand, and I felt her kitten-soft, velvety hide on my fingertips. She stomped her hoof. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, even if I have no photographic evidence of the moment. I left the backstretch at Oaklawn that day walking on air.

Line of David wins the Arkansas Derby

It’s sad to say that Arkansas Derby day was a footnote to this story, but what could possibly come close to that Zenyatta experience? Almost nothing, and it’s seven months later as I write this. Arkansas Derby day was highlighted by the Mayberger Handicap, where I took a picture of Bob “running” past the finish line after he set up his remote camera under the rail, a beautiful front-running winner who went on to never find the winner’s circle again, and a trip to McClard’s Barbeque in Hot Springs with my husband and Charles Pravata, involving two hick cowboys in a night I could never do justice in trying to explain the absurdity and hilarity of. On the McClard’s story, all I can say is we offered these two cowboys to join us in our booth for some reason (overall good cheer from the festivities of the Arkansas Derby day, maybe? I’ll never be quite certain), and we discovered that not only were they drunk, they had very strong opinions on a variety of subjects, including Brad Pitt’s wealth, bull ball decorations, and how to eat the ribs at this famous BBQ establishment. “Put down the fork. Pick up the rib…” And here, thank God, I do have photographic evidence. Behold.

Charles has a true
Arkansas experience

The "Mayberger Handicap"

My trip to Arkansas in 2010 is one for the ages, truly. To be surrounded by good friends, a record audience of race fans, and witness a living legend is more than one could ever hope to have all year, let alone in one weekend. I am blessed to be able to be living my dream in photographing the sport I so love and have access to be up close and personal to the excitement, pageantry, and greatness the game offers.

Thus ended my marathon, three derbies in two weeks, with one Apple Blossom for good measure. It was a prelude to a stellar year, but the single greatest stretch I would experience until the summer, long after the dust settled from the Triple Crown races. But that’s for another blog.

How to slaughter a legacy

2010-10-12T13:30:00.000-05:00

So you think you can make a crap movie about the greatest race horse of all-time and get away with it? I don't think so.

Originally posted on smilepolitely.com. Posted in ARTS to Film by Jamie Newell on Friday, October 8, 2010 at 4:00 pm

I've been holding a grudge against Seabiscuit for several years. After all, he got a movie deal before the great Secretariat, and if any race horse deserved a movie made about him, it's Secretariat. "Big Red" was the greatest race horse of all time; surely anybody with half a brain could see the potential in a great biopic, right? I should've been careful what I wished for. Now I'm holding a grudge against Seabiscuit because he got the better film treatment.

Being a person who lives and breathes both horse racing and movies, I went into this film with a unique perspective. Fully aware that Hollywood usually screws up a perfectly good story, I was willing to forgive a reasonable amount of factual errors or glossing-over of facts so long as they captured the magic of the true story. With Secretariat being my favorite race horse of all-time (and widely worshipped as a god by the general populous in the sport), I knew I would have to go into the film particularly restrained if I was going to hope to enjoy it.

The big red horse that captivated a nation.

If you are unfamiliar with Secretariat, he was the big red race horse wearing white and blue silks that came onto the scene when America was broken from the Vietnam War and the beginnings of the Watergate scandal; it was this miracle horse, who became the first horse to win the Triple Crown after a 25-year drought, that brought the public together. The year was 1973 when Secretariat won the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont, and his mark has been felt each time those races have been run since—no horse has surpassed his track record times in those three races, and no horse has ever displayed the versatility and sheer dominance of him in the history of the sport of kings.

Directed by Randall Wallace, Disney's Secretariat follows the story of his owner, Penny Tweedy, who broke the walls down in a man's world and ended up saving the farm thanks to her steadfast belief in the superhorse. Diane Lane stars as Ms. Tweedy, and is only mildly convincing in this role as the strong woman who carried the burdens of her parents' failing breeding farm. Lane plays the role with a breeziness, despite Tweedy's hardships, but her strength is too Disney-fied to feel like this woman could put men in their places, as the real Penny did. Disney's Secretariat feels more like a Lifetime made-for-TV movie than a feature film. Even the mighty John Malkovich, who portrays a flamboyant version of Secretariat's trainer, Lucien Laurin, can't mix things up enough for it to feel very exciting, and that's saying a lot, given both the material they had to work with and the always-entertaining Malkovich. Otto Thorwarth plays Ron Turcotte, Secretariat's jockey, but he doesn't have enough lines or screen time for the audience to really get much out of his character, which is just as well, because the lines that come out of Diane Lane tend to border on plain cheesy. The best performance is delivered by Nelsan Ellis, who pulls off a quietly engaging performance as Red's groom, Eddie Sweat, and actually has some chemistry with the horse actors.

The film is worth watching if you want an introduction to the sport of horse racing and the legendary Secretariat, but for those industry insiders and fans of Big Red, the movie fails miserably as a tribute to our greatest king. If you fall within the first bracket, and are curious about the real Secretariat after watching the movie, pick up Bill Nack's book: Secretariat: The Making of a Champion. It's telling that the film was supposed to be based on Nack's book, but this acknowledgment was downgraded in the credits as merely "suggested by the story by Bill Nack;" the movie certainly feels like a major downgrade from the real thing. If you're a fan of horse racing, watching Disney's Secretariat is like hearing your favorite song through a monotone speaker; it sounds familiar, but all of the song's power and punch have been reduced to a distant echo.

Diane Lane and John Malkovich in Disney's Secretariat

There are moments that are just plain ridiculous. I tried very, very had to overlook some of the blatant atrocities, like filming the Belmont at quaint Keeneland Racecourse, a beautiful boutique racetrack that could fit inside the real Belmont's massive infield. But I cannot forgive the laughable scene of Sweat, Tweedy, and friends dancing around Secretariat as they wash him at the farm to some gospel song on the radio while no one holds on to the horse's lead shank. If you just syndicated a Thoroughbred race horse to stud for $6.08 million dollars, you would want to hold on to that horse with an iron grip. The film doesn't even try to understand the racing industry or what it means for a 2-year-old to win Horse of the Year, or even accurately depict the aura surrounding the Kentucky Derby. You can't tell me that they couldn't have dubbed in three more layers of cheering fans to simulate the raucous, drunken festival that is the first Saturday in May? Clearly, the moviemakers must've scouted the tracks when there were about 5,000 people present, and not on a full-blown gambling-happy, drunken adrenaline rush that is the spirit of the most prestigious race in America. In comparison, the Kentucky Derby as depicted by Disney is a stroll along the promenade, full of appreciative fans golf-clapping the favorite in the post parade. And all of this came before I was truly disappointed in the film.

Secretariat's world record-breaking victory in the Belmont.

The one part of the movie I knew I could not forgive was if the filmmakers screwed up Secretariat's Belmont Stakes victory, which is widely considered one of the all-time greatest performances in all of sports. Not just in horse racing. In all of sports. How is it possible to screw up one of the most impressive, exciting, and emotional events of all-time? Disney must teach a class on it, because they bombed this moment spectacularly. Not only do they butcher Chic Anderson's famous race call, which, for some reason, remained in-tact for the less-memorable Derby and Preakness calls, they made the Belmont Stakes, the climax of the film, a cinematic train wreck. With choppy editing, shaky close-up camera shots, and a fake, un-inspired race call, Disney's version of the Belmont is just another horse race at the movies. There is no emotion. There is no breath-taking scope. There is no drama. It all comes off false, and then the corny evangelical music comes in, and then the filmmakers succeed in making your jaw drop, because you can't believe they just topped their own atrocity. It's like if someone took the Mona Lisa and cut it to pieces and slapped it on the side of a bus so it would be easily accessible to everyone. They took something perfect, beautiful, and legendary, and not only ruined it, but defaced it.

The best portrayal of the three big races in Disney's Secretariat is the Preakness, the middle jewel of the Triple Crown. This is because they let you watch the actual, real-life 1973 Preakness footage originally broadcast on CBS without any horrible interjections. We are treated with seeing the real Big Red on the silver screen, and nothing is more precious than that. For anyone who knows horses, it also becomes quite clear that all the other horse actors they previously used to depict Secretariat in the film would've been Big Red's waterboys in real life. You just can't duplicate perfection, not even in the movies. He was that big, and that beautiful—something no Hollywood movie could ever replicate. I only wish it had been the Belmont footage, and not the Preakness, that had been used in the film, because then I may have walked away with some shred of joy after watching Disney's adaptation of the "impossible true story." Instead, I rushed home and pulled up the historic races on YouTube to exorcise the past two hours from my memory.

In other words, I'm ready for the remake.

For the love of God, click here to watch all of Secretariat's actual races

A farewell to Rachel Alexandra the Great

2010-10-10T17:03:00.008-05:00

The following was the hardest racing-related article I've ever had to write. Thank you, Rachel, for the ride of a lifetime...

The first time I ever saw Rachel Alexandra was on April 30, 2009 at Churchill Downs. It was Thursday morning, the day before the Kentucky Oaks. It took less than 30 seconds for her to convince me I was looking at a creature unlike anything I'd ever seen with my own two eyes.

I'd been waiting with my husband and Steve, a new friend we met at the morning works, on the landing at the winner's circle. I was giddy with anticipation in the hopes of getting my first glimpse of Zenyatta, and Steve, a Churchill regular and great racing fan, kept telling us, "I can't wait until you see Rachel." And that morning, the big track screen in the infield announced her arrival for one last jog before the Oaks, and we drew in our breath as she came circling around that hallowed bend toward us. Words fail me when I try to accurately describe that moment, so I can only throw out similes and metaphors in the hopes of relating what it was really like to be there on that morning and see her.

Please click here to read the rest of my article.

Three derbies. Two weeks. Part II: Maiden home state derby

2010-10-05T01:24:00.006-05:00

Though I’m an Illinois-bred and raised, I had never been to the Illinois Derby at Hawthorne Racecourse until this year. Truth be told, I had visited Illinois’s Thoroughbred tracks only a handful of times, as major stakes races just don’t come too often to my home state. The closest track from where I live is also a 5-hour roundtrip drive, so when I go, it has to be a worthwhile day. As my job as a wedding photographer usually falls on weekends, I also get some major stakes days cut from my calendar pretty easily. But this year, the date of April 3rd was open, and gave me the opportunity to have my first Illinois Derby experience.

Having a little less than a week to settle back at home from our trip in New Orleans, my husband decided he didn’t want to participate in my derby marathon and sat out the trip to Hawthorne. Never turning down the chance to see major stakes action when I can help it, I tossed my step ladder and camera equipment into the trunk of Perri, my Toyota Solara, and made the 2 ½-hour trek up to Hawthorne. This also marked my first solo trip to a race track.

And so, with the aftertaste of spicy gumbo still in my throat, I bundled up for a windy day at the Chicago track and made it sometime in the middle of the card without getting lost. Yes, I count it a small victory every time I can navigate my way to Chicago without getting lost, even though I lived there for two years.

It was quickly brought to my attention that I was going to be assigned the inside spot for the derby, much to my glee. That time of day, the light on the outside is downright atrocious due to backlighting, so I lucked out. I set up my step ladder behind the finish line and adjusted it a couple races prior to the big one so that I could test the best shooting position.

I couldn’t have asked for a better scenario than what I had in the Illinois Derby. There couldn’t have been a more beautiful horse with a better running style for this race, truly. It was as if American Lion was showboating for me.

The track photographer and I were the only people shooting from behind the rail on the turf course, and I was the only one boosted with a ladder. When the horses broke for the derby, American Lion shot straight to the lead and didn’t let go. He was perfect for us photographers because if for some reason we messed up the finish, we had the opportunity to get the photo of him in front and crossing the finish line from the start of the race. But I didn’t mess up the finish, and the picture ended up being one of my favorites of the year. The lighting was phenomenal, with just enough hitting the eye that you can see a warm, round iris looking home; the framing was just perfect, as well, and I was close enough I didn’t have to crop it at all. A dream run for American Lion and me.

After the race, I hung outside the winner’s circle to photograph the horses coming back to be unsaddled. Trainer Eoin Harty was pretty excited about the win, as was jockey David Flores. The jockey practically jumped on Harty after the pictures and embraced him. American Lion certainly looked like the real deal, with a convincing win on the dirt after an all-synthetics campaign prior to that; he was now elevated in my Kentucky Derby standings. I gave Harty a thumbs-up after the winner’s circle pictures were taken (complete with Flores mugging with the garland of flowers and trophy), and he smiled at me. That was the split-second before Backtalk nearly ran me over. Stupid photographer, not watching where she was going!

Overall, a short, but memorable Illinois Derby. Finally, I felt like a real Illinois railbird. All I had to do was check the Arlington Million off my list, and I would be certified. But first, onward to the weekend I was looking forward to more than the Kentucky Derby itself: Arkansas Derby weekend. For the first time, I would witness the living legend run past me and feel the knot-in-the-throat exhilaration of her presence on a race day. Finally, after all this time, I was to witness the spectacle of Zenyatta.

In summation...

2010-10-04T23:42:00.005-05:00

Note from Jamie:

I've neglected this blog something awful this year, which is a shame, because so many good things have happened, and I've witnessed so many amazing races. I apologize for being away for so long and want to thank my readers (if, indeed you're still there) for checking back on me. I will try to fill in some blanks and keep a more current blog running, even if that means cutting back on how much I write. While I embark on this process to update what needs to be filled in, here is an overview of my favorite moments from my year so far...

Portraits of a year

Originally posted in SPORTS to The Call To The Post by Jamie Newell on Friday, September 17, 2010 at 3:00 pm

With the racing year winding down as we near Breeders' Cup, there isn't a lot going on at the moment, and so I thought it would be a good time to take a little handicapping break. Instead of talking about the Woodbine Mile this Saturday (which you should watch), I wanted to bring my readers something unique—a reward, if you will—for hanging with me for the past two and a half years The Call to the Post has been running. I have been very fortunate to travel to eight different race tracks across America this year and be able to get up close and personal with the game's biggest superstars. From Santa Anita to Saratoga, Zenyatta to Rachel, my camera lens has been there to capture both some of the quietest moments and most thrilling at the track. A lot goes on at the races or on the backstretch that I am not able to mention in my regular articles, so I'm taking the opportunity now to share them with you, my faithful readers. Ordered from the beginning of the year to the present, here are my top ten favorites photographs from this year... so far.

1. Perfection

I know, technically, Zenyatta's retirement parade at Santa Anita took place in December, but it felt like a whole new year. Anyway, it marked my first time seeing Zenyatta in person since the 10 seconds she passed in front of me while jogging at Churchill Downs in 2009; I thought this would be the last time I ever got to see her on a race track. The fact she was promptly brought out of retirement and raced for another season proves to me that the racing gods do exist.

Please click here to read the rest of this article.

Three Derbies. Two weeks. Part I: "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?"

2010-06-13T12:17:00.010-05:00

So much happened this past spring, it’s hard to put it all together now. At the time it was all going on, I began to wonder how I was ever able to write a blog during Kentucky Derby week. I came to the conclusion I must not have taken as many photos. I certainly hadn’t gone to as many prep races for the Kentucky Derby before; 2010 was the year of the nomad for me. I traveled by car to Louisiana, back home to Illinois, and then down to Arkansas to photograph three Derbies in a two-week span, accentuated by one of the best times I’ve had as a racing photographer, the day I got to see Zenyatta run.

It all started in New Orleans—the Crescent City, my obsession and far-away respite from home. The food, the atmosphere, the sights—there’s nothing like it. Every spring I travel to this beloved place, and this year, my husband’s spring break just happened to land squarely in the week of the Louisiana Derby. Talk about luck… while the experience itself wasn’t marked with shenanigans of fellow photographer friends, it was simply that: an experience.

On the drive down to New Orleans, I read the book Black Gold, by Marguerite Henry. I read most of Henry’s books as a kid, but never this one, for whatever reason. Knowing that the 1924 Kentucky Derby winner was laid to rest in the infield of Fair Grounds, I knew I had to brush up on his story before I visited the place. I read the book in about three hours, and having that story permanently embedded in my heart as I crossed the track for the first time made the trip all that much more special. Henry’s words lived in my mind as I saw the horses fly past the infield of palms and brightly-colored flowers, and looked down from the view high in the press box to see Black Gold and Pan Zareta’s graves in the infield. I imagined the boy, Jaydee, riding the streetcar to Fair Grounds to jog horses on this very sight, and that devastating moment of heart as Black Gold broke down on the track, and determinedly finished the race on three legs.

The big Oaks-Derby weekend at Fair Grounds marked my first outing with my brand-new lens, a fixed 300mm I bought used from Adorama. Holy cow, do I love this lens! The close-ups I was able to get of the horses in the paddock and on the track were so crisp and detailed, all but making my 70-200mm a mere back-up lens. The only drawback is the f4 limit, making it difficult to shoot in low-light situations. As we were blessed with two fine, sunny days at the track after they’d been getting some of the worst weather Fair Grounds had ever seen, I was able to get some great shots. Fair Grounds race course is actually positioned in such a way that the lighting in the afternoon is always trickier than other tracks. Instead of running into the light at Churchill Downs, or at an angle like at Oaklawn, the light shines from directly behind the horses as they run toward the finish line. This is difficult for anyone trying to take a remote shot, as the horses would be little more than two silhouettes with a bright background. I haven’t yet learned the trade of remote photography, but the shadows were difficult to master that weekend, even so. Additionally, the track was strict on photographer access to the inside thanks to some photog breaking a rule only a few weeks prior. Because I was credentialed through a major company, I was able to cross the track to photograph the races on the turf, though I felt I shouldn’t push my luck by wanting to shoot on the inside for the dirt races.

At that time, I had reinstated Operation Rachel, since she was currently stabled at Fair Grounds and had just begun regular workouts over the track. As I had been assigned to photograph Yate’s Black Cat, a horse that was racing in a turf stakes on the Louisiana Derby undercard, I made an excuse to get on the backstretch to photograph Yate’s, hoping to be able to also see Rachel. The backstretch at Fair Grounds isn’t particularly aesthetic to look at from a photographer’s standpoint. The stables are enclosed barns that make it impossible to see any of the horses within, which meant there was no way I was going to be able to see Rachel, unless she happened to be walking between barns when I was back there. An extremely nice worker led us to Dale Romans’s barn so I could photograph Yate’s, and who should be in the stall next to him, but the Fair Grounds Oaks winner, Quiet Temper. While the filly was pretty docile, yet curious, Yate’s was a total ham, yucking it up for me with each click of my shutter. He smiled, he yawned, he stuck out his tongue, he did everything but put on a dog and pony show. Needless to say, he won me over with his charm and good looks. It was only too bad that I had not been prepared to go inside of an enclosed barn, and had my low-light lens on my less powerful camera body while taking the shots. The man who had taken us to the barn must’ve appreciated our enthusiasm for horses, because he sent us off with two souvenir Fair Grounds hats before we went to the races Saturday. The back of the hat read, fittingly, The Grindstone Stakes (wait for it…).

After our eventful morning on the backstretch with Yate’s and Quiet Temper, my husband and I made our way to our favorite restaurant in all of New Orleans, Liuzza’s At The Track. Liuzza’s has hands-down the best gumbo in town. I will fight to the death to defend it to any naysayers. Talk about a perfect day—the best gumbo I’ve ever had, coupled with a day of spectacular horse racing, and all within blocks of each other! Liuzza’s walls are bedecked on the inside by photos of Fair Grounds and winner’s circle shots. Behind the bar, old racing glasses reflect in the mirrors, while neon signs glow against a stack of Daily Racing Forms on the counter. It is my perfect image of what a restaurant near the race track should be like. So far, I’ve discovered nothing like it in America. Liuzza’s is the quintessential stop for race fans before a day at the track.

The Louisiana Derby itself was a race I hadn’t thought much would come out of, to be honest. There was no stand-out horse in the field, though I was rooting for the Lecomte Stakes winner, Ron the Greek. I appreciated his stunning late-kick in the Lecomte, and thought the Risen Star wasn’t fast enough to compliment his running style. With Discreetly Mine also in the field, I expected one of those two horses to win, but when Mission Impazible came charging late to win the Louisiana Derby, it was another cry of, “Of course, the other Pletcher horse!”

The minute Mission Impazible returned to the winner’s circle, a jazz band struck up a celebratory tune, and the party broke out. Talk about feeling like you were in living in a moment from the past. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of tradition at race tracks, and Fair Grounds knows how to make you feel like you are not at just any track, but a New Orleans race track. They serve a mixture of Cajun and Creole food at the track on Derby day (Bugs, anybody?), and the jazz band makes the atmosphere all the more party-like. They know how to make the races fun in New Orleans. The only thing I found missing was the crowd didn’t cheer that much for the horses; I’ve noticed each track has a different sort of audience. Even though they did know how to celebrate when the winner was crowned with a garland of flowers, they didn’t get too excitable for the races, for the most part. It seems that in all places, New Orleanians would know how to holler, but it seems this is not as much a part of the Louisiana tradition.

After the Louisiana Derby, I made the determined decision to sneak into the infield and pay my respects to Black Gold and Pan Zareta. The only other stakes on the card was the Grindstone Stakes, which is ironically on the turf, and not on the dirt. Grindstone holds a special place in my heart as being the very first winner of the Kentucky Derby I ever picked to win, so I gave myself more freedom when it came to shooting that race. Between the Louisiana Derby and the Grindstone, I walked down to the 16th pole on the infield to visit the graves. Sadly, they are not bedecked with much for memorials, and the rose bushes planted in front of the graves are old and dried up. Unlike the book illustrates, no trace of a bronze saddle rises out of the memorial for the 1924 Derby winner, though his name remains on the concrete monument. They are spaced about 15 feet from each other, Black Gold the closer to the finish line. I wish I’d been able to carry a flower or something to the graves to pretty them up a little, but all I had to lay on their graves was my respects. If I lived in New Orleans, I think I’d take it upon myself to make those sites look more respectable. Black Gold and Pan Zareta deserve as much.

Being so close the 16th pole, I was able to shoot the break of the Grindstone Stakes. Then, as the horses flew down the turf, I jogged with my equipment to the finish line and was able to beat the horses there to shoot the finish from the inside. I got the honor of saying I was the sole photographer to shoot that race from the inside; it’s one moment nobody else in the world will have but me. That’s a rare thing to be able to claim in a stakes race.

Saying good-bye to New Orleans is always one of the most heart-wrenching things I have to do, but at least I was able to leave Louisiana knowing I had even more to look forward to in Illinois and Arkansas. At that point, I didn’t know if I was going to feel up to making the drive to Chicago. As it turned out, the Louisiana Derby only served to whet my appetite for more live racing action.

Jamie, meet Zenyatta

2010-03-13T09:48:00.014-06:00

Much has happened since opening day at Santa Anita for the winter meet. It was Boxing Day, December 26, and I thought I was going to be looking at the already legendary racemare, the undefeated, uncontested Zenyatta for the very last time.

Opening day was my first trip to Santa Anita Park. That day, I fell hopelessly in love. Many times before I'd bashed the park due to its synthetic track, and though I do not retract those comments, I can never look back at Santa Anita the same way again. California's greatest race place is stained with an imperfect surface on its main track, but the park itself a mecca. I now know why so many people in the industry flock there and never return to the East. It truly is a horseman's paradise. Anyone who's never been can never truly understand the swell of emotions one feels when looking upon the San Gabriel Mountains in the background, and how between these mountains and the grandstands, the track seems to be cupped in a large, nurturing hand, like the ground itself is protecting the history that has been made here.

The first thing I did upon entering the gates at Santa Anita was rush to that darkened doorway, past the bettors, food vendors, and TVs, toward the grandstand apron outside. I felt my heart lift out of the winter doldrums as I looked upon that view for the first time: the track, the turf, the palm trees, the hills and trees, the mountains--paradise.

The day was chocked full of events. Opening day would see the unveiling of the brand-new John Henry statue in the paddock, several stakes events, and of course, the farewell ceremony of Zenyatta. And I wanted to be there for it all. Though it is a cliche, I really can't find a better way to explain my demeanor that day: I was like a kid with a $100 bill let loose in a candy store. I picked up my credentials from the press office, after some convincing that yes, my boss had called in over a month ago to confirm, (I'm hoping that when I visit a track after the initial time, people will stop scrutinizing whether or not I've actually had credentials reserved for me. Obviously, I need to visit the track more often.) and after I breathed a breath of fresh air, blessed with the Right to Walk Anywhere, I threw myself headlong into all things Santa Anita and never looked back.

The day was extraordinary--from photographing my favorite jockeys, stepping into the paddock the first time, and witnessing the stars of tomorrow, it was all like some kind of dream come true for me. I got a great shot of Chantal Sutherland winning her first race of the meet, her fist flying in the air like she'd just won a stakes race, and then had to make like a roadrunner and zoom to the paddock to thrust myself in the crowd of media and fans surrounding the John Henry statue. Once you get credentials, you become a little emboldened. I saw a small me-sized window between a John Henry fan and a child and dove into it, crouching so as to not block someone else's view, and I was front row for the whole unveiling. I have a special spot for John Henry, and I think that's one reason I felt like I needed to be up in the middle of all the action, besides my obvious rights to shoot it with my credentials; I used to visit him every year at the Kentucky Horse Park before I was living and breathing horse racing. I got to know him as the "Angry Old Man," and had a healthy respect for him as the retired old pro in the Hall of Champions. He died on my third wedding anniversary, and I felt like I'd lost a family member. Seeing him immortalized in bronze twice since his death (the first being at his grave in the Horse Park) has made me feel even more connected to John. Though I never saw him race, I'll never forget the time I was handed a few hairs from his mane before his appearance at one of the Hall's shows; I followed him (at a safe distance, of course) to the walkway between the barn and the pavilion, and when they called his name, a fire lit in John's eyes and he transformed into a young charger again--he leapt into a trot and entered like the superstar he was.

In the throng of reporters, I found two of my photographer buddies, whom I'd been missing since running all around by myself. Of course Charles Pravata had to make an appearance that day: he's practically Zenyatta's personal photographer! I also ran into Bob Mayberger; it was like the Hollywood Park experience all over again. Bob hadn't been sure he was coming to Santa Anita, but since he's trying to break the record for the most tracks photographed by a single person in one year (at least that's what it seems he's up to), he obviously couldn't afford to miss opening day.

Directly following the John Henry statue unveiling was the California Breeders' Champion Stakes, which was won by Caracortado. I'd never heard of this game little chestnut before, but I was stuck by how excited his connections were when he crossed the finish line well clear of the rest of the field. It was like they'd just won the Santa Anita Derby for how they were celebrating! It's sad, but a reality that many people don't look that excited after their horse wins a race, and there's just something ingenuine about a bunch of people who seem like they're entitled and don't get caught up in the excitement; Caracortado's connections are anything but. I actually took a shot of one member of these connections celebrating, but I don't know his name. I wish I could send him the shot, especially after now that Caracortado looks like he is Kentucky Derby-bound. What a rags to riches story for "Scar Face..." another reason this sport is so great.

My stomach was doing backflips after Caracortado's victory due to the next scheduled event, and I think their celebration helped calm me a little bit. I mean, I was going into the following events with the knowledge that this was to be my absolute last chance to get good pictures of Zenyatta, the living legend. You never see racemares after they're retired, NEVER. If anyone knows how I can get a shot of Rags to Riches or Proud Spell, please let me know, because it seems once they become broodmares, they're out of the picture unless they're entering the auction ring. Images of my Woody Allen moment flashed through my head, and those sad, two shots I had of Zenyatta galloping at Churchill Downs. This was it. The final curtain. After her retirement ceremony, she would be out of the picture for good. Thank God my camera didn't fail me... I think I would've thrown myself onto Hollywood Boulevard if it had.

She arrived like a mirage. While Santa Anita's grandstands played "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" by The Police, she entered the track from the backstretch; as a wave of applause and cheers greeted her, she became larger and larger. I was standing in the middle of the track in front of the winner's circle, and I think my heart was pounding so hard it almost popped out of my throat. Zenyatta was about to come right %^$@*&! in front of me. I gathered my wits and began to shoot like a crazed member of the paparazzi. She came jogging past me once, then turned around at the end of the grandstands and came back again; she turned around and came back toward me once more, then into the winner's circle, which I traversed like a spider monkey and somehow was able to perch right in the center of the ledge overlooking it so I could get her in the place she had visited after her greatest triumphs. I had her, and I had her again and again... Finally, finally; it was almost as good as being able to see her race. There was no pressure, she was so accessible. I couldn't have asked for anything more. When Mike Smith took a leg up on her exercise saddle, I saw the transformation take place that Charles had always spoken to me about. She thought she was going to race. I saw her muscle up and start her Spanish walk, so fitting we should see Zenyatta, who danced like a fighter before a big match, on Boxing Day. I couldn't help tearing up. This was going to be the last time she ever danced that dance on a race track. It became so tragic all of a sudden, and I wanted to whirl around and scream, "Why the hell are you retiring this horse! Look at her!" I'd barely seen a fit race horse look like she did on that day when she was supposedly being wound down from training. She looked like she could race that day. Mike was all smiles. Before they went into the winner's circle (I know, I'm back-tracking), I knew a Moment in Time when I saw one, and though a slew of photographers were in my way, I quickly jutted my way through legs and fell to my knee, where I took the shot I knew would capture that moment and her career: Zenyatta and Mike Smith, "Perfection." From low on the ground, looking up, she looked larger-than-life, which is a perfect analogy for an unbeaten freak like this mare. There is a feeling you get when you take a shot like that. It's sort of like I could die the next day and it would be okay, because I'd just captured something so special that would never happen again, and I was lucky enough to get it. I'd only ever felt that way once, and that was my photo of Rachel Alexandra winning the Kentucky Oaks, something I don't know if I could ever have been lucky enough to shoot the same way again. I saved my "Perfection" shot in five different places that night so if anything happend to my camera or my memory card or the computer, I would still have it, if nothing else, when I got home. I don't know if it'll ever be published, because of the events which happened only a month later, but that photo will forever be one of my all-time favorite pictures I've ever taken. And there was a pantleg in the frame before I cropped it out. This is why you should never be afraid to take risks if the vision is there.

I got one last poignant shot of Zenyatta walking out of my life forever as her farewell ceremony came to a close. Her trainer, John Shirreffs, watched her being led off the track one last time to the cheer of the grandstands. I couldn't have planned a more storied shot. Imagine how sad this photo would be if Zenyatta wasn't un-retired a little less than a month later!!

I took my first plane flight ever to be at Santa Anita on opening day, and I'd still never change my experience knowing what I do now for a million dollars. To see something so special as this once-in-a-lifetime superhorse is to feel fulfilled, and I was able to make my peace of never having a decent experience with her in the two years I'd followed her. Now that she will race again, I feel like Zenyatta is finally going to be able to have the sort of campaign she has deserved for so long, and was cheated out of. Her Breeders' Cup Classic race proved how special she really is, and after she was finally able to prove what I'd thought all along, I can't wait to see what 2010 has in store for her.

And now the Apple Blossom awaits... but that's another blog.

Reaping the detriments

2010-02-23T00:44:00.016-06:00

I still have yet to post about one of the best days I've had as a photographer at the track, which was my experience at Santa Anita, and here I am about to tell about the exact opposite of that day. Last Friday was the worst experience I've had at the track as a photographer. I've been neglecting this blog due to a constant floundering in my seasonal defective disorder, and not really feeling much like writing. I do apologize for that, for there has been a lot worth talking about in racing right now.

But, this takes precedence. I've witnessed breakdowns before, but the situation has never been quite like this. I was alone, and close, and the incident was as bad as you can imagine.

I went to my home state track of Hawthorne Race Course for the first time. There was no stakes race to anticipate, I just really wanted to get out of the house and visit a track that I figured I ought to see, since it was the closest one in proximity to my residence. I called in for credentials and made the trip. I discovered the inside rail was particularly low to the ground compared to other tracks, which meant I had to practically roll underneath it on my knees to walk on the turf course. That was fun. Also, Hawthorne reminds me a lot of Aqueduct, except Hawthorne's finish line is nicer in proximity to the grandstand apron, in that you can actually stand across from it as a spectator. The finish line itself is hilarious--there IS none. It is designated by a smattering of ads from the Daily Racing Form and TVG, etc., and the photo finish box on the opposite side. There is no pole that says, "Hey jock! Here's the wire, don't pull up too quick!" I frankly don't know how they don't have mishaps.

Anyway, I decided to hoof it around the turn and take some stock photos of horses running around that area. Even though it was a grossly polluted-looking day, and the Chicago skyline was diluted by brown smog, it was still an interesting background to the horses, so I captured the scene and plotted practicing turn shots. I don't get a lot of practice with turn shots, because there usually isn't a good place to stand, and because the track is usually too wide for my maximum 200mm focal length to frame a good photo. Hawthorne's dirt track isn't too wide, so I found a shack meant for outriders and other track people to stake out in during the races, and waited in the fifth for my opportunity to shoot my first outside rail turn shot. It didn't go as planned.

I had my shot planned out perfectly. I had plenty of time between races to stand there and frame it, adjust for lighting and shutter, all that good stuff, while I waited for the horses to be saddled, paraded, and walked over to the starting gate on the other side. Frankly, I got bored in between races with no one to shoot the shit with. And so when the race actually started, it came upon me pretty quickly. The track is so quiet at Hawthorne, you don't notice the horses are coming until they're practically on top of you. On top of that strange silence, I was far away from the grandstands, and was the sole person within a half mile at the turn besides the riding jockeys.

So there I stood in my little shack, lens trained on the field turning for home, shutter snapping away, when all of a sudden, a horse does a somersault just like Go For Wand, stirring a cloud of dust in the air, rolling over her jockey and tossing him into the middle of the track as the rest of the horses leave them behind.

The dust cleared. It was just me, a motionless jockey, and a horse on her knees with two irreparable front legs.

I can't put into words how utterly worthless I felt being the closest able-bodied person to that scene, and unable to do anything about it. As a human being, my immediate reaction was the need to run to the fallen jockey's side and see if he was alright. But of course he wasn't alright. He wasn't moving a muscle. I was paralyzed by the thought that I could approach him and find him dead. And that horse, that poor doomed horse... I couldn't bare getting any closer to that pathetic creature reduced to two legs, nose resting in the dirt. I wanted so badly to help, but knew there was nothing I could do at all. I knew well that you don't move a person who has potentially broken his neck or back, which this jockey had clearly done one or both of. Had I left my shack to approach them, I probably would've been yelled at by track personnel once they arrived, and for some reason, I feared in the back of my mind someone would blame me for the incident. I was the only person there to see it happen. I guess it was the child-like "I didn't do it" syndrome. I don't mean for this to sound at all like a joke, but my mind was going through a roller coaster of emotions, and I didn't know how best to react. So I waited.

The ambulance arrived within what felt like several minutes, but it was probably less than that. I know it felt like an eternity between the time the rest of the horses found home and help arrived at the turn. The jockey still hadn't moved a muscle by the time they were at the scene and hauled him off on a stretcher, leaving the fallen creature to her fate. I had hope the jockey would be okay when the ambulance arrived. Something about the quickness of their movements told me he would be saved. But I knew there would be no salvation for the filly. At first glance, I thought maybe, maybe there would be a sliver of hope she was just in shock... but then, of course, I saw what was left of her broken foreleg flop between her knees, and I knew. Like an unforgivable sin, there is no other sentence for a flaw like that. I prayed that needle would find her quick and save her from suffering, and the wait for that was probably more excruciating.

I waited with her for several minutes after an outrider and a track official arrived at the scene. The horse ambulance, that telltale green van, seemed to take forever. I didn't wait to see them load her. I couldn't bare it. I saw a man administer something, maybe it was a tranquilizer, maybe it was mercy, to her neck, but she did not fall. As if out of pride, she stood on her two good legs till the end. The man with the needle shoved her body with his own, but she refused to lay down, and she could not pick up her forelegs; they remained two traitorous limp weights, curving her into a macabre bow to the dirt for which she had been borne.

I finally left my post. I dare not watch her fall.

The Daily Racing Form summed up this event like this.

Hawthorne is not a particularly bad track. It's not bad at all, really. There was no cruel circumstance behind what happened; it was just one of those random events that comes and goes like the wind. The filly had only run three previous races and had never been out of the money. She wasn't overraced, unfit, or badly bred. She was just fast, lightly-boned, and unlucky.

I just happened to go for the first time on a day where something tragic happened. I know I will never be able to look at that turn the same way again, but like that jockey (who will ride again), I have to get back up on that proverbial horse and ride, because this is what I love.

I get to see a lot of triumphs at the track. I am privileged to see many fantastic feats of athleticism, strokes of luck, shines of brilliance; but with reaping the benefits of my job, I must also reap the detriments. Love is, after all, give and take.

All aboard the Afleet Express bandwagon!

2010-01-29T22:14:00.004-06:00

Originally published in smilepolitely.com...

The Sunshine Millions kicks off a weekend of competition between the sunniest places in America, California and Florida. Sadly, none of these races are graded, which means you probably won't find the type of competition you would in, say, a normal graded stakes race in California. This is one reason why I won't attempt to handicap these races; that, and I've already caught Derby fever. Forgive me, my immune system is vulnerable to this rampant disease; in fact, it might be fair warning to just assume this column will be full of mostly Derby screeches and false starts until the big preps are finally underway. So until that time comes in April, I give you... an allowance race to look forward to.

This Saturday, race number two at Gulfstream Park may just mark the coming out party of a certain 3-year-old I've had earmarked since December, when, by chance, I caught his maiden race at Aqueduct. You will not find his name on most early Derby contender lists, because he has only raced once. But this colt, more than most in his crop, is packed with plenty of intrigue to keep him in mind when dreaming of roses in May.

Afleet Express is by Afleet Alex, valiant winner of the 2005 Preakness and Belmont Stakes. Not since Alysheba's Derby in 1987 had there been a more harrowing moment in Triple Crown history, with the an outcome nothing short of miraculous—at the top of the stretch in the Preakness, Afleet Alex fell to his knees when the horse in front of him blew the turn and cut into his lane, nearly sending jockey Jeremy Rose out of his saddle; yet somehow, the team managed to pick up their stride and win the classic race by five lengths. And in the Belmont Stakes, Afleet Alex went on to win the 1 ½-mile test by a condescending 7 lengths, leaving the horse racing world to wonder what might've been had the colt a better trip in the Kentucky Derby, where he finished an unlucky third to the longshot, Giacomo. If nothing else, the son of Afleet Alex certainly has the genes to make him something special; but his first time out has shown that Junior might just have a shine of his daddy in him.

On an early December day at Aqueduct, with a track deemed "muddy," the bay colt made his career debut; but an off track was far from this young colt's biggest woes. Afleet Express broke from the third position, and hardly two jumps out of the gate, the colt was checked hard by two other contenders, causing him to rear up and fall back five lengths from the bulk of the field. There he lagged until the middle of the turn, when he began to catch up to the rest of the horses. At the top of the stretch, with jockey John Velazquez working on him already, a victory seemed impossible, as the colt was lugging out and stalling in his bid to catch the leaders. Afleet Express was running greenly, ogling at the other horses with his head up in the air.

But by the time they reached the quarter pole, Afleet Express began to pick off the rest of the horses, and in one sweeping move, found a rhythm with just enough time to blow past them and win by a length and a half. Once the big, leggy colt approached the wire, he seemed to figure out just what was expected of him, and started a nice, fluid stride. Though he has only raced at a distance of six furlongs, his long stride indicates he will take to two turns just like his papa did.

Afleet Express's first start may not have been a show-stopper, but it hints at a well of talent inside this green colt. While the rest of the field broke cleanly and had no real excuses for losing, 'Express had every reason to lose, and ran away with victory when it appeared he had no idea what he was doing. Now, imagine what this same colt could do if he had nobody checking him and had a little more maturity under his belt—if talent is the only thing that got him to a 1 ½-length victory, focus will make his winning margin stretch far beyond his competition. I can only see bright things ahead once Afleet Express gets more experience.

Afleet Express will be running at 6 furlongs again this Saturday in a $48,000 allowance test at Gulfstream. John Velazquez will also be back in the saddle. Though there is a 30% chance of thunderstorms on Saturday, the rain isn't supposed to start until after 3:00pm local time, and so Afleet Express will likely get his first taste of racing on a fast dirt track. He will be facing a field of six others, and may go off as the second-choice favorite to General Maximus. General Maximus has also had only one start to his career, a 4-length win in July at Belmont Park over the dirt; he is returning to the races for the first time after having a bone chip removed from his ankle.

Gulfstream Park is the perfect spot to take in promising new Kentucky Derby prospects. Whether or not Afleet Express shines like a new locomotive in his first start as a 3-year-old, there are plenty of opportunities for him to prove himself, as well as for other 3-year-olds to make their mark on this trail to Kentucky.

Watch out for Jackson Bend

2010-01-21T11:22:00.010-06:00

Excuse me while I scrape my jaw off the floor. While I've been busy catching up on my work since I returned home from my epic California trip (which I promise to blog about once I touch up all my pictures (stupid computer memory fail)), I've been lamenting the fact no 3-year-old has really grabbed my attention, save for the ridiculously impressive win of Afleet Express in his maiden race on December 5th.

And then today, I happened to find a link on Bloodhorse.com from Brisnet of all places about the "favorite" for the Holy Bull Stakes this Saturday. I was researching for my article, which was about all the newsbreaks since last Saturday, and hoped to cram in some brief handicapping for the Lecomte Stakes and Holy Bull this Saturday. Imagine my surprise when I read that not only was there a 3-year-old on a 5-race win streak I hadn't yet heard about, but that he is such an impressive winner on a 5-race win streak. Twitter has failed me. What good is this micro social networking website if I don't get all the neccesary Kentucky Derby trail tidbits on a you-heard-it-here-first basis?

But I digress. After reading the aforementioned article and watching the race linked in the article, I nearly choked on my chai, fell out of my chair, and wanted to call everyone in the horse racing world I knew to tell them about this race I'd just watched. Forget Lookin at Lucky, nevermind Buddy's Saint... make way for Jackson Bend.

This chestnut colt has won at 6 furlongs and 1 1/16 miles. His last race, the In Reality Stakes, is what has me supercharged and frothing at the mouth in anticipation for the Holy Bull...

If you are unable to view this video, here is the jist of it: Jackson Bend stumbles and falls to his nose at the break, zooms into fourth place at the first turn, then makes his way into a stalking position and takes the lead at the quarter pole, and manages to hold off the challenge of Thank You Philippe (whose had a clean trip the whole race) and then pulls away to win by 2 3/4 lengths. A 2-year old is not supposed to be that salty. Most horses with that kind of a disasterous start would never recover and not even finish in the money, let alone draw away clear after being challenged in the middle of the turn. This kind of run makes you think about the champions who have overcome such adversity: Rags to Riches and War Admiral, for instance, both had those stumble and win stories in the Belmont Stakes. The bottom line: Jackson Bend couldn't have been more impressive in athleticism and heart.

The Brisnet article states that Jackson Bend "registered BRIS Speed ratings as high as 106 last year, with century-topping Late Pace numbers to his credit in his last two starts." In addition, the Daily Racing Form states that he was "the only juvenile in North America to post a triple-digit Beyer Speed Figure going two turns in 2009." This sounds good enough for me to have a legitimate reason to be excited about this colt. What's more, he has been transferred to the barn of Derby veteran trainer, Nick Zito.

Now of course I know that Derby roadsters fall off the trail on a daily basis, but if the horse racing gods are kind (and lately, they have been), they will save this one from injury or politics and will let him blossom into what he will without incident. And if Jackson Bend blossoms into anything resembling what he showed as a 2-year-old, we are in for a wild 2010 in the 3-year-old division.

I can't remember the last time I've been so excited to watch the Holly Bull Stakes.

My kind of Christmas

2009-12-25T10:04:00.005-06:00

For more than one reason, Zenyatta has eluded me at the track. Whether it's because I was never in California when she raced, or from a late scratch when she was supposed to run at Churchill Downs, or merely because I was caught off-guard, I've never really been able to photograph the undefeated living legend.

But when I heard Zenyatta would be paraded one final time, on opening day at Santa Anita on December 26, my mind started spinning on how I could get there to make this dream come true. My husband and I already planned to go on vacation during winter break, but we didn't usually make it out to California until around New Year's, since we always drive. So as Zenyatta was appearing the day after Christmas, I gave up the dream quickly, as I reside in Illinois, and would have to fly to California on Christmas day to be able to see her.

Well, it helps having a husband as spontaneous as me. It seems the seed I planted in his head had quickly grown into a beanstalk of an idea while I wasn't looking. Before I knew it, we had two plane tickets to California on Christmas day, and I was in tears at the prospects of being able to see Zenyatta one last time. To make a long story short, I was able to get credentials for Santa Anita on opening weekend and found out that it wasn't just Big Z I was going to finally be able to see, but also the great Lava Man's return to racing on that Sunday.

Nobody could've dreamt up a better Christmas present for me. So here I stand, ready to take my first-ever plane flight, and it's for a race horse. How fitting for me, and how blessed. I will write more after the experience, so for now, Happy Christmas, and may the Horse be with you!

My final thoughts on Horse of the Year 2009

2009-12-18T23:19:00.007-06:00

Originally posted on Smilepolitely.com...

And so it begins. For months now, arguments have been hurled back and forth like a mud-slinging match between political parties, and I've tried to stay away. The fights have erred on insulting, and both sides have angered me with their accusations. If you're at all tuned in to the horse racing world, you know this debate has become infamous: who deserves Horse of the Year, Rachel Alexandra or Zenyatta? Many articles have been writ on this subject—some thoughtful, some ridiculous—and since this article will be the year-end edition of The Call to the Post, I've decided to break my silence and give my final word about the two top contenders for the most coveted Eclipse Award. (That way, if I should die in my plane flight going to or coming from Santa Anita over the break, all of you will know how I truly stood on this topic, because obviously the masses have been waiting with baited breath far too long...)

In order to make an intelligent opinion on this debate, one must know the facts of both sides. We will start with Zenyatta, then go on to Rachel, stating each's attributes for why she should win the Eclipse for Horse of the Year, and then contrast their detractors.

Zenyatta completed a perfect season with 5 wins in 5 starts, four of them Grade I victories. She became the first female horse to win the Breeders' Cup Classic when she won the race in her patented last-to-first running style, when challenged against males for the first time. The Classic was called one of the deepest fields in history, boasting a Kentucky Derby winner, a Belmont and Travers Stakes winner, an Arlington Million winner, as well as top stakes runners from Europe. The Classic was surely the biggest test in the 5-year-old mare's career; not only did she break slowly and start on the wrong lead, but she had to come between horses with her furious late charge, something she'd never had to do before. As a big horse, standing at 17.1 hands, it's very difficult to weave between traffic, but Zenyatta did that and then some, going on to score America's richest race by a length. And she did this like she was running against a bunch of mid-grade fillies, her ears pricking and without breaking a sweat. Zenyatta's victory in the Breeders' Cup Classic capped off a perfect career; she was retired unbeaten in 14-for-14 races. The popular mare brought the Santa Anita crowd to its knees in celebration; the presence, the power, and talent of Zenyatta is something unlike we'll probably ever see again.

In the closest call of her career, Zenyatta won by a determined head in the 2009 edition of the Clement L. Hirsch Stakes at Del Mar. Her late running style nearly got her into trouble in that race, and perhaps her regular jockey, Mike Smith, was a little too confident going into it. Zenyatta hung dead last in the middle of the turn, and didn't start to pick off horses until the rest of the field was beginning to turn for home. The stretch looked desperate as Zenyatta began to make her charge, her stride lengthening, Smith imploring her to dig deep for all she had, and it was with the heart of a champion she was able to get up to the wire and keep her record perfect by her tenacious head. In truth, it wasn't Zenyatta's fault the race finished so close; it was more like bad timing by her jockey. After the race, Smith acknowledged his error and marked the big mare still wasn't blowing when she returned to the winner's circle. Only human error, it seems, could make this champion come close to failure, but her class always shone in the end. Steve Haskin said it best in his article about Zenyatta after the Hirsch: "When you're last in a field that is strung out a dozen lengths, and then they wind up going three-quarters in a sloth-like 1:13 3/5, and you're still 4 1/2 lengths back at the eighth pole, and you have to come home in :23 1/5 and then a final sixteenth in about :05 3/5, and you get there, there is no doubt you are something special."

Rachel Alexandra has also had a perfect season, winning 8 of 8 starts, five of them Grade I races; three of those races were won against males, one of those against older males. As a 3-year-old filly, Rachel Alexandra has accomplished feats never before recorded in modern times. She was also the first filly in 85 years to win the Preakness Stakes, the second leg of the Triple Crown; she won it coming out of post position #13, which no other horse had ever done before. She won the Kentucky Oaks by 20 ¼ lengths, the largest margin in the race's history, and became the first Oaks winner to not only run in the Preakness, but to win both those races. No 3-year-old filly has ever gone against older males so early as Rachel did in her career and won, which she did in the Woodward. She set a new stakes record in the Grade I Mother Goose, and broke Ruffian's record largest margin of 13 ½ lengths by 5 ¾ more. And she has done all of this in whatever running style the circumstances ask of her, whether it be front-running, from just off the pace, or coming from behind horses.

Though an argument could be made for each of her tests against males as to which her best performance might be, most would contend the Woodward was Rachel's most impressive victory, though she won it by a smaller margin than any other start in her 2009 season. Just as in Zenyatta's Hirsch victory, which was her closest brush with defeat, Rachel won in her own unbelievable way; but instead of a nail-biting last-to-first dig to the wire like the 5-year-old mare, Rachel was forced through blistering fractions to not only set the pace, but to hold off the attacks of older males throughout the entire race, and finally, the late-charge of Stephen Foster winner, Macho Again. And just as in Zenyatta's Hirsch, when the last few strides seemed too insurmountable to overcome, the champion found some way to clench victory before it could be yanked out of reach. In short, Rachel Alexandra has time and time again been put into a situation that stacks all odds against her, whether it be her age, her sex, her post position, or simply her running style, and all threats she has turned away with her guts and class.

To lay blemish to either of these phenomenal females would be to dishonor what they've accomplished, and I will not go so low as to do such. I love both equally, and do not hold one above the other, because they are too different to compare. Essentially, Zenyatta and Rachel are an apple against an orange. Both have had a sensational season 2009, laying the boys down on the track like so many beaten and broken victims in the wake of their brilliance. If either should be faulted for not running in a particular race, it is their connections, and not the horses themselves, that should be picked on. The Eclipse Award is for Horse of the Year, not race of the year, and even a race that featured both of these champions would not have lowered my opinion of either, nor would it have proven anything. A single race is flawed and does not prove absolute answers, though both these females have run time and time again to prove one thing: there is no male that can measure up to them.

2009 will be known as the year of the girls, where we were blessed to see two completely different horses, one a five-year-old mare, the other a 3-year-old filly, show us what it really means to be a Great, a champion for the ages. Both will go down in history, and an Eclipse won't add to or detract from their legacy. If it were up to me, I would give them both the award, because they each deserve it in their own way. But as there must be a democratic voting system, and if I were only able to choose one horse, I would look at which horse has had the most complete season in 2009, and that horse is Rachel, without a doubt. While Zenyatta also had a perfect season, she was not allowed to race until half of the year was already over, and of those races, all three tracks where she competed were in the same state, California. When she was scheduled to run her first race of 2009, in the Louisville Distaff at Churchill Downs, Zenyatta's connections scratched her when the track turned up wet the night before. As for Rachel, she won as many Grade Is as Zenyatta had starts for the entire year, faced males three times, and accomplished unprecedented feats for her age. She ran at seven different tracks this year, and in six different states. Though Rachel's owner didn't enter her in the Breeders' Cup Classic, the filly had run 11 races in less than a year's time, and that much running is taxing on a horse competing at her caliber at her age; for the filly's best interest, resting her for a 2010 campaign was the right decision.

My opinion of the Horse of the Year awards can be summed up with a chuckle. After calling the Grade I Mother Goose Stakes, where Rachel Alexandra romped by 19 ¼ lengths and set a new stakes record geared-down, track announcer Tom Durkin laughed as he looked at the margin, the way the race was won, and the numbers. Though the race's order of finish was more than obvious, and Rachel's win uncontestable, the track announcer's job requirements forced him to make the following announcement: "The results," he said with a chuckle, "are not official."

Contest! Shameless plug alert!

2009-12-17T09:46:00.016-06:00

When my photographer friend, Adam Mooshian, and I saw the entries for the Thoroughbred Bloggers Alliance annual photo contest, we decided to take it upon ourselves to boost the competition a little. The contest was, after all, open to anyone, amateur and professional, and so far, only amateurs had submitted. We thought it would make it more interesting to see what our clan's favorite and most competitive photos would be.

So, I submitted my three photos: Hollywood Dreams, Churchill Downs, and Rachel Alexandra wins the Kentucky Oaks. Adam predicted the TBA's reaction would be accurately depicted by the following video:

We both had a good laugh, and then set about telling all of our professional photographer friends about the contest, and that they should also submit so we wouldn't look like the two bullies who came in and crashed everyone's little party. So basically, we called the cavalry, and with them came competition that rivaled what we'd submitted. We stopped laughing. Dwarfed now by an array of fantastic photos by Sarah K. Andrew, Bob Mayberger, Scott Serio, Bud Morton, Eric Kalet, and many others, we had successfully given ourselves the kind of competition we'd asked for. Yes, you get what you ask for.

Right now, the professionals are generally in the lead. The winner of the contest doesn't get a prize or anything, they are simply declared "the winner" and according to the TBA, "The picture will be featured on the photo page, and the photog given the opportunity to link to anything they want and to say whatever they want (provided it abides to civil discourse)."

I'm just in it because I like the competition. So, if you feel so inclined, do me a solid and go vote for my Hollywood shot, because it's my most-voted for picture; and then, if you want to stroke my ego, go vote for my others, as well. And hey! If you vote for me, comment on this blog and if I win, I will personally thank-you when I ascend the Podium of Win. Heck, I'll even link to whatever you want linked, like if you want to inform people about your Thoroughbred retirement farm, or if you want to show off your new cute puppy or something...

VOTE HERE

Ghostsnapper's excellent Churchill Downs adventure: Part II

2009-11-29T09:50:00.020-06:00

As a photographer at any racetrack, you have to learn what the rules are unless you want to get yourself in trouble. Unless there's someone at a track I know and can get the lowdown from, I have to speak with the track photographer, who has the final say on where you can go and what you can shoot. Yes, the track photographer is basically the head honcho, even though he's not your boss.

The track photographer at Churchill Downs is Reed Palmer. I, personally, had never met Reed before, nor knew what he looked like, so for the first few races on Clark day, I stood in the platform in front of the winner's circle and observed what Reed and his assistant was doing, where they were shooting, and how often. I was amazed at exactly how late they would show up to shoot each race; it wasn't until the post parade was over and the horses were entering the starting gate did they take their positions. Also, I noticed neither he nor his assistant ever went behind the inside rail because they were never out before the track was harrowed (as a rule, you are NEVER allowed to cross the main track once it's harrowed).

The funny thing about shooting at Churchill Downs is that there is no gutter or birth between the outside rail and the fans in which it's possible for the photographers to stand and take shots. Therefore, all shots taken on the grandstand side must be while the photographer is standing on the track itself or squatting beneath the outside rail. Reed and his assistant stood right against the rail, as far away from the action as they safely could; this is a welcome difference to how the photographers stand in the middle of the track at Arlington and look like they're going to either spook a horse or get mowed down at the finish line.

Two different races I tried to catch Reed without interrupting his job in the winner's circle, but he was gone in a flash each time the winners retreated. It wasn't until about the fourth race that I finally cornered him in the winner's circle and introduced myself and asked him the rules and about shooting from the inside. I found Reed to be very professional and helpful, and his rules were average enough I wasn't thrown any curve ball criteria. He said I could shoot on the inside, but I had to be about in the middle of the turf course the closer I was to the finish line; he said I could be right on the rail if I was far down, but I didn't have a mega zoom that would be necessary for such a shot. Luckily for me, I had recently acquired a ladder for such occasions.

When I shot the Hollywood Gold Cup, my photog buddy, Bob Mayberger, and I had no ladder to shoot on the inside with, and since the regulations on how far back we had to be from the rail were so strict, we had to create a makeshift platform on which to stand. This resulted in me standing on a bucket and Bob standing on a crumpling plastic crate we found in the storage area behind the tote board (along with an abandoned swan boat, but that was too big to drag out to the turf course). We propped the bucket and crate against each other so we wouldn't fall, and I almost knocked Bob off the crate when Rail Trip pulled away to his first Grade I victory and I leaped off the platform in celebration. Good times...

After I got my rules from Reed, I watched a race from the Press Box. The horses look so small coming around the final turn! I took some pictures of the race to see if I liked the angle; the 2-year-old maiden that won (Drink With Pride) drew clear by about ten lengths and made for an interesting shot all alone at the finish. After that, my very helpful husband trekked out to the car to retrieve my ladder and laptop. Having an "assistant" is very helpful in situations at the track!

Once I had my ladder, I made plans to cross the track after the next race was over when I'd have a harrow-free window. I was on the platform in front of the winner's circle when I was accosted by a security guard who had seen me all day and just got around to asking to see my credentials. Nice.

I was the first person to cross the track that day, and what a naked feeling it is to be the sole person striding across that stretch of holy ground, tromping where the Greats had trod, to duck beneath that wide inside rail to set up camp. There was a pretty large crowd on hand that day, some 20,000 for the Clark, and looking across the track at the grandstand, you feel sort of like Noah about to be swallowed by a gigantic whale.

I practiced shooting from the inside, debating over which side of the rail I should shoot the big race later that afternoon. I wasn't crazy about the position, since I'm a lover in tight close-ups, and my lens just isn't big enough for that kind of shot so far away from the rail. All my shots at Belmont taken from the inside were with the rented 300mm; how I longed for one this day! However, so far the light was much better shooting East, as all the horses were in full light and the shadows weren't a battle. Later in the day, as the sun began to move, I had to keep changing my opinion.

Shooting my first turf race at Churchill was pretty special. Being a spectator, turf races are usually the least exciting because the course is so far away from the grandstands; as a photographer, you've got the closest position in the house next to the jockeys and starters, and are right amongst the action. Race 6 was the first turf race of the day, and I used that race to get a feel for where I wanted to be for the River City Handicap on the turf that afternoon. Since the sun wasn't as appealing shooting toward it (no-brainer), I ended up shooting the River City from the inside turf rail.

I know most of this blog is gushing and gushing about how amazing it was to shoot at Churchill Downs the first time, but you have to understand, there really is no other place in the world that feels so much like hallowed ground to me. So when I first strode into the paddock with credentials, it was truly like walking into a dream. For once, I was on the other side of that white fence, and I was freely going about wherever I wanted as I pleased. I looked at the paddock numbers and thought about the horses who had stood there. It was incredible to be so close, in the realm, really, of such a landmark. If the sport of horse racing is the most beautiful in all the world, Churchill Downs is its cathedral.

Shooting the River City Handicap from the inside was definitely the best choice, even with my disadvantage in lens size; but right after that race was over, the sun moved to where it was baring down on the horses head-on. By the time Race 11 was about to begin at around 4:30pm ET, the horses would be running straight into the sunset when they came roaring toward the finish line.

All Clark day, I was all about Einstein; not just because it was scheduled to be his last race (which changed almost immediately after the race was over), but because he is such a hard-knocking champion, a more diverse horse you'll be hard-pressed to meet. So I spent the rest of the time between races deciding that if this was going to be Einstein's last race, I wanted to get the shot of Helen Pitts-Blasi saddling Einstein for the final time, for poignancy's sake. That meant I wouldn't be able to cross the track and shoot from the inside, but that turned out to be just fine, because the sun would be equal on both sides of the rail now.

For the time before the race and thereafter, I pretty much became Einstein's stalker. I waited for him in the paddock, making sure to get shots of each horse in case that horse would be the upset winner (but for some reason, Blame completely evaded me and I have no shots of him until the post parade), and when Einstein appeared, I, as well as the rest of the photographers, were glued to his every move like the paparazzi watching Brad Pitt skip along the beach. Needless to say, I got the shot of Helen saddling Einstein and then some. There wasn't a clog of congestion in the paddock, which is usually the case during the Derby, so my tunnel vision was generally free from anyone stepping in my way. It helped I wasn't bashful about getting exactly where I needed to be. What is it about the Churchill paddock that does that to me? Hmm.... must be that Louisville air!

After Einstein was saddled, and Helen gave him a lingering pat, I stood on the brink of the grass and followed the horses into the tunnel with my lens. Einstein was the last horse in line, being #14, and I followed his heels through that storied tunnel, and into the sunset washing over that golden track like a road of filigree. The shot I took at the moment Einstein stepped out of the shadows became my favorite of the day. But I'm sentimental like that.

Did I really believe Einstein would win the Clark? Honestly, I thought the odds were so stacked against him, I would've been surprised had he won after such an uncharacteristically poor performance in the Breeders' Cup Classic. After all, he was being saddled with the highest weight at 123 pounds, was in the outside post at #14, and would have to compete on a surface that although he loved, was not generally his favorite. He had lost the Stephen Foster to an unlucky trip, and thanks to his generous size, he had been too big to weave between a tight spot to get better than third.

So when I got into position a little behind the finish line on the grandstand side, squatting beneath that white rail, my heart hoped for Einstein to overcome these odds, but felt he would not be an embarrassment should he not come home a winner in his last race. As the 14-horse field broke, they embarked across that track like a flock of gigantic, powerful birds, and I felt a little intimidated practically lying like a bug on the ground out of harm's way. They thundered past, and I got my first clue that the lighting would be wonderful, and I waited to see where Einstein was in the positioning from the Jumbo-Tron.

As the horses came for home down the long Churchill stretch, I began to jerk in anticipation to get in a comfortable position. I was also trying to see where Einstein was in the herd, and I couldn't see his black face in that sun-drenched pack of horses. As they got nearer, I had to judge when I should start focusing, and by the time the horses were closing in, I had no idea where the black horse was in the standing. It wasn't until the horses came thundering past the finish line did I see Einstein, and my shutter followed him away, in third, but in the money. I didn't know who the winner was; it definitely wasn't the gray, Macho Again, and I didn't recognize the silks.

As I walked back toward the winner's circle, I saw my husband and our friend we met at the Derby, Steve, and they hailed me and were jabbering away about the outcome. I asked them who won, and when they said Blame, I started shrieking. BLAME! This was the horse I'd recently told Bob about, I'd added him to my Equibase virtual stable after seeing what a versatile horse he was, a winner over dirty and Keeneland's abhorrent Polytrack. Blame, a 3-year-old colt, won the Clark Handicap! I was very happy if Einstein couldn't win the Clark, the torch would be passed to an up-and-coming horse not so unlike the great black stallion.

When the horses returned, I was in the winner's circle and did not get to see Einstein unsaddled, but I got plenty of shots of Blame returning. It's surreal being caught up in the chaos of a race's finish. Rajiv Maragh walked by talking to Helen Pitts about how Einstein was "just so big he couldn't get through horses" and a few minutes later, Helen walked by with Bob Baffert, and I was a little star-struck, admittedly, and just smirked and tried not to look starry-eyed.

I look forward to Blame's next start; he has a promising career ahead of him, and if he is Einstein's successor, we have a fun road ahead. As for Einstein, since news broke that he will be racing in at least one more start, all I can hope for him is that he remains safe and is kept on the tracks and surfaces he thrives on. The old man deserves to hold his head high and return to the winner's circle.

I'm so thankful to have had the privilege of shooting at Churchill Downs for the first time, and like all great marvels, it is even more beautiful the closer you come to it. If I do get to shoot the Kentucky Derby next year, it will be overwhelming, but in every essence of this storied track, in every breath I take of that Kentucky air, and the red dirt it leaves on my shoes, it will feel of home.

Ghostsnapper's excellent Churchill Downs adventure: Part I

2009-11-28T11:24:00.014-06:00

I admit that driving down Central Avenue and seeing the twin spires yesterday, I became a little emotional seeing that glorious trademark on the horizon, knowing I would be credentialed at the greatest racetrack in the world for the first time. The sun had yet to peek through the dark morning sky, which was thick with mashed-potato clouds, and the prospects of what lay ahead of me were almost too much to bear. There really is no other way to say it without being cliche: I was like a kid about to be let loose inside the world's biggest candy store.

Though it wasn't the smoothest of entrances for me into the world of a credentialed photographer at Churchill Downs (my credentials were supposed to be left for me at Gate 10, and when the employee at Gate 10 looked at me blankly and waved me inside after I inquired about them, I knew I was in for trouble), I was too enthralled with simply being there to be too bothered by my initial troubles. I arrived at the Downs at 7:40am ET and didn't end up getting my credentials until a certain Mr. Rogers arrived at work for the day, which made me a legitimate credentialed press person at approximately 9:10am ET. So in other words, it was actually a good thing I am a slug in the morning and couldn't pull myself out of bed before 6:00am ET; had I gotten there earlier, I would've had to wait even longer for people to show up to work. I'll make a mental note next time to pick them up the day before I actually want to shoot so I don't have to miss any morning action. I have to add on a side note, that the best view of the entire grounds is probably from the Press Box; there is a balcony that overlooks the track that would quickly become my favorite place to sit in the whole world if I could be a regular there.

Once I was official, I made my way around the backside and entered Gate 5 to the sacred barn area of Churchill Downs. There, I asked the security guard for a map of the barns so I would know where I was going (one of the kind security officers at the entrance had told me I could acquire a map here). The security officer at Gate 5 told me he wasn't allowed to give out maps to the barn area. OK, chalk up another point for Belmont being one of the coolest tracks in America, I thought. At Belmont, they practically give you the key to the park once you're legitimately credentialed. At every other place I'd visited thus far, this is far from the case, and you're often looked at with sidelong glances and met with a certain degree of apprehension. BUT, he did ask me if I was looking for any barn in particular and gladly pointed out where I was going and gave me directions. I looked at the detailed map on his desk and wish I had a camera in my head, or could take a picture of it with my BlackBerry while he wasn't looking, but I didn't, and had to pretend I would remember his directions as I set off to explore Churchill's backstretch.

Of course, I already knew where Rachel Alexandra had been, and I thought, was stabled at Churchill. Being her self-professed stalker, I had researched this and found it in an article online. At the time, I had no reason to believe she was not still at Churchill, for only a few days prior, the Daily Racing Form had reported that she would not be leaving the Downs until the fall meet ended. Since the meet didn't end until Saturday, I thought I had every chance to come face-to-face once again with my wonderhorse. It was almost as if her connections follow me on Twitter and knew I was coming. I didn't know this until hours after I'd circled the Asmussen barn about 10 times and got chased off by someone at Barn 38, but Rachel had been shipped out exactly a half hour before I'd woke up that same morning. Since I was in 007 mode, I thought this Hispanic worker at the Asmussen barn was feeding me lies to throw me off the trail; apparently, "no mas" really does mean "no more."

While Operation Rachel was still alive in my head, I decided to give it a break for the time-being and give Operation Einstein a try. My goal was to get a great portrait of the grand stallion on the backstretch, and I planned on stalking him all morning until I did just that. I will note that I was the only photographer or person of press on the backstretch that morning, oddly enough. I guess the horse paparazzi only converges for Triple Crown races, Breeders' Cup, or Saratoga parties. Being the only photographer on the backstretch that morning made me feel like I owed it to history to record the intimate events before the Clark; it was all up to me. Yes, I think like this all the time. I am aware I'm a bit nutty about this game. But I did get such an opportunity to record history moments after I found Helen Pitts-Blasi's barn.

As I walked down the aisle between barns, I scrutinized the regal horses looking out of their stalls, and when my eyes fell upon the final one, in the stall closest to the barn's office, I was sure I'd found Einstein just that easily. It was a tall black horse without any marking on his face. I was timid at first and asked one of the workers there if they could point out Einstein to me (just to be sure, since the horse had no bridle on). The worker called on someone from the office, who turned out to be the blacksmith, who told me that yes, I was looking at Einstein. Everyone around the Pitts barn was so kind and even seemed to want me to get good pictures of the great horse. After I'd taken a few pictures of Einstein in his stall, the smith said, "I'm going to put on his last shoes here in a moment."

Thus, I spent the better part of the morning getting hundreds of pictures of Einstein being reshod for the last time in training. I couldn't imagine a much more sentimental moment. Helen Pitts-Blasi herself showed up briefly before the shoeing begun, and I was treated to some funny anecdotes about the big horse while he was having his new sneaks fit. "He's tried mounting everything but that blockade over there," cracked the smith. He went on to joke about filling up a bus of Einstein's connections and heading over to Adena Springs to watch the stallion "break his maiden" at stud. "But you couldn't blink; it'd all be over with before you got to touch your popcorn!" This made me wonder how Einstein handled a race with Zenyatta; maybe he was too distracted by that Amazon mare to run his best in the Breeders' Cup Classic; hmm...

And then I was treated tenfold after the shoes were fit. Maybe it was because I was standing a respectful distance away and genuinely seemed interested in Einstein, snapping hundreds of photos of his hoofs being trimmed and the aluminum being hammered to a perfect shape, or maybe it's just that I was in the right place at the right time. The smith asked if I'd like one of Einstein's horseshoes. I about performed a back-flip. I'm sure my eyes bulged out of my head as I thanked him profusely and took the shining dirt-crusted horseshoe in my hand. Just another bit of evidence as to why I believe people in horse racing are some of the kindest, most gracious people you'll ever meet. The smith took another of Einstein's old horseshoes and nailed it above his stall for good luck. And then, when he was all decked out in new kicks, his handler turned Einstein around in front of me and had him pose for my camera. If I hadn't already been a huge fan of Einstein and his connections, this would've won me over instantly; instead, I was in my own kind of heaven.

After Einstein was put back in his stall, and I heard the smith remark to himself, "This is probably one of the nicest fittings I've ever done on him." It was clear that all of the people involved in this great horse have a lot of affection for him, and he will be missed once he's retired.

After Operation Einstein was completed, I decided to take one more trip around the Asmussen barn before getting a proper breakfast. Of course, Rachel wasn't there, and I couldn't help notice how stall #19, which I had seen her occupy in a photo, was conspicuously empty. I'd pretty much given up Operation Rachel at that point, but I wasn't as disappointed as I could've been; Einstein and his connections had already made my morning a rousing success. A visit to the track kitchen was next.

Like most things about Churchill Downs, the track kitchen is located in such a way as to knock you over with its perfect view of the track. I've never seen another track kitchen like it. The windows in the booths are about a foot away from a fence which separates the outside rail of the track from the building. You can sit and have a meal while watching horses thunder in front of the sprawling grandstands and twin spires in the background. For the first race on Friday's card, I stood on top of a picnic table and took a shot of a field of 2-year-olds flying down the stretch and into the final turn. It's actually one of the most majestic views to be found at the park, second to maybe the Clubhouse turn shot, and the view from the Press Box.

I left the backstretch to go practice credentialed shooting at the track for the first time. Part II to follow with my Clark experience...

The 2009 Breeders' Cup Classic from the best seat in the house

2009-11-24T23:43:00.026-06:00

Welcome to a special Thanksgiving edition of Ghostsnapper! The horse racing industry has a lot to be thankful for this year, and how better to celebrate it than reminiscing about what we witnessed in the Breeders' Cup Classic?

One of the all-time perks of being a horse racing photographer is having the honor of watching history unfold from pretty much the best seat in the house. There's nothing quite like standing only a jump behind the finish with your hair actually flying in the wind of horseflesh, being carried in that current of adrenaline and flurry of glory; yes we sometimes even cherish that clod of dirt that gets flung in our lenses.

Thus, while I was watching the party erupt at Santa Anita Park after Zenyatta took the Breeders' Cup Classic, a piece of me ached like a missing limb that I could not be there in person to witness history. And since the technology of time travel has not yet been perfected, and I can't go back and somehow experience that moment first-hand myself, I did the next best thing and contacted some of my fellow photographers who were lucky enough to be at Santa Anita on that glorious day for the sport.

The following are direct testimonials from three extremely talented photographers, whose work has been seen everywhere from Sports Illustrated to Blood-Horse. They are Bud Morton and Bob Mayberger (east coast invaders, from Massachusetts and "New Yawk"), and California consummate, Charles Pravata; all great all-around guys whom I feel lucky to consider friends. I asked them their thoughts of the Breeders' Cup Classic experience, and here are their answers...

Bud Morton: "In two decades of photographing thoroughbred horse racing, I’ve witnessed my share of “would-be historic” race days. Failed Triple Crown attempts, epic matches where the wonder horses finished up the track, hyped and honored horses losing on their big day. The dream never came true.

"This year the dream came true, not once, but twice. I had the privilege to be photographing and attending the winning efforts of Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta as they made their historic runs at Saratoga and Santa Anita. As these fine fillies crossed the finish line and marked their places in history, the feeling and response of those in attendance was almost identical. Being on the track gives you a unique perspective and feeling. Waves of applause and goodwill flowed to the winners as they returned, and strangers high-fived each other. Even if you were not a fan of the winner, you rejoiced in their accomplishment and felt great that you were there for it. Having an east coast, “real dirt”, old-school bias, I guess that Rachel’s win in the Woodward was more special for me personally, but to have been able to record both events was something I will never forget."

Bob Mayberger: "I still haven't fully digested the Breeders' Cup and all of the visual delights that it gave us. Santa Anita is a GORGEOUS venue and, but for the controversy surrounding its synthetic track, worthy of being a permanent host to the Breeders' Cup. Sometimes when you are shooting a race you can get so caught up in the mechanics of what you are doing that you almost forget to actually WATCH the races as they are being run. That is true for many races, but thankfully there are still some horses whose star power is so strong that they cannot be forgotten or ignored when they are on the track. They simply DEMAND your attention. Zenyatta and Rachel are two such horses. Big Brown was another. You are constantly aware of their position during a race, almost to the exclusion of all others. They have IT (whatever that is), and it is wonderful and magical. I cannot believe that all 58,000 in attendance for the Breeders' Cup Classic were not staring at Zenyatta for the entire race.

"And lucky that they were, for that move that she made coming out of the final turn on the inside rail, and then bursting to her right before straightening out in the middle of the track for her final sprint, was the kind of image that will stay with me forever. To have such disappointment when she appeared blocked by traffic turn into jubilation within a matter of seconds made the entire two days worthwhile. Those are the type of moments that you hope to be able to experience first-hand a few times in your life if you are lucky.

"What I think made Zenyatta's last to first dash all the more remarkable, however, was that she was never reputed to be a horse who possessed a quick turn of foot. Her physical size is not conducive to such a move in traffic and I still marvel as I watch the replay of the Classic how she was able to change course and dart between horses as she did without clipping heels with any of her rivals. But then again, I guess the truly great ones always keep a little in reserve and save their best for last!"

Charles Pravata: "During the week leading up to the Breeders' Cup, I kept hearing "I don't know..." or 'I don't think she can do it, etc." Doubt was in the air. I was hearing this stuff from trainers, exercise riders, jockeys, turf writers, photographers, all of racing's insiders. Surprisingly, by the time Saturday came, I found myself doubting her, too. In the end, I don't think I or most other people doubted her at all. I think we were all just preparing ourselves for the disappointment we would have felt had she lost.

"[But] she didn't lose. Instead, she made history, and everyone in that building walked out of there with a smile on their face. How often does an entire racing audience leave the track feeling great about what just happened? Hardly ever. When I heard Trevor Denman say "She's starting to pick them off now..." I knew it was over. In my mind, Zenyatta was either going to beat every horse on that track or none of them at all. It was just a question of whether or not she would fire. After the buffer on my camera ran out, shortly after she crossed the wire, I pumped my fist in the air three or four times exclaiming "YEAH!!! YEAAAAHHHHH!" I gave a hug to my photographer friends Sarah K.A. and T.J. who shot the race right next to me. The three of us were in a little cluster, on our ladders, just past the wire on the turf course. I also apologized to them for letting loose after she had won. I normally don't cheer, but, this was a special occasion. When I made my way back on to the main track, the first people I saw coming towards me were fellow California photographers Bill M., Tom B., Duane L., and Shig K. Without even thinking we all just started hugging each other. I think it was special for us because she was "our horse;" us left coast photographers, with our fair-weather horses, and all-weather tracks. Zenyatta had been our girl for a while now, and when she crossed the wire in front, we all won. The joy and camaraderie we all felt when we came together on that track will be a lasting memory.

"The icing on the cake was that my dad was in attendance to witness Zenyatta's historic run. It was his first and last time seeing the mare in person, being that he lives on the east coast. A lifelong football coach and avid sports fan, he's been in attendance for the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, NCAA Football National Championship, NCAA Final Four, and the list goes on. He said of Zenyatta's race: "I've never seen anything like it." He couldn't get over how much it meant to everyone in attendance, and the fact that there were people crying all around him. Not to mention the eruption that engulfed the grandstand when Mike Smith swung her out and got clear. He knew he had been witness to one of the all-time great horses and all-time great moments in sports."

Amen to that. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Einstein: Living up to brilliance

2009-11-24T22:47:00.005-06:00

Originally published at smilepolitely.com.

The day of the 2009 Kentucky Derby, I was glued to the rail at Churchill Downs and shaking my head at this 8-year-old girl standing next to me who had been hitting the long shots all day like some kind of pint-sized prophet. She had garnered a small crowd, a fan base that grew with each remarkable pick; in three straight undercard races, this girl picked long shot winners with her own scientific method: the color of the horse's saddle cloth. Each time she won, the surrounding crowd would go into hysterics; her dad lifted her up on his shoulders and people began to beg the little girl for her next pick. I had to comfort myself in knowing that since she was only picking the winners of maiden claiming and allowance races, it would only be a matter of time before my knowledge of horseflesh would eventually win out in the end (thankfully, she didn't pick Mine That Bird for the Derby later on, or I'm sure my head would've exploded). Admittedly, I'm terrible at picking anything but stakes horses because I don't follow the contenders.

But when the field began to parade for the Grade I Woodford Reserve Turf Classic, I confess a ghost of a sneer crossed my face when I glanced at the tiny prophet. Am I so sinister? Well, maybe I was a little jealous this kid who knew nothing about horses was picking 60% or better on the undercard races, but I also knew this: because she didn't follow the stakes horses like I did, there was no way in hell she was picking the winner of this race based solely on the color of his saddle cloth. After all, she was picking against Einstein.

Like a fine wine, the striking black horse named Einstein has only grown better with age. He is a 7-year-old horse, a stallion, and as hard-knocking as they come; aptly named, Einstein has shown brilliance on all surfaces, from turf and dirt to the tricky synthetics. It hardly needs explanation how rare a horse he is to be able to handle all these surfaces ambidextrously; while most horses need to be coddled and kept to one surface, perish the thought if the ground should turn up imperfect, Einstein has handled them all and is always right there when it counts. He is simply a horse who knows how to win; Einstein has found victory coming from dead last, sitting mid-pack, off the pace, and on the lead—there is essentially nothing this horse can't do. The past two years, he has finished in the money more than 70% of the time. While he has his quirks, like any mortal, he has battled obstacles few horses could come back from and persevered, a champion to the end.

The first time Einstein tried a dirt surface was in his fifth start; the track was a sealed slop at Gulfstream. He romped by seven lengths, winning in front-running fashion after he had raced each of his previous races from dead last. He won his first stakes race in the Grade I Gulfstream Park Breeders' Cup Stakes on February 25, 2006. Einstein was four years old.

While it hardly seems plausible Einstein could ever be considered an underdog, one only has to look at his towering stablemate to understand how this versatile horse started out as "second best." The time was brief, but the impression was lasting. Trainer Helen Pitts had two promising horses in her barn in the beginning 2007—Einstein and this chestnut 3-year-old colt named Curlin. After Curlin's maiden race, where he romped by a commanding 12 ¾ lengths, the majority interest in the chestnut was privately sold to Jess Jackson of Stonestreet Stables in a partnership with Satish Sanan, and he was moved to trainer Steve Asmussen's barn to prep for the Kentucky Derby. With Curlin's tremendous prospects no longer her concern, Pitts was left without a chance at having her first contender for the Kentucky Derby, and was eventually forced to watch the colt win the next two Eclipse Awards for Horse of the Year. Einstein was her consolation, but he has hardly turned out to be a feeble prize.

Imagine the devastation Ms. Pitts had to endure when on May 19, 2007, Einstein ran headlong into tragedy while Curlin emerged as the winner of the second leg of the Triple Crown with the Preakness Stakes. On the undercard for the Preakness, Einstein was entered in the Dixie Stakes at Pimlico and unseated jockey Robby Albarado when the horse tripped and fell over Mending Fences, the front-running horse who broke down on the backstretch. Though Einstein was not badly injured in the Dixie, and picked himself up and finished the race riderless, he sustained a bruised splint bone and did not race again for eight months.

Einstein returned to winning form in his comeback race, a one-mile allowance on turf at Gulfstream, but failed to impress in his next start, when he finished sixth in the Grade I Donn Handicap. But after the Donn, he would do no worse than second place in his next five starts, winning his second Gulfstream Park Turf Stakes, as well as his first Woodford Reserve Turf Stakes at Churchill Downs; in the Grade I Stephen Foster on dirt, he finished second to Curlin.
And then came what seemed like a no-brainer to the Einstein camp, to run him in the prestigious Grade I Arlington Million. But the race was over for the black horse the moment he stumbled badly coming out of the gate, and the soft Arlington turf course didn't provide him with the kick he needed, letting him do no better than fifth. But after a breather, Einstein returned to Churchill Downs and the dirt, and defeated the champion Commentator in his first stakes victory on the surface in the Grade II Clark Handicap.

Einstein has proven to have certain races that just elude him; one is the Donn Handicap, another is the Stephen Foster, and the last is the Arlington Million. I don't think there is or will ever be another horse that can claim that. He fared better in the 2009 renewal of the Donn, finishing 3rd, but finished fifth again in his second try at the Million. But Einstein was saving himself for a more historic feat when he flew to California and conquered the Grade I Santa Anita Handicap his first time over a synthetic surface. Not only was the Santa Anita Handicap his richest win to date, he made Helen Pitts the first woman trainer ever to win the classic race.

Though I hadn't been at the track when I watched Einstein win the Santa Anita Handicap, I was screaming almost equally as loud as that day at Churchill Downs when Einstein began to unwind that long stride and he began to duke it out with the talented Cowboy Cal in the Woodford Reserve Turf. There he was, Einstein, the Comeback Kid, the Man of Many Faces, showing us all he had, starting to smoke like a rocket ready for blast-off. You can bet that 8-year-old prophet next to me on the rail was initiated into what it was really like to root for a horse when Einstein came flying past the wire in a flurry of flared nostrils and shredded grass, becoming the first horse ever to repeat victories in that Grade I test. It's one thing to bet on a horse, another to really love one.

Though Einstein was denied his opportunity to emulate Lava Man and be a Grade I winner on three different surfaces when he tried the Stephen Foster again, finishing a hard-luck third to Macho Again after stumbling at the start and being boxed in and checked in the stretch, he never failed to display class and heart. He finished second in the Grade I Pacific Classic at Del Mar to Baffert-trained Richard's Kid as a prep race for the Breeders' Cup Classic.

But the Breeders' Cup Classic was just not meant to be for Einstein. While the race provided a number of obstacles for the champion, number one being the dominatrix Zenyatta, Einstein's scheduled last race disappointed his connections so much that they decided to give him one last shot at glory. The site of this race will be Churchill Downs, the place where Einstein has proven so dominant, winning beneath the twin spires on both turf and dirt. How fitting it will be that Einstein takes his career bow at the track he has dominated with such authority.

Perhaps his most bitter career defeat was in the 2009 Stephen Foster, where Einstein never really got the opportunity to run. He will get the chance to take on the horse that beat him, Macho Again, when he enters the gates on Black Friday. Though he will never be secured a second opportunity at a Grade I dirt race if this be his final start, it would be with sweet revenge if he should show the gray horse what an unchecked, un-boxed Einstein can do over the Churchill dirt. For whatever reason, Einstein has fallen in love with the dirt at Churchill more than any other track, and it has been good to him.

Einstein has given Helen Pitts a great ride, carrying her to victory on both sides of the continent, cementing her name, as well as his own, into the record books. To be given the opportunity to watch this 7-year-old horse compete at the top of his game, when he could’ve been retired to the breeding shed years ago is an honor, and win or lose in the Clark Handicap, Einstein will go down in history as one of the few horses who ever lived up to his lofty name. Dirt or turf, synthetic or slop, he has met each test with the same heart and determination, and that in itself is more than you could ever hope for in a single horse. Einstein may not be able to boast the kind of streaks like the Curlins and Zenyattas of the world, but that only makes him more relatable to us humans; perhaps the lesson he has taught us is more invaluable, too: that we can rise from the ashes of defeat to achieve what was once merely a pipedream.

See updated information of the Clark, including post positions, at Bloodhorse.com.

Hail the Conquering Hero

2009-11-13T17:03:00.006-06:00

Originally posted in my column at Smilepolitely.com:

We will never see another horse like Zenyatta; she is the kind of horse that impresses not only in her heart-stopping stretch drives, but as an individual, pawing at the ground post-race like a Spanish fighting bull ready to charge the cape-wielding matador. If anyone had any doubts as to the extent of her greatness, as to whether or not she deserves to be ranked in the pantheon of the all-time Greats of the sport, their doubts were shattered to oblivion this past Saturday when the undefeated mare was tested against the most decorated field in Breeders' Cup Classic history. Zenyatta had every right to lose this day, and still she was able to pull herself together and push her talents to new heights, turning away this class field and embarrassing them and anyone who had dared to doubt her brilliance. Zenyatta not only became the first female horse to win the Breeders' Cup Classic, she won the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to witness her amazing display of athleticism, turning her enemies to allies, her naysayers to her biggest flatterers.

And how fitting is it that Zenyatta be named after a classic rock 'n roll album? The mare prances and struts like a rock star; she is in essence a horse with the soul of Robert Plant, combined with the brilliance of Jimi Hendrix. It is not just Zenyatta's thrilling running style that makes her exciting to watch, but her swagger and savoir fare, dancing to each bout like a boxer on her toes, nostrils flared, mane tossing, neck bowed and bulging. Her girth alone imposes the average horse, and coupled with her reputation, it's surprising more challengers didn't try to flee the gate once they saw they were going up against Goliath incarnate. For any one of these traits, a horse should be coveted, but for a single horse to bare them all makes Zenyatta a living legend.

While Zenyatta's career has been marked by seemingly effortless victories, and most would agree she could've beaten any female in her sleep, the Breeders' Cup Classic should've proven the undoing for this great mare. Her season thus far had developed as nothing more than a less-impressive repeat of last year's same string of races, minus the Apple Blossom, and many wondered if Zenyatta had peaked and would have her unbeaten streak snapped in a test against classy males. In the 2009 edition of the Clement L. Hirsche Stakes at Del Mar, the big race mare won only by the smallest of margins, and it wasn't clear whether her regular rider, Mike Smith, had reacted too late or Zenyatta's brilliance was beginning to fade; but her return to form in the Lady's Secret proved she wasn't done yet.

Mercifully, Jerry and Ann Moss decided to take a chance with their undefeated mare and enter her in the Breeders' Cup Classic when the challenge was already shaping up to be a race for the ages, with the decision being entrusted to Mike Smith, who ultimately seemed to have the last word. It was all or nothing; Zenyatta would either prove her class against some of the best horses in the world, or she would succumb to the pressures of facing the toughest test she'd yet have to face. But she saw their challenge and called it.

Zenyatta walked into the history books the same way she pranced into every race prior, two-stepping and pawing the dirt, bowing her neck and putting on a parade for the fans packed ten-deep just to catch a glimpse of her. She would not be outshone by any Kentucky Derby or Belmont winner, or even an Arlington Million or a Queen Elizabeth II winner; going off as the overwhelming favorite, the crowd had come to see the California Colossus battle the rest in the biggest race of the year.

Scripted like a Hollywood movie, the drama before the race equaled the heart-palpitating finish. A chorus of gasps could be heard from the crowd as Zenyatta refused to enter the starting gate. Never having had a history of bad gate behavior, tensions rose as the heavy favorite was backed out and a flock of starters attempted to guide the giant mare back inside the start. Whether it was her proximity to males, her wide girth making her claustrophobic, or the sound of the helicopter overhead making her anxious, the sight of the usually collected superhorse balking at the start was enough to create a contagious spike in blood pressure in the Santa Anita grandstands.

After Zenyatta was urged inside the gate and Mike Smith remounted her saddle, a second event stalled the $5 million-dollar race. The nervous Quality Road, record-setting winner for the Amsterdam Stakes and a brilliant Florida Derby, also refused to go into the starting gate, and as he was blindfolded and urged inside, the sound of the choppers covering the race sent him into a frenzy. Never before had a Breeders' Cup race begun with such a frightening gate scene: the multiple million-dollar horse reared up in the starting gate while blindfolded, bucked and kicked open the gate, and almost got away from the starters as the rest of the field stood locked in their respective post positions. To make matters on the other horses worse, after the gates had been shaken by the delinquent Road, and the talented bay was backed out of the gates and scratched from the race, each horse that had been standing quietly in their posts was also taken out. Mentally, this was a disaster for these creatures of habit. While horses are schooled in the mornings to overcome such adversities as gate issues, breaking habit tends to confuse them and can work up a horse to run more aggressively than he normally would, or cause them not to break well at all.

The latter was the case for Zenyatta. While she has a patented gate break, slow and trailing at the back of the field, when the Classic was finally able to start and the horses were free to burst in a flurry of hoofs and screaming jockeys, the great mare hesitated. For a split-second, an eternity in horse racing, Zenyatta was standing still as the rest of the horses were sprinting away from her. Mike Smith told Blood-Horse, "We got her back in the gate, and she was standing so still I didn't want to move her. But I was a little worried when the gates opened she wouldn't move period, and she didn't. I thought, 'Oh God, no, not today.'"

But Zenyatta did eventually pick up her feet and begin to track the rest of the horses, falling at the back of the 13-horse field behind the last horse, Derby winner Mine That Bird, who also has a penchant for lagging dead last in a field before making a late-closing kick. For all intensive purposes, the start of the Classic was a complete disaster for Zenyatta. After breaking late, she began running on the wrong lead and was tossing her head. Her previous races had proven she may need to be a little closer to horses when coming from off the pace, but here she was running a $5-million dollar race of the year dead last and giving the lead horses more than a ten-length head start.

But the picture looked rosier for Zenyatta when Mine That Bird finally began to trail her; the race was beginning to take the shape Smith had imagined all along. The great mare was now running comfortably, and she was working into a good rhythm. The Classic began to mirror all the other races she had run before, just letting the rest of the field have their run while she waited patiently on their heels.

But as the field turned for home, the horses began to stack six wide at the final turn, and Mike Smith made the move that reminded us just why he is a Hall of Fame jockey. Instead of steering the big mare on the outside, as the team had become accustomed to in nearly every race before, the jockey took her in between horses in tight quarters to keep her from losing ground. "Zenyatta, if she wins this, she'll be a superhorse...," Trevor Denman called grimly to the crowd of 58,854 rapt fans. Masterfully, masterfully, Smith took her upon the backside of Summer Bird, the East Coast classics winner, and then the unsung Euro, Twice Over, and as she swung outside of that great blanket of champion horseflesh, California sunshine washed over her. California sunshine is to Zenyatta as spinach is to Popeye the Sailor Man. Finally, the stretch was all hers, and Zenyatta was allowed to stretch her great invisible wings; her immense stride unleashed with the force of a bomb blowing the rest of the competition to smithereens.

"This—is—un-be-lievable! Zenyatta, what a performance! One we'll never forget! Looked impossible!" Denman called breathlessly.

Just like in her thirteen previous races, she coasted to victory with ears pricking, galloping out without so much as a sweat. How fitting it was she returned home in her final race to the roar of Santa Anita's grandstands, the hallowed old race place that stands as the capitol for California racing. She ruled over the state with an unequaled authority, and cast down those world invaders who dared to challenger her on her home turf.

Jimi Hendrix, Robert Plant, eat your heart out. While rock stars may send us to dizzying heights of musical ecstasy, Zenyatta is the impossible package. She is undeniably brilliant; she is an untested, invincible champion that will live on in all the hearts and minds of those who were lucky enough to be alive to see her. And just like these immortal rock stars, her brilliance will be remembered far after she's gone. Zenyatta will be around for as long as we let horses do what they were born to do; she will be the phantom turning for home and circling the others with her Earth-gobbling stride, and will live in the warm, enriching breath of each California sunrise.

Now it's on!

2009-10-31T14:45:00.006-05:00

Originally posted on Smilepolitely.com...

I admit, I've had a difficult time getting excited about this year's Breeders' Cup. It's not only a little deflating the best horse in America won't be running in it, but with the championships being held on a biased surface, I can't help but feel the outcomes will be slanted. One only has to take a glimpse at the pre-entries drawn this past Wednesday to realize this is not the typical way horse races are conducted; for instance, only nine horses were pre-entered into the Breeders' Cup Turf, and none of them are the dominating turf horses from either America or Europe—no, you'd have to look under the Breeders' Cup Classic to find those entrants, running over Pro-Ride instead of grass, and against America's best dirt horses.

But there's a silver lining in all of this mayhem caused by the synthetic monkey wrench, and that is our all-American girl, Zenyatta. The undefeated mare, 13 for 13 starts (11 of them stakes races, 7 of those Grade Is), based in California, outside of which she's only raced once in her lifetime, has been pre-entered in both the Breeders' Cup Ladies' Classic, and the Breeders' Cup Classic. On Wednesday, her trainer, John Shirreffs, stated in a national teleconference, "If she works well Saturday and continues to train well the following week, we'll definitely lean toward the Classic... She has a great shot to win the Ladies' Classic, which has a very large purse. But the Classic is an opportunity to try to garner Horse of the Year honors, and to not run her when she's doing so well would be a mistake. Mr. Moss said it's not about Horse of the Year as much as it is to see her compete at the highest level."

It's only too bad Zenyatta's connections haven't had this attitude the whole year-long. 2009 has been a cakewalk compared to Zenyatta's 2008 campaign; this one last shot to prove her status as one of the all-time Greats in racing has been a long time coming. She only deserves this opportunity to prove her hand against males for the first time on the world's biggest stage. Zenyatta in the Breeders' Cup Classic, racing against Rip Van Winkle, Einstein, Gio Ponti, Summer Bird, Quality Road, Mine That Bird, and Colonel John; if we had to have the Breeders' Cup World Championships at California only to build up to this moment, this two-minute race, I think it'd all been worth it. But only if she runs in the Classic.

If Zenyatta is pointed to play with the boys for the first time, the field for the Ladies' Classic becomes relatively wide-open, with perhaps one exception. Only nine fillies or mares have been pre-entered to this epic girl-fight, and without Zenyatta, the veritable Berlin Wall of mares will be lifted for other females to get a shot at Breeders' Cup glory. Of the contenders, Careless Jewel looks to be the filly who is most deserving to carry on Zenyatta's torch.

A winner of 5 of 6 lifetime starts, Careless Jewel is a 3-year-old gray filly just coming into her own as a runner, quickly gaining respect by knocking off 5 consecutive victories over the synthetic track at Woodbine and traditional dirt at three different tracks, including Saratoga, where she won the Grade I Alabama Stakes. With her impressive resume, Careless Jewel will inherit the role as the favorite if Zenyatta sits this one out and runs against the boys instead.

Lethal Heat was second-best to Zenyatta in the Grade I Lady's Secret at Santa Anita on October 10, and has that prep under her belt as an advantage. Cocoa Beach is also entered, who ran second to Zenyatta in last year's Ladies' Classic; unfortunately, the Godolphin filly hasn't been the same mare this year as last and it's hard to tell where her form stands at this point. Music Note, who was third in last year's Ladies' Classic, has won her last two races and has a good chance of improving off those victories. The 1-2 finishers in the Grade I Juddmonte Spinster Stakes at Keeneland are also entered, Proviso (GB) and Mushka; in the Spinster, Proviso was disqualified to second when she veered into Mushka's lane in the final leaps of the stretch. Life is Sweet and Rainbow View are also entered. If Careless Jewel doesn't like the Pro-Ride, look to Proviso and Lethal Heat to try and steal the show.

The next time this column publishes, the first day of the Breeders' Cup will already have begun. Friday's races will kick off at 12:35pm PT with the Breeders' Cup Marathon, and will be preceded by the Juvenile Fillies Turf at 1:08pm, the Juvenile Fillies at 1:45pm, the Filly and Mare Turf at 2:23pm, the Filly and Mare Sprint at 3:02pm, and the Ladies' Classic at 3:45pm PT.

Now that online wagering has been made legal in Illinois, bettors can head over to TVG.com if for some reason they can't call in sick and make it to their local OTB. Not only will there be flurry of bets on the ponies, but the jockeys are also getting some action. For the first time, pari-mutuel wagering will be offered to bet on which jockey will win the most Breeders' Cup races. Last year, that honor went to Garrett Gomez when he took four races; when in doubt, you can count on Go-Go no matter where the track happens to be, unless, of course, he's riding against Mike Smith on Zenyatta.

The luck o' Larry follows him to Keeneland

2009-10-25T14:10:00.007-05:00

So what I'd like to know is why, after all the interviews with Larry Jones and talk about the significance of Just Jenda's start in the Raven Run Stakes at Keeneland, did nobody at TVG nor any other publication after the race, mention the fact the filly flipped over in the post parade before the race? Larry Jones has a perpetual rain cloud following him around. It's so unfortunate this great horseman's career has been marred in terrible luck the past two years. It's true he has had his share of good luck, but c'mon, can't a guy catch a break?

Just Jenda was Larry Jones's last starter at Keeneland before he retires. The trainer began his illustrious career with his first stakes win at the beautiful Kentucky racecourse, so it would've been a storybook ending to go out with a win. However, the trainer's luck has been plagued with disaster the past two years, beginning with the tragic breakdown of his filly, Eight Belles, in the 2008 Kentucky Derby, the bumps and bruises of his trainee Friesan Fire (the post-time favorite for the 2009 Kentucky Derby, where he finished next to last) and most recently with Just Jenda's flip in the post parade before the Raven Run; so maybe the tale is true to form in its disparity with Jones's last chance at Keeneland ending with a strike-out.

To her credit, Just Jenda ran a credible race for a filly who had the wind knocked out of her only minutes before the gates banged open. While sitting next to last for most of the race, Just Jenda passed rivals and got up to third place before fading to fifth in the final few strides of the 7-furlong stakes race, her first start over a synthetic surface. In contrast, the favorite, Flashing, never fired, and finished third from last for her first time out of the money; Flashing had previously placed, but never won, over a synthetic surface (Presque Isle Downs).

Great reporting, everyone.

All sarcasm aside, Thoroughbredtimes.com has reported on the status of Friesan Fire. The A.P. Indy colt has been passed into the training care of Steve Asmussen. It seems that Jones's Vinery Stables connections are dispersing their horses to Asmussen with Jones's pending retirement; earlier, Kodiak Kowboy was transfered to Asmussen's barn. Kodiak Kowboy won the Grade I Vosburgh under Asmussen's care on October 3. Friesan Fire is looking for a comeback in most likely the Grade I Donn Handicap after surgery on a stress fracture in his left front ankle and a bone chip in his right front ankle.

Larry Jones's final stakes starter will be with Payton d'Oro at Churchill Downs at the end of November.

A scoop on the Secretariat film

2009-10-15T10:51:00.007-05:00

Since IMDB.com hasn't officially listed exactly who is playing who for next year's Secretariat film by Walt Disney Pictures, I thought I'd get the jump on the all-knowing movie database by unleashing the casting information I was passed on by Mr. I-Wrote-the-Book-the-Movie-is-Based-on:

John Malkovich....Lucien Lauren

Diane Lane....Penny Chenery

James Cromwell....Ogden Phipps

Fred Thompson....Bull Hancock

Nelsan Ellis....Eddie Sweat

Eric Lange....Andy Beyer

Kevin Connolly....Bill Nack

ESPN.com recently published a great article on the scope of the film and how it will be different from Seabiscuit. You can read that article at this link.

For more official news about the Secretariat film, visit Big Red's website at this link.

Finally... Arlington!

2009-09-19T09:16:00.003-05:00

Originally printed at Smilepolitely.com....

This past Saturday, I set out on my maiden voyage to Arlington Park in Arlington Heights, Illinois; one would suppose, with all the races I attend, I would have visited one of the closest tracks in proximity to me at least a handful of times. I can't really say why it's taken me so long to visit the home of the Arlington Million, except for bad timing, looking to travel only to big stakes races, and my apprehension in having to take toll roads. What can I say, I don't like tricky driving. But after taking in the grounds and the experience there for the first time, I have to say I can't wait to return and get to know the park like an old broken-in couch.

Though I haven't been to half of America's racetracks, I've been to half of the top-rated facilities: Churchill Downs, Belmont Park, Oaklawn Park, Keeneland, Hollywood Park, Fair Grounds, and Turfway Park; this gives me a decent gauge on how to rate the new racetracks I visit. Calling itself the most beautiful track in America, Arlington was setting itself up for some scrutinizing. I admit I was pretty blown away by all I saw.

The first thing I noticed was the friendly staff waiting to greet you at the main gates; from the minute you arrive at Arlington, it's clear the proprietors want you to have a pleasant experience; it felt as if you were walking into an elegant, old-time park to see something really classy: what all good racetracks should strive for. When you enter a great race track, you feel like you're stepping into a different era, that you might be bumping into the upper crust letting down their hair and enjoying a beautiful day eyeing immaculate examples of horseflesh; elegance and racing go hand in hand-there's a reason there are races named after Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. Arlington exuded this feeling immediately, from the entrance to the gorgeous paddock sitting directly behind the gates.

Though admission was a little pricier than most tracks ($7 for adults at the Box Office, $5 for Twin Spires Club members), I didn't mind footing the extra dough for a track that is unspoiled by slot machines and provides such a classy experience. The paddock was engorged with flowers and well-manicured trees, encircling an oval in front of the pristine saddling paddock. Rich green ivy climbed up the white stone walls of the rear of the grandstands, where a curving stair led you to the first level. I walked in, completely sold, before I'd even seen the track. There didn't appear to be a speck of dirt anywhere. And, unlike most tracks I've been to, there were people everywhere.

I attended Arlington Park on Blackhawks Legends Day, a special event coordinated to showcase ex-players from the NHL for autograph signings, which I cared and knew absolutely nothing about. But as far as I could see, only a fraction of the attendees at the track were actually there for the hockey stars. This was a non-stakes day, and the place was half-full of fans. I couldn't believe my eyes!

There were families and groups of friends everywhere; there were probably more people in attendance on this fickle day of racing than when I saw Horse of the Year Curlin run at Churchill Downs on Grade I Stephen Foster Super Saturday. Apparently, an outing to Arlington with your family or friends on a beautiful Saturday is the Thing To Do around Chicagoland. Why can't every track be like this? The atmosphere was fun, friendly, and simply unbelievable comparatively. Whatever secret the good folks at Arlington have figured out, the rest of America's tracks better figure out A.S.A.P. It's clear that the park pushes "family fun," and that looks to be a big factor with the crowds that came out on this late day in the season.

I also have to say a word about the facilities, because I like to see what is and isn't working at all the racecourses: the food was plentiful, and no matter what you were in the mood for, Arlington probably served it. Though I only went to the Cobeys Food Court on the first level, I was amazed by the choices of food and drink: you could order anything from a classic track frank and fries to pizza, a turkey sandwich, grilled chicken, or a salad. And it was good food, not reheated, soggy bread you knew had to have been sitting out since last Saturday. If you were to venture in the upper levels of the grandstands, maneuvering through the reserved and box seats, you were sure to find more elegant dining. If you arrived early, you could claim a table sitting at the top of the stairs, where you could relax and watch the races beneath shade. On either side of the grandstands, umbrella-shaded tables offered party-like terrace seating at an additional cost. Oh yeah, and the gift shop is also one of the best I've seen, offering everything from T-shirts and stylish hats to windbreakers, Arlington Million glasses, watercolor prints, and jewelry. You will not leave Arlington without taking home some sort of souvenir with the Arlington logo; even the reusable hurricane glasses were stamped with a race horse jetting out of a big A.

When I was able to pull myself away from the indoor marvels (yes, the bathrooms are also some of the cleanest I've encountered trackside), I was presented with what I consider to be one of the biggest factors in which I judge a racecourse: the outdoor apron seating, the infield, and the track itself. This is where a track lives and dies, and Arlington is set up with the fans in mind. While the infield is landscaped with majestic weeping willow trees and a large pond, both the turf and main track is easily viewable from the numerous outdoor bench seats, which cascade down stairs so no one will be obstructing your view, even if they're wearing a very large fancy hat. What's more, the finish line is placed directly in front of the grandstands, and the winner's circle is wedged in an embrace of paddock tunnel and grandstand seating. I don't think I've seen anything quite so fan-friendly. Not only can you stand directly across from the horses as they pass the wire, you can hang over the wall from the winner's circle and be handed a pair of signed jockey goggles, which is what all the kids were doing after each race. What a place.

There's only a couple complaints I have about Arlington, but they're not something the casual race-goer will probably notice; one, Arlington doesn't offer many stakes races. The Arlington Million is the track's pinnacle race, and I always seem to miss it for whatever reason. The race holds a few other stakes races on its main card the day of, which knocks out other days that could hold big stakes. Basically, I'd like to visit the track when it's full of top-notch horses not just running on the turf, which leads me to the next point: the main track is synthetic. Synthetic surfaces are proving to be a deterrent for some major athlete horses, like the great filly Rachel Alexandra; also, they're proving not to be the "safer" surface people thought they'd turn out to be. I won't get into the debate, it's just a personal preference, and the surface issue is becoming a hotly debated one in the racing world right now. With the other major Thoroughbred track in Illinois, Hawthorne, offering traditional dirt racing when Arlington's season ends come September 27, I'll have to check it out and see how it holds up.

But as Arlington is one of the finest tracks I've visited for family entertainment, atmosphere, live race-viewing, and amenities, it's going to have to be one hell of a track.

For more information on Arlington Park, visit their official website at ArlingtonPark.com. Follow them on http://twitter.com/arlingtonracing for racing updates and insightful commentary.

21st century "wow" horse

2009-09-11T19:27:00.007-05:00

As printed today at Smile Politely.com...

Some people dream of seeing the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty, of Mt. Rushmore or Gettysburg, whether for the history or the monument of Americana. To see one of these great pieces of our United States is to feel like the country is a little bit more yours, to thread the crossroads that connect the nation to your heart. It doesn't make you a better American to see these things, but it quenches a curiosity; it inspires, and presents a grandeur that little can convey. I dreamt of seeing such a timeless treasure, but the one I longed for was a living thing, something that was only three years old.

I dreamt of seeing a Triple Crown winner.

I wanted to see a rarity, I wanted to see true Greatness; I wanted to see a champion conquer the Mount Everest of American horse racing. Only the Triple Crown, I thought, would be able to provide such a test; after all, winning the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont Stakes in five weeks is a nearly impossible feat that has proven insurmountable for going on thirty-one years, making those eleven who have accomplished it seem all the more outstanding.

I was mistaken.

Though I still long for the day when I can say, "I saw (this future horse) win the Triple Crown," I can now say my appetite has been satiated. I no longer have to wait to see a Triple Crown winner to feel like I have seen a race horse reach the apex of Greatness. I saw that this past Saturday.

I won't bother to try to equal or do one better than what the award-winning turf writer Steve Haskin said about the Woodward most recently in Blood-Horse Magazine; Haskin pretty much summed up the feats Rachel Alexandra accomplished in becoming the first female to ever win the race, the heart it took for her to win under the conditions, the emotions she stirred at the grand old Spa, and put into perspective what she now means to the Sport of Kings.

Honestly, I don't know if I could find the words. I look at Rachel Alexandra, at what she has accomplished in so little time, and find myself at a loss. That sort of anomaly happens when you take in something breathtaking like the Grand Canyon, something that's too huge to wrap your mind around; I think there's a certain amount of respect in not saying anything at all, in merely basking in the glow of this tremendous horse... or just uttering "wow."

What more can be said on a subject that has been worn threadbare with glistening superlatives? She's the best race horse in the world right now? Certainly. She's one of the all-time Greats of the sport? Without question. Rachel Alexandra is more impressive than the undefeated Zenyatta? No contest. She has already tied-up the Horse of the Year honor? No brainer.

I'm blessed to have seen this picture of perfection in person, to have been present at the precise moment she exploded onto the scene like a comet from the darkness. I remember standing on the rail of Churchill Downs, telling everybody who would listen that Rachel Alexandra was going to blow the doors off this field of fillies in the Kentucky Oaks. The people standing around me were new to the sport; they didn't know Cigar from a stogie. I noticed a young man with a video camera as the horses were loading into the starting gates of the Oaks. I said to him, "You're not going to want to miss this. Watch Rachel Alexandra. Trust me."

Then the gates slammed open, and she erupted into the history books, and she never looked back.

I guess it's not so bad living in the 21st Century. Through all the trash, the worldwide conflict, the destruction of the environment, the war, the bad TV, the political unrest, the conspiracies, at least we have this: we have this horse, this indisputable champion, this little nugget of purity no one can touch.

And that's enough for me.

Rachel Alexandra takes on history again in the Woodward

2009-09-04T23:06:00.004-05:00

Originally posted as my latest article at Smilepolitely.com:

If Curlin taught me anything in the Breeders' Cup last year, it's that the best horse doesn't always win the race. Look also at the 2009 Stephen Foster where the sure bet, Einstein, was blocked in the whole way 'round and never got an opening, having to settle for third place to Macho Again, a horse he could beat by daylight on any given day. Some will say last week's Travers is also an example of this notion, as the blazing Quality Road was boxed in and cornered on the rail, where a river of water had him logged until it was too late to work him into stride, and the lead was quickly surrendered to a free-floating Summer Bird. We like to think our heroes are invincible, but even Superman had his Kryptonite.

This is why Rachel Alexandra's foray into the Woodward is a little unsettling: she is daring to challenge history at Saratoga Race Course, the notorious "Graveyard of Champions;" it was here that Man o' War was handed his only defeat in 21 starts, here that the mighty Secretariat was beaten by Onion, here that the name Jim Dandy would ring forever, when the 100-1 longshot beat the Triple Crown winner, Gallant Fox. It was here that a horse named "Upset" became a vernacular in the world of horse racing, synonymous to when a favorite is undermined. Rachel Alexandra won't just be battling older horses in the Woodward, she will attempting to vanquish the spirits of Saratoga...

Read the rest here.

**

In undercard news, I'll be rooting for my boy, Pyro, in the Grade I Forego; it's Race 9 at Saratoga, directly before the Woodward. He'll be going for his first Grade I victory, and the hard-knocking little horse deserves it. It won't be an easy task, but his last race proved he's come back to form as a 4-year-old. I don't know if anyone has yet figured out what distance he likes best. Seven furlongs has me worried, I'll admit; a mile seemed more to his liking. Anyway, go Pyro! and happy Woodward day!

This just in!

2009-09-03T11:37:00.002-05:00

So while I was torn between who I should root for in the Pacific Classic, Blood-Horse announced that Einstein has been sold from the troubled Midnight Cry Stables to Frank Stronach.

Here's the article.

This is huuuge news, as Einstein has had quite a bit of problems entering races in certain states thanks to the criminals who have been racing him. I'm happy he's now in capable hands. I wonder if they will keep him on the same road to the Breeders' Cup, and then retirement?

Torn

2009-09-03T10:35:00.007-05:00

I'm so torn as to who to root for in the Grade I Pacific Classic on Sunday. When I'm a fan of a certain horse, I'm die-hard. Unfortunately for me, there are two of my horses plus a bonus in the great field for the Classic this Sunday at Del Mar.

One of my scream-till-my-throat-is-sore favorites is Einstein, the hardy, versatile horse who has won over dirt, turf, and synthetics; most recently, he won the Grade I Santa Anita Handicap on synthetics and the Woodford Reserve Turf Classic at Churchill Downs. The 7-year-old horse has had the misfortune of either a bad trip or a distaste for the track in his last two times out; the Stephen Foster was a nightmare he should've and would've had in the bag had he not been a huge horse stuck in a pocket, while the Arlington Million proved once again that for whatever reason, Einstein doesn't like Arlington's turf (maybe it's the Euro-tall grass). So will we see Einstein return to form in California, where he turned back such competitors as Cowboy Cal, Matto Mondo, Champs Elysees, Monba, Magnum, and Court Vision? My guess... is yes.

Einstein has every reason to like Del Mar's main track; while he's a horse that does well on dirt, it's not where he's best. He's the rare breed that can tiptoe between the two classic surfaces, and since synthetics, let's face it, is smack-dab in the middle between dirt and turf as its own separate surface, it's where Einstein should excell. If you need convincing, watch how he pulls away in the stretch of the Big Cap, leaving the rest of the field the job to play "catch me if you can."

Speaking of horses who can walk the tightrope between different surfaces, the fringe horse coming into the Pacific Classic, Colonel John, has been made the morning-line favorite at 5-2. After a smashing 4-year-old debut on turf at a mile in the Wickerr, it seemed the 2008 Travers winner would have a future on the grass, but it seems he, too, is a horse that can dip from two pools and persevere. But is he the kind of horse that can boast such successes at this as Einstein? That, I'm not so convinced of. Take into consideration, for instance, that the Wickerr on July 31st was the first race Colonel John won since the Travers in August 2008. Between those two races, he ran 6th in the Breeders' Cup Classic at Santa Anita, and then 4th in the Malibu the day after Christmas; granted, the Malibu was a 7 furlong race, which is pretty short for the son of Tiznow, but still, you've got to wonder if the 4-year-old Colonel John has moved on to, well, greener surfaces. He will have to run the race of his life to beat this field in the Pacific Classic...

...as will this year's Hollywood Gold Cup winner, Rail Trip. Now, this is a horse I've been following since his third race, when I caught wind of this then-unbeaten, late-blooming 4-year-old gelding in California. Never having finished worse than second in his lifetime career of 8 starts, it took Rail Trip two consecutive losses for him to "become a man." But is Rail Trip "man" enough to beat the amiable Einstein and the intimidating Colonel? As the older horse division is a little soft in California, it's hard to say if he's got what it takes to defeat proven class; but it's high time he is thrown in the mix. With the retirement of fan favorite Lava Man, and the quirky performances of Dubai World Cup winner, Well Armed, California needs a new star in its fading horizon. Along with top horses, Rail Trip will also be going up against the nation's top jockeys in Julien Leparoux on Einstein, Garrett Gomez on Colonel John, and Rafael Bejarano on Parading. A through-and-through underdog, Rail Trip is the best story going into the Pacific Classic. God knows, I was so ecstatic he won the Hollywood Gold Cup, I jumped straight off a bucket when the gutsy gelding crossed the wire in a new record time for the mile and 1/4 (I wish this was an exaggeration. No, it's just another weird equine photographer situation).

So when it's stretch time, and Einstein starts rolling after Rail Trip, who will be likely taking the lead in the final furlongs, and Colonel John begins a late-running rocket from behind, I will be screaming incoherently. But for whom will the bell toll? Why, that's why we run races.

Monsters have taken over Saratoga

2009-08-28T15:15:00.005-05:00

My latest article on Smilepolitely.com:

Only seven horses will break from the gate of the 140th running of the Grade I $1-million dollar Travers Stakes this Saturday, and for good reason: it's infested with monsters. OK, maybe not quite saber-toothed monsters, like the kind that lurk in your closet and the shadows under your bed (Go check, I'll wait...), but nonetheless, there are scary contenders to be found within....

Read the rest here.

P.S. Today, jockey Rafael Bejarano is supposed to return to riding for the first time since his accident where he injured his shoulder and basically broke his face. Let's wish him a successful comeback to the races!

Head West, young man: Mine That Bird flies to Goodwood

2009-08-27T10:23:00.005-05:00

As reported on NTRA.com, Kentucky Derby winner Mine That Bird will be targeted toward the Goodwood at Santa Anita on October 11th for his next start in preparation for the Breeders' Cup Classic.

I would like to take a moment out here to applaud the connections of Mine That Bird. Though he has proven to be as hardy a little gelding as they come, the Bird has had a grueling campaign this year and deserves a break. He has raced continuously since February, only skipping the months of April and July, and ran every single race of the Triple Crown, finishing in the money in each classic race. Though is last start in the West Virginia Derby was less than impressive, the race was a testament as to how the gelding needs to be handled. He may not be multi-dimensional, but when he's asked to roll, he will give you all he's got. You can't diss a horse that shows you that much heart. The news that his connections thought about running him in the Travers after his epiglottis surgery had me very concerned, and I'm very pleased they decided to err on the side of caution for this horse we will hopefully be watching in years to come.

On his way back West, Mine That Bird will be taking a tour of his old stomping grounds at Ruidoso Downs. I wonder if he will happily hop back into his old beaten-up stall with his name taped on a piece of cardboard to the wall? After spending his summer at hallowed Saratoga, where the golden light glinting off a pigeon could make a grown man well up with tears, the Bird will be entering the equivalent of a bottom-level claimer's accomodations. But hey, it's where he came from, it's home, right? Maybe the Bird's inflluence will help nicen up old Ruidoso, maybe his millions can spit and polish up the place a bit. After all, you never know if a successor to the throne could come from that very same stable. It would be a nice gesture, anyway.

While at Ruidoso, Mine That Bird will be leading the post parade of the $2 million All-American Futurity for Quarter Horses. He will be doubtlessly be paraded like a hometown hero, and he deserves no less. "The Little Gelding that Could" should be a children's book, if not a Hollywood movie. Disney would be brainless to pass this story by. In a rags to riches story you couldn't dream up, riding in a trailer across-country from a flyblown track to win America's most prestigious race, the Bird has been on one hell of a ride this year and I look forward to watching the rest of his story unfold.

Mine That Bird hasn't been to Santa Anita since his 12th-place finish in the Breeders' Cup Juvenile last October. But he will return a different horse, riding on a wave that has taken him to the pinnacle every 3-year-old horse aspires to sail along. By now, his running style has been tested, and his next start should prove a different kind of story compared to his last race there; he may start out at the back of the pack the next time he's looking upon the palm trees and San Gabriel mountains, but he certainly won't finish that way.

Roaring 'Road and Ravenous Rachel

2009-08-26T09:08:00.010-05:00

Though the field for the Travers diminished exponentially this week when it was announced that Rachel Alexandra would be pointed toward the Woodward with older horses, and today's announcement that Kentucky Derby winner Mine That Bird would miss the Travers thanks to a spot on his recently opperated-on epiglottis, the race will still be a momentus one.

I'll admit, my true objective for Mine That Bird to be in the Travers field was sort of a vengeful one. I spent weeks handicapping the Kentucky Derby to pick three horses I thought stood a chance, and narrowed it down after careful consideration who I would deem "my Derby horse." That horse didn't end up making it into the Kentucky Derby, or any of the other Triple Crown races, thanks to the same problem that almost kept Big Brown out last year: quarter cracks. Obviously, I'm referring to Quality Road. Yes, I wanted Mine That Bird in there, the beaten hero as he is, to be collared by the horse I felt should've won the Kentucky Derby in the first place.

But since the Derby winner will be skipping Saratoga's signature race for 3-year-olds, that still leaves plenty of other formidable opponents in the field with impressive resumes for Quality Road to check off his list. His biggest competition, in this handicapper's opinion, is Summer Bird. The Belmont winner showed a different dimension when he dared to run against form in a bid to keep rocketing Rachel within striking distance in the Haskell, running off the pace instead of from behind horses, which has proved most effective for him in the past. What was most impressive was that Summer Bird was able to maintain the quick pace and battle a game Munnings for second place in the 1-1/8 miles test. So it stands to reason, given this new show of flexibility and maturity, Summer Bird will try the same tactic in the Travers to keep the Road within his sights.

Quality Road can run on the lead, off the pace, or from the middle of the pack, as he showed in the 6 1/2-furlong Amsterdam. He has set track records in the last two races of his career. He's never gone around two turns and let a horse get in front of him (watch a replay of the Florida Derby when Dunkirk tries this going around the far turn and how Quality Road pours it on). Yeah, I'd say he's got it in the bag. Kensei did not pick a soft spot in avoiding his stablemate, Rachel Alexandra. Pointed away from one monster, he's running smack-dab into another one.

And what about Miss Alexandra? Now being targeted toward her first start against not only older horses, but against older males, Rachel Alexandra is attempting to become the first female winner of the Woodward at Saratoga. It's actually an unprecidented, historic gesture for a 3-year-old filly to be going up against this division in the middle of the summer, a plot worthy of the history books before she's even run in it; but she may not get the welcoming party she deserves.

It appears she is scaring the old men, as well as the boys: Asiatic Boy, the winner of the UAE Triple Crown, who was second to Curlin in the Dubai World Cup and the Stephen Foster, is picking up his bags and hopping on a train to California to face Einstein in the Pacific Classic instead of the 3-year-old filly. "Nobody really wants to face Rachel Alexandra these days, and to think we have to give her eight pounds is a little tough on us older boys," said Asiatic Boy's trainer, Kiaran McLaughlin. “She’s beat everybody that’s gotten in the gate with her this year... Luckily, I haven’t gotten in the gate with her and don’t look forward to getting in the gate with her with Asiatic Boy. She’s a great filly. The word ‘great’ is thrown around too often in our industry, but to me she’s one of the great ones and she’s great for the sport, and it's nice that Mr. (Jess) Jackson chose some of these spots to show how great she is. He said he’s hoping to run her next year as a 4-year-old, and that's nice to hear, but I don’t look forward to running against her ever, with anything.”

So who will Rachel be facing? Right now, the field looks pretty pale in comparison to the Travers. Macho Again, who has yet to be very consistent, but did win the Stephen Foster when Einstein was locked in traffic, may be her biggest threat; there's also Bullsbay, Cool Coal Man, It's a Bird, and oh, how can we forget--DA'TARA?! But let's face it, right now, there are no dominating older dirt horses. At the rate horses with balls and any kind of track credentials are being retired, that leaves little competition in the division. Honestly, who would you try to beat Rachel Alexandra with? Her biggest threats are in the breeding shed. We may very well see a Woodward that hands over the trophy to a capable filly simply because no one wants to take her on. If Jackson is looking to send her against a formidable dirt horse, I can only suggest taking on Einstein after he wins the Breeders' Cup. (Did I just say that aloud?) But, nevermind, he's heading for retirement after the Classic, too.

Anybody overseas listening? We want your champions. Our filly is hungry.

Where should Rachel run next?

2009-08-20T11:44:00.008-05:00

If you ask most people who follow horse racing, including me, they will tell you that Horse of the Year honors have already been wrapped up with one horse alone towering over her competition: the 3-year-old sensation Rachel Alexandra.

In short, she is nothing short of amazing. She's already defeated two top-class fields of three-year-old colts, and has made laughing-stocks of the fillies in her division. So the question remains: where should this dominating filly race next?

According to NTRA.com, Jess Jackson and Steve Asmussen will decide formally on her next race this coming Monday after Rachel's workout at Saratoga.

Blood-Horse veteran turf writer Steve Haskin has already started spreading the word that Rachel will enter the Woodward, a Grade I race for males 3 years old and upward, which has never been won by a female before; but this isn't confirmed by the filly's connections. If indeed Rachel does run in the Woodward, I have to strain my brain as to who would be her competition. As it stands now, there really is no older male dirt star, now that Curlin has been retired. Most of the buzz this year is around turf horses like Gio Ponti, but there is a possibility, with his versatile track record, that Einstein could be game.

In all honestly, Rachel's biggest competition lies in the 3-year-olds she has been facing, plus one giant who is returning to the track to regain his title of 3-year-old King: Quality Road. His first race since winning the Florida Derby marked a cutback in distance (which wasn't in his favor) and setting a new track record of 1:13.74 over 6 1/2 furlongs in the Amsterdam, smashing a record that stood for 30 years. I repeat: not a stakes, but a track record. If Quality Road isn't seen as a threat to Jackson and Co., they need to reassess their Daily Racing Form. Yes, Rachel is brilliant, but so is the 'Road. Both horses are intriguing, both horses look unbeatable. If we never get to see a showdown between Zenyatta and Rachel Alexandra, we should be satisfied if these two Titans ever clash.

Rachel Alexandra is nominated to the Travers, the Woodward, and the Pennsylvania Derby, but as these races are within a week of each other, she will only be pointed toward one. Her regular exercise rider, Dominic Terry, said the filly "was a lot stronger than normal... she was pulling me to the pole. She went really nice and galloped out really strong. I couldn't ask for more." Trainer Steve Asmussen, who watched her working through the fog at the Oaklahoma training track, said of Rachel, "I'll have confidence in her anywhere they want to run her."

How scary is it that she's reported working stronger than ever? After having watched this phenomenal filly work in person, I have to say her competitors should be shaking in their shoes.

You can watch that very work of Rachel before her smashing Kentucky Oaks victory here, from YouTube. She is a bit spooky because of the people watching from the Churchill grandstands, but mainly she's just trying to pull the arms off of her exercise rider. Watch this and just try not to get goosebumps.

So, where should Rachel run next? Which is more integral to her legacy, a race against a probable soft field of older males, or to go up against the monster in Quality Road in the Travers? While my vote lies in a match-up against the 'Road, I'm all for seeing her make pansies out of the old men. She's already beaten up on the girls and the boys, so why not strike out on a new frontier and check off one more accolade to her growing list of accomplishments?

Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta: Living Legends

2009-08-14T16:47:00.006-05:00

Originally posted here in my column, The Call to the Post

It's hard to get my mind wrapped around the fact that I'm living in an age I've always longed for. Even though the phenomenon has snuck upon us, it's safe to say that right now, this very minute in time, we're witnessing something very unique in the sport of horse racing. At this moment, on opposite sides of the country, are two special horses either getting an afternoon nap or perhaps a nibble of sugar cubes; to the naked eye, oh yes, they would appear to be the kind of race horse any owner or trainer would aspire to have. But looks are deceiving. If every horse could run as good as he looked, there would be Triple Crowns won every year. But these two, one a 3-year-old filly, the other a 5-year-old mare, are exactly as good as they look.

No one ever could've predicted we'd be seeing two modern marvels in the year 2009, two imposing female horses that will undoubtedly leave their impressions stamped in the history books for all of time. I never got to see the great Secretariat. I never got to see Man o' War or Ruffian, Spectacular Bid or Seattle Slew. But I got to see Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta. Here we are, in a few span of months for the ages, a time when people thirty years from now will be looking at us with wonder in their eyes and whisper, "You got to see Rachel Alexandra?"

I was there. I never thought I'd be able to say I'd seen a Great, because it's so hard to know precisely what that is until you see it for yourself.

Now I know.

I know because of the sort of disbelief that overcame me when Rachel Alexandra swung into the final turn of the Haskell and began to separate herself from the rest of the field. That's not something just any horse could've done. Her competitors were decorated: a Belmont winner, an Arkansas Derby winner, an up-coming superstar. It takes a freak to spit in the faces of horses like that and run away for fun. That's what Greatness is.

The same can be said for Zenyatta, but on a different level. I was shocked after watching Zenyatta's last race, the Clement L. Hirsch Stakes, where she just barely won her twelfth race in a row. To the naked eye, it wasn't clear if she'd actually made it to the wire before the track ran out. Did the undefeated Zenyatta get foiled by a dirty head-bob? The idea that Zenyatta could be beaten by a horse nothing much better than a claimer stunned me so badly, I sat on my couch, jaw ajar, simply staring as the crowd at Del Mar shrieked and ebbed like a cage full of monkeys.

But those people were cheering-that's what stunned me. Zenyatta shouldn't have won the Grade I Clement Hirsch Stakes by a head, she should've won that race by 10 lengths, at worst. What in the heck just happened? Suddenly, this great unbeaten mare looked like a laughing-stock in comparison to the filly two years her junior, Rachel Alexandra, who'd just beaten a field of incomparably tough colts by 6 in the Grade I Haskell Invitational.

In her start prior to the Hirsch, Zenyatta was spotting the rest of the field at least seven pounds, carrying a career-high of 129 in the Vanity Handicap. Handicap races are supposed to make the field more "even" by holding back the horses with a better chance of winning. I understood Zenyatta would have a tougher time winning by much carrying 129 pounds in the Vanity, which she ended up winning by 2 1/2-lengths. But the Clement Hirsch had recently been stripped of its handicap status and had been turned into a stakes race. A stakes race against nobody special, ab-so-lute-ly nobody.

But then I realized something. The way Zenyatta was positioned in the Clement Hirsch, she should've lost. There was absolutely no way a normal horse could've won that race in Zenyatta's position. Just in the same way it took a freak filly like Rachel Alexandra to laugh at that field of colts and win by 6, it took a freak to run the entire race with slow fractions, let the leader run away, go six-wide around the turn while spinning out, and then rocket down the stretch at 40 miles per hour to win the race by a head. That doesn't happen. Not with a five-year-old mare the size of a house, not with anybody.

After the race, Mike Smith said with a smile, "Wasn't that something! I thought I had it... But I've got to admit I underestimated the company we were keeping today. They made her run."

Yes, it's true, Mikey gave her a bad ride. The Clement Hirsch was a reminder of Smith's latest debacle, when he tried a move too early with Mine That Bird in the West Virginia Derby and finished a tired and unimpressive third on the Derby winner. People make mistakes. Freaks fix them.

There's a lot of talk going on right now about setting up a match race between Zenyatta and Rachel Alexandra. I'll tell you why that's a bad idea: match races are inherently a bad idea. No horseman in his right mind would ever want to put his charge in a match race knowing what we do now about those race situations (But that's a whole 'nother article).

I will say a race between these two champions would be the race of the century-but it would have to be a legitimate race with at least three other starters besides them. As to what would happen, I'm leaving that up to the horse racing gods, since both Rachel and Zenyatta seem to have an angel on their shoulder. Until that day happens, and it may never transpire, we should be grateful we are living right now, and can turn on the TV or go to the track and see these living legends do what they do best: amaze us, time and time again.

Spa Spa Spa!!

2009-07-28T09:25:00.004-05:00

I would do anything to be in Saratoga Springs, New York, this week. I really don't have the words to explain how exciting it would be to see Wednesday's opening day of races with the big two-year-old filly stakes in the Schuylerville, see my boy Pyro's first race since last October when he runs in the James Marvin Stakes, and Quality Road's return to the races since his dominating Florida Derby victory... it's all too much. If I stop to think about all that I'm missing, my mind begins to conjure up ways I can hop a train or a plane to New York. I'll just have to block out all the people who're telling me Saratoga is the place to be, because I can't.

But it still hurts.

And then there's the goings-on at Monmouth. Rachel Alexandra will be schooling between races on Friday, when she arrives from Saratoga. Do I even need to mention how huge this Haskell is going to be? Just don't forget it's on Sunday, not Saturday.

I really hope that Pyro does well in his return race. After seeing the distance, I'm not so sure he's got much of an advantage. At 7 furlongs, the James Marvin Stakes really is too short of a distance for this horse that does his best at 1 1/8-miles. With his late-running kick, and as a horse that takes a while to get going, usually waiting until the last furlong or two to get into gear, Pyro will have to acquire a little get-up-and-go if he's to do well in this stakes. Riley Tucker will also start in the James Marvin, a colt that's been improving in his fourth year. So all in all, a decent place to come back for Pyro, though the odds are stacked against him. Note he will be ridden by a jockey other than Shaun Bridgmohaun for the first time in his career. John Velazquez will be in the irons.

ESPN.com relates all things Spa for the opening week here.

The Family of Kings

2009-07-24T16:50:00.005-05:00

Inspired by how shaken I was by Rafael Bejarano's recent accident, I wrote a little on how this sport has become such a part of my life. Here's the original article posted on SmilePolitely.com with pictures (and it's on the cover, thankyouverymuch.)

But if you're a link-a-phobe, here's the article in its entirety:

The Family of Kings

When I got into the sport of horse racing, it was a pretty lonely thrill; few people shared my enthusiasm, or could understand why I got so excited come the first Saturday in May. All I had were my parents and the brief newspaper articles during the Triple Crown, those articles I'd be lucky to find on page three of the sports section. I'd campaign to everyone I knew about the big upcoming races, but most people had never heard of a stakes race outside of the Kentucky Derby and just smiled politely at the little enthusiastic kid jabbering away about horses. (Admittedly, not a lot has changed in that respect.) But when I grew up, I started driving hours away from home and attending the tracks for live racing. I don't know what I expected, exactly, but I never would've anticipated what I found on the track and the backstretch.

It was like coming home.

I have never seen or heard of a sport that appreciates fans so much. Aside from the chronic gamblers who shout at the simulcast TVs all day long, the people who inherently care about the sport time and time again go out of their way to make you feel welcomed, and for you to have a memorable experience. I'm talking about everyone from valets and gift shop employees to million-dollar horse trainers and owners. Maybe it's that they realize they are existing in a sport that lives only in concentric circles, little orbiting worlds that rarely touch people outside of their revolutions, but the fact is, once you experience this phenomenon, you can't help but feel like a part of the family.

During Kentucky Derby week at Churchill Downs, the party atmosphere was infectious. People were dressed to the nines on non-stakes days, smiling faces were everywhere, and people who didn't know each other would rub elbows and chat about the nine horse in race three, and whether his jockey improved his odds. My husband and I took a shuttle from the back of the parking lot to the grandstands, and the valet sneaked us two free tickets to the third level, directly below Millionaire's Row. We didn't ask for the tickets, or hint that we wanted to sit up in the expensive seats; he just wanted us to have a good time. The Sunday following the Kentucky Derby, the connections of Mine That Bird stood outside of the Kentucky Derby museum and handed fans roses from the famous blanket of roses that drapes over the Derby winner's shoulders; just a little memento that will create a lasting memory.

The last thing I expected from the sport of horse racing was the sense of family I would begin to feel at the track. True, it does help if you follow the coverage on HRTV and TVG and get to know the horses, jocks, and trainers, but in person, horse racing is a whole different experience... and it's so much better. You can stand on the rail, as up-close and front-row as you can get, for less than $5 at most tracks, and be right in the middle of the action. You can admire the highest-class Thoroughbreds from only a few feet away, and get a nod from a world-class jockey for simply taking his picture. It's an old-time pastime that doesn't require a lot of spending money, nor any fancy technology to enjoy it.

There are few sports as simple as a man on a horse trying to win a race, but there's an unspoken serenity in its simplicity. You can enjoy the same pleasure someone experienced in the 1600's, with little difference. Yes, there are times when it's not all gloss and fancy, much in the same way a family has its trials and black sheep. But that's life, isn't it? Nobody is perfect, and no family is perfect.

But then, there is the family that is perfect for you.

Rafael Bejarano suffers bad fall on Del Mar opening day

2009-07-23T10:45:00.005-05:00

Rafael Bejarano, one of the leading jockeys in California, was badly injured in a claiming race yesterday when his mount, Mi Rey, broke down in the middle of the stretch.

Full details can be found at this link on Blood-Horse.

Raf's jaw, nose, and orbital bones were fractured in the fall; he also hurt his left shoulder. Mi Rey, an 8-year-old gelding, was euthanized.

Rafael was Del Mar's top jockey last year, and will likely be out for a week or more to recover. So far, it's unclear if he'll have surgery to his face.

After Rene Douglas's horrible accident, this is just one more scare that drives home how dangerous this sport can be.

Let's wish Rafael a speedy, full recovery.

A trip to Hollywood Park

2009-07-15T20:52:00.011-05:00

The idea of someone wanting to demolish Hollywood Park is a gruesome thing in my eyes, something that can’t quite be believed after taking in the opulent landscaping and distinct character of the park first-hand. I can’t quite grasp the sort of people who would want to turn a place of such beauty and history into retail trash. Hollywood Park boasts the most impressive paddock I’ve ever seen in comparing landscaping and layout, and it champions the heroes of its signature race, the Hollywood Gold Cup, with plaques all about the park. The park is a testament of a bygone era, but it is far from the dump that some tracks have become. My trip to the Friday night racing was a testament to how successful the sport could be if only an effort were made to cater to a different sort of crowd. Yet, we are losing a significant piece of racing history with the knell of Death’s bell for Hollywood.

I paid strict attention to Hollywood Park itself on my brief visit there, taking in the abundant palm trees, the honor bestowed upon the Gold Cup winners, the monuments, and the track itself. I felt I was going as a sort of archaeologist, trying to preserve in pictures something that wouldn’t be there when I next returned to California. I took pictures of the Swaps statue from just about every angle I could think of, and paid my respects to the grave of Native Diver (follow the link for a great video on this amazing horse), who has one of the most lovely memorials I’ve ever seen.

The track itself has already been ruined by the installation of the abhorrent Cushion Track, a surface that by all means is nothing more than ground-up tires (pick up a handful of it and not only will your hand turn black, but you’ll find tire segments an inch long). The dirt on which Seabiscuit which ran is no longer there, but the skies, the elegance, the aura is the same (though it may be slightly tarnished by an age of neglect).

When I arrived at the park, I was blown away by the Vegas-like style of the grand entrance, and equally hit with a pang of sorrow that this place would be thrown such a fate as the old Yankee Stadium. The two are similar in many ways.

I’d never attended night racing at a Thoroughbred track before, and the experience was one I’d like to have again. The crowd turned out to be larger than the day of the Hollywood Gold Cup, sadly enough. It seemed whoever these patrons were were there for the $1 beer and hot dogs, and possibly to see the live act scheduled for after the races, Eek a Mouse. But the nice thing about the crowd was that they seemed to be enjoying themselves, and heartily cheered claimers as they rounded the historic track.

The Tuesday of that week, I called in for credentials and easily got them, which made me feel pretty special. When I arrived at the park, I picked up my press pass from Diane in the office and looked across her office to find one of the free Zenyatta posters they’d handed out on a day designated in her honor last winter. Can you believe she actually had leftovers and readily scrounged me up two of them for free? My day was completely made by that point, and I’d yet to start shooting. I had slim hopes of seeing Zenyatta while I was there, since I did know regular shooter at the park, Charles Pravata, who, in our circles, is referred to as “Zenyatta’s personal photographer.” But I didn’t get my hopes up. It turned out to be a good thing.

Charles didn’t show up on Friday, but he let me know that Bob Mayberger from New York (yes, the same Bob whom I shot with at Belmont!) was in town to shoot the Gold Cup. Bob didn’t end up showing until the short card was about halfway over and the daylight had failed, so he missed the beautiful sunset. Meanwhile, I introduced myself to the track photographers and tried to stay out of their way. Since my boss told me he wanted me to shoot from the inside rail for the Gold Cup, I tried to practice some from that position on Friday. Let me tell you, taking photos at night directly into spotlights is absolutely no fun. Taking photos from the outside, however, is pretty cool and challenging, because there’s only one point where the spotlight is on the horses: just on the finish line. At no point is it nice to shoot from the inside during night racing, unless you’re cool like that and want to shoot an “atmospheric” photo. That may work for one race, but I don’t recommend it for a full card.

When Bob finally found me, the night picked up a little bit and I started chatting with him about how gorgeous Hollywood was. Someone had told him that Hollywood Park was “the Aqueduct of California” and we both thought whoever said that was out of their gourd. Maybe it’s that we’re not from California and are used to the ugliness of Aqueduct and/or Turfway Park, but Hollywood would put those tracks to shame in a beauty contest.

I ended up leaving before the card was over. I'd actually hurt my ankles walking down steep slopes at Yosemite National Park two days prior, and then not helped them by hiking around Sequoia National Park the previous day, and I was not as fresh as I'd been in my Belmont adventure. I needed all the energy I could get the next day, but it was still hardly enough!

Bitter "Sweet" Gold Cup for Hollywood

2009-07-10T17:11:00.004-05:00

I started thinking about what to write for my latest article and thought I'd talk about what the column is geared toward, the three-year-old campaigns. But I just so happen to be in Santa Monica California right now, anticipating my first trip to Hollywood Park, and I was overcome with anger about the race track's impending demolition, and I had to go with my heart. It's not long, and it hardly says what should be said about the tragedy of destroying this historic establishment, but here's my article about the last Hollywood Gold Cup.

I wanted to rant about how ridiculous it was about Pioneerof the Nile's sudden retirement after it was discovered he had a "soft tissue" damage in one of his legs. Can somebody please explain to me if this is really a life-threatening injury, nevermind a career-threatening injury? This horse looked to become a great synthetics specialist, and maybe even a good turf horse. Now we'll never get to see him try to make up for his losses in the Triple Crown. I just can't believe how we're losing horses. Musket Man isn't retired, but he won't be racing for the rest of the year. Monba was retired after he was found to have an injury in his leg. And then I discovered the winner of the Golden Shaheen, in which Indian Blessing finished second, died of a stomach ailment.

What's going on in our sport? When the horses are dropping like flies, whether it be dying or retiring prematurely, something is amiss. No wonder people aren't following horse racing like they used to.

As for me, I am going to visit Hollywood Park for the first time today. It's going to be night racing for my inaugural visit, something I've never seen before. It's going to be extremely bittersweet, but I'm looking at it as a mission to photograph anything worth remembering.

I'm going to be taking a LOT of photos.

I can't wait for tomorrow. I have credentials for the Hollywood Gold Cup. I didn't know I'd be having this chance, or I'd've been looking forward to this. I can't wait, it's going to be just glorious!

Now, onto the traffic jam of L.A....

Rachel and Zen prove girls rule the world

2009-07-03T16:12:00.005-05:00

The results of the great virtual match race, plus discussion on the Rachel vs. Zenyatta debate:

Rachel and Zen prove girls rule the world

I was so excited to finally find a picture of Zenyatta doing her little Spanish walk/boxer strut for this article. For you link-a-phobes, here's the picture, author unknown:

In other news, I'm sure most of you have heard by now that Calvin Borel has been permanently taken off Mine That Bird, at least for the rest of the year. I'm a little saddened by this news, as horse racing had gotten a boost in the public spotlight with this Derby-winning team. Hopefully, any new fans who might've been recruited thanks to the hype will stick around to watch Rachel kick some tail in the remainder of her 2009 campaign.

As of yet, no jockey has yet been found to replace Borel, as trainer Chip Wooley is looking for a jock who can commit to the rest of the year, including the Breeders' Cup Classic. Mike Smith was asked, but declined because of his conflict of interest should Zenyatta face the boys for the first time in the Classic. Who would you name to replace Borel? Part of me wishes they'd call on Chantal Sutherland again, since she already knows the horse and wasn't given the opportunity to ride him in the Triple Crown. It would certainly give her career a boost to become a regular rider for the Derby winner if he stays in the same form he was in from May-June.

And in other news, Churchill Downs experienced fantastic results with their final test of night racing yesterday. I'm sad to have missed it. According to Blood-Horse, the attendance Thursday was 33,481 spectators--more than any other race day outside of the Kentucky Derby, Kentucky Oaks, or Breeders' Cup days. That means more people showed up to watch claimers than to see Horse of the Year Curlin in his comeback race from the Dubai World Cup. It seems that Churchill has struck gold here in whatever they've been doing. You can vote on whether or not you want Churchill to continue night racing as a part of the regular meet here: http://www.churchilldowns.com/ I voted "yes," because whatever is bringing in more people to the sport, we can definitely support!

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part VI (Finale)

2009-06-30T11:07:00.020-05:00

In my heart, I wanted to see Mine That Bird win the Belmont Stakes. The little bay gelding had proved to be such a tremendous horse in his Kentucky Derby romp, and then his affirmation in the Preakness Stakes when he lost to the monster filly. Finally, for the first time, Mine That Bird was being hailed as the favorite. Finally, he could be rooted for, and had a legitimate chance of winning.

But my head said no. Even though the Belmont was a race made for Mine That Bird, I didn't believe he would pull it off. There were too many factors stacked up against him. For one, his jockey was going into the 1 1/2-mile grueler completely naive; two, he was the most battle-tested of all the horses, who would be coming into the race fresh and ready to run the race of their life. And then there was the fact I believed Summer Bird and Kent Desormeaux would steal the show.

The Thursday before, Bill Nack had predicted Summer Bird would win the Belmont. I really liked the horse since I saw him in person in the Arkansas Derby, and after reading his notes in the Kentucky Derby, I believed he would perform big in the longer race (he had a lot of trouble in Kentucky and rallied strongest of all the horses to finish fifth). And then there came the big orange flag: Kent Desormeaux had won three races in a row on the undercard of the Belmont. That right there is a sign I've come to notice; several times after a favorite is upset in a big race, you can look back and see the clues were laid out all day-long on who was hot. If you begin to see a pattern of a certain jockey on a win streak, put your money on him to steal the the big stakes. Unfortunately, I was too busy to make it to the betting windows.

Being tied to the infield, I could only watch the Jumbo-tron as the contenders of the Belmont Stakes began their parade to the paddock. I knew I'd get great shots of the horses coming back out of the tunnel, however, unlike the Derbies I've been to. The contenders are always shielded by their respective ponies from the roaring grandstands, giving the photographers on the infield side a prestine vantage point of the contenders. I took a spot behind the bush, directly across from the tunnel. My nerves were beginning to build. This was it. The Belmont Stakes was upon us. I was about to photograph my first Triple Crown race.

To make my situation all the more nerve-wracking, I was sort of going on a secret mission, unlike the other photographers I'd befriended who had marked their steps and customary positions. I was going to be hauling a ladder down the turf course with the hopes nobody would stop me, so that I could get the "Smarty Jones shot" in the middle of the stretch. I was afraid someone at the track would try to stop me in the last second, because even though Harold had asked for permission, all of the other photographers I talked to about it said they didn't think I would be allowed to shoot in front of the finish line. (Apparently, the rules are extremely strict that you are not allowed to be in front of the finish line shooting. I was going to be on the turf course, though, so hardly perceptible to spooking any horses so far away) I kept looking to Jim Tyrell, the photographer who'd actually taken that Smarty Jones shot, asking him when he thought it would be a good time to start creeping down the turf course with the ladder. He seemed to think of the situation as a covert op, too, and would shake his head, stealing a glance at me out of the corner of his eye.

While we were waiting, police officers on horseback lined up in behind the finish line. Even though they generally looked friendly and served as great subjects, their presence did nothing to cool my nerves. Standing only about ten feet away from us, they represented Belmont Authority. The last thing I wanted was a policeman on horseback running me down for walking on the turf course. (Not that that would ever happen, this is just my wild imagination making things so much more interesting)

Finally, the Belmont contenders began to parade out of the tunnel. I paid special attention to the top four horses I thought had a fighting chance: Summer Bird, Dunkirk, Charitable Man, and of course, Mine That Bird. Taking pictures of moments like this puts you into a zone, where you know history is on the brink of time, and everything hangs in the balance of "anything can change right here, right now." As I watched Mine That Bird walk past the grandstands with the plucky Calvin Borel on board, I thought about the journey this pair had embarked on over the past five weeks. What a trip in such a short time--from relative obscurity to headliners, and that was not in racing circles, but in the public eye. We place such expectations on these horses and jockeys, but really, we should just be thankful we get to ride on the tails of their shooting stars and witness the history that surrounds them. I watched them ride into the sunset under Belmont's storied grandstands, and smiled.

When I saw Kent Desormeaux on Summer Bird, he exuded everything you wanted to see in a jockey before a big race: he looked cool, exuding confidence, and seemed to be turning things over in his mind while taking it all in. This looked like a jock on a mission of redemption. What a difference this Belmont was from the last, where he was sitting on the potential of a Triple Crown victory in the dominating Big Brown.

Once the horses passed us in their long parade, I saw Jim and he gave me the go-ahead nod. With that, I hauled the small ladder underneath the turf course rail and began to trek down the grass course, a long, long, journey to a pole where I would set up my position. Stealthily, of course.

I was all alone walking down the turf course, separated from any living soul. I felt as if I was tackling new frontiers. The closest people to me were litterally the fans in the grandstands. Being the only person in front of such a crowd is a humbling experience. I kind of felt like I was the soul observer of a great spectacle and was entrusted in documenting it.

I found my spot next to the tall white pole, made certain I would have a clear shot of the horses passing in front of me, and then settled in to being an observer while the horses took that long stroll to the starting gates. Not a moment later, I began to hear the familiar words of "New York, New York" echoing from the grandstands, and I smiled hugely. This was reality hitting me in the face. I imagined what it would be like watching this from TV, and here I was, all alone on the turf course at Belmont, seeing it all in person from a vantage point nobody else had. I started singing along, grinning ear-to-ear, thinking about my own journey to New York and what it meant for me. What a funny video that would've made, had someone seen me all alone standing on a ladder in the turf course singing "New York, New York" to myself!

A few minutes later, a pick-up truck started coasting by the grandstands with a guy standing up in the back, waving around a white towel. He was getting the fans cheering in a huge wave! This was a side of the racing people just don't get to see on TV, when the commercials start playing between the coverage. God, how I love this sport. The grandstands were going crazy with anticipation.

My nerves started to calm as the horses were loaded into the gate. I wouldn't be able to see most of the race. My big moment wasn't until the horses rounded the turn, and then it would be up to me. For now, all I had to do was be a fan. I'm pretty good at being a fan.

I took some pictures of the horses loading, and their pause, and break. The grandstands roared. I whooped. Here it was. The final trip, the swan song. I listened for the rumble of the hoofbeats to disappear into the first turn, and the clamor of the fans to dissipate. From there, I turned around and tried to watch the Jumbo-tron, which was at an angle almost impossible for me to see. Strangely enough, I could actually hear Tom Durkin's race call better out there than either in the grandstands themselves or by the finish line. No one was there to drown out the call, for once.

I couldn't believe that Dunkirk was setting the early pace, and though I couldn't hear how fast they were going, I could hear the surprise in Tom Durkin's voice. I honestly thought the son of Unbridled's Song would be toast early on if he was leading the whole way around. There was no way there'd be a repeat front-running victory of the Belmont like last year, I thought. As the horses journeyed around Big Sandy, and Durnkirk stayed in the lead, I began to wonder if it was possible he could sustain his pace and win. I'd never really thought about Dunkirk winning the Belmont, though I figured he had a good shot at placing.

It was at this point I realized the Belmont Stakes was half over. All the anticipation leading up to this point, the finale of the most exciting five-weeks of my year, was almost at an end. But this was no time to be sentimental.

I turned completely around and saw the horses appear again on the backstretch. They would be coming around the turn in just a few moments. I readied my camera and re-checked my settings and the course I'd be shooting.

As the horses entered the turn, I could hear Tom Durkin cry Mine That Bird's name, and the crowd began to cheer. As far away as I was from watching the action, I knew this must mean he was beginning to make his move. And a few seconds later, I heard the Derby winner's name again, and this time the grandstands roared. I have no real way to explain what this felt like, being on the brunt of 50,000 people's synchronized screams. I began to feel tears burning my eyes. I'd never, ever experienced anything like this before. Even in the Kentucky Derby, nobody really has a favorite, nobody is really all for one horse. Most people don't follow the horses long before the Derby to have a hero among them, but it was a different story at the end of the Triple Crown. Here, in the Belmont stakes, the entire whole was rooting for one horse, and one horse alone. It was almost like a trip back in time, when horse racing was one of the most popular sports, and race horses were the star athletes people revered.

Here the calvary came, hurtling down the stretch. I could see them from a long way off, but they wouldn't be well in my sights until they were at an angle in front of me. I could see Dunkirk, the gray, on the inside fighting on with Charitable Man to his right and Mine That Bird on the far outside. But as they came right into my sights and I began to steadily snap, snap away like the sniper on the grassy knoll, I saw Mine That Bird's short lead being eaten up by the on-coming Summer Bird. It all happened right in front of me.

Summer Bird passed the Derby winner with 200 yards to go, and Mine That Bird was all used up. The Derby winners had moved too soon, but the seasoned Desormeaux, too used to knowing that sting of impatience in the 1 1/2-mile Belmont, was ready to pounce at the exact right time. Patience won the race. From my vantage point, I thought that Mine That Bird finished second, and I was shocked that Dunkirk had still enough fight in him to come back and place second, putting the Derby Bird in third. A little disappointed, but a little cocky that I'd been right all along about Desormeaux, I gathered up my ladder and zipped down the turf course to photograph the curtain call of the Triple Crown.

I ditched my ladder near the photographer's platform and zoomed down to a good spot behind the hedge to get pictures of the horses being unsaddled. I could've, and should've walked across the track to the winner's circle at this point, even though I wasn't allowed to step inside of it, I could've gotten a clearer view of Summer Bird had I thought about it earlier. Instead, I got what I think is my most poignant shot of the day: Calvin Borel unsaddling Mine That Bird and giving him a final pat on the rear-end before the Derby winner was led away from the celebration, and out of the spotlight.

I was very happy for Kent Desormeaux. Even though I hold a slight grudge against him for pulling up Big Brown in the Belmont last year, he's always been a jockey I've followed. He rode one of my favorite horses of all-time, Real Quiet, and simply for that bit of nostalgia, I will always have a soft spot for him. When he came bouncing down the track on Summer Bird after winning his first Belmont, I felt the tangible vanquishing of his demons. Finally, Kent had found his redemption, even though it was on a horse most people didn't want to win. I stepped out into the track to take pictures of them walking into the winner's circle, and once the garland of white carnations was draped over the chestnut's shoulders, I found a spot where I could stand on my tip-toes and take pictures of the scene inside the winner's circle. After the customary shot over the matel was taken, Kent looked away from the track photographer and looked right at me.

I don't know what made him look over at me snapping away at him with my huge lens, when there was a regular paparazzi of photographers clamboring to get the shot. It could've been that a video camera was behind me (though I don't remember if there was), or maybe I stood out because of my hat. Perhaps I looked like the photographer most desperate to get the shot, bouncing up and down on my toes to take his picture. Anyway, I got this eerie picture of him looking right at me, and for whatever reason, I felt a little like I could now forgive him for losing the Triple Crown. He now knew what to do to win the Belmont, the big fish, the prize buck. He could still be counted on. He had repented, in a way, for blowing the two biggest races of his life.

What happened afterwards is pretty much a blur. I remember Bud saying his good-byes to me as we crossed the track, and I felt increasingly disappointed the fun was coming to an end. I took my memory cards to Harold, who was furiously transferring pictures in the photo auxillary booth. What I didn't know at the time was that some photographers were following Summer Bird back to the Belmont backstretch, getting great shots of him after the race, and taking home souvenir carnations from the famous garland! I kicked myself a thousand times over since I found this news out, and I very well could've been amongst all the action one last time.

Harold and Co. took a long time transferring pictures, and I got to say some good-byes to the other photographers I met: Bob, Melissa, Sarah, Charles, Jessie, and the rest. I got to take a real break for the first time in a long, grueling while, and also had to return my awesome rented photography equipment to the Nikon RV an hour after the winner's circle photoshoot.

Belmont had become a sort of home to me during that week, and I felt very sad having to say good-bye to it. I'd been able to take in its grandeur during its most prestigious race, see all the excitement I could handle, and been on an emotional rollercoaster all the while. Once I handed in my D3 and 300mm, I was finally able to breathe and look outside of the viewfinder.

What an amazing three days. Three days where I'd crossed the borders of comfort, three days where I felt I was creeping around like a criminal doing things where I was certain someone would catch me and tell me, "Wait a minute, you shouldn't be here!" I'd rubbed elbows with millionaires and press icons, joined a photography "harem," made friends with people I admired, and witnessed history once again. And I'd even done it all without messing up my photography. What was strange to me was the fact I seemed to be better under pressure, having found a zone where I didn't let all the hype and aplomb affect me, and I was able to get everything I needed.

I'm proud of myself. For a first-timer's Belmont, I think I did pretty well. If nothing else, I came away from my Belmont experience having found where I belong. How many people can truly claim that? Here's hoping this is the start of many great things. Hey, if I can make it in New York, I can make it anywhere, right?

Ghostsnapper

We have a winner!

Photography Contest!

Mighty Eclipse Winner

Breeders' Cup Saturday: Lost in the Afterglow (Part 2 of 2)

Breeders' Cup Saturday: Showtime (Part 1 of 2)

My Breeders' Cup Experience: Friday Kick-Off

My Breeders' Cup experience: Thursday shenanigans

Meet my new boy, Tapizar

Wow!

Let the voting begin!

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Who's to blame?

Three Derbies. Two Weeks. Part III: Discovering Zen in Hot Springs

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Three derbies. Two weeks. Part II: Maiden home state derby

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Three Derbies. Two weeks. Part I: "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?"

Jamie, meet Zenyatta

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My kind of Christmas

My final thoughts on Horse of the Year 2009

Contest! *Shameless plug alert!*

Ghostsnapper's excellent Churchill Downs adventure: Part II

Ghostsnapper's excellent Churchill Downs adventure: Part I

The 2009 Breeders' Cup Classic from the best seat in the house

Einstein: Living up to brilliance

Hail the Conquering Hero

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A scoop on the Secretariat film

Finally... Arlington!

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Rachel Alexandra takes on history again in the Woodward

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Torn

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Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta: Living Legends

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The Family of Kings

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Bitter "Sweet" Gold Cup for Hollywood

Rachel and Zen prove girls rule the world

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part VI (Finale)

Contest! Shameless plug alert!