In summation...

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!