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Story of the one true race of the great Man O'War |
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This essay is in response to the book Man O’ War by Walter Farley.
I couldn’t sleep. I lay restlessly awake. The room was dark, but I could still see the forms of the others in the room. They all lay still. I got up to see him. Big Red. The Champion. Man O’ War. The cool night air illuminated blues by the moon hanging in the perfect sky. I went to him. He nosed my shirt, and I slipped him an inconspicuous lump of sugar. I knew what I was going to do. I knew I shouldn’t, but I didn’t pay any mind to my conscience. I had vowed to stay with him for his life and I did, from his birth as a gangly foal to his greatest races in history, his blinding records. And I had never ridden him; I was only his personal groom. I had been with him through it all and never allowed to sit upon his broad red back. That was about to change. I went to his tack box, fearful of the regular squeak. His bridle was on top. I didn’t bother with the saddle. I quietly slipped him out of his stall and double-checked the way. It would be my head if I was caught. His ears pricked and he blew gently in the night air. His big body glistened in the moon light. He was alert and ready, standing beside me. He nickered softly, and I shushed him with a hand on his velvety nose. I quietly led him to the track. He moved obediently beside me, his hooves muted on the soft dirt. Everything was still on the sweeping oval track. The grandstand stood looming empty along the backstretch--No fans to roar their encouragement. No announcer to blare the new world record. Just me, a lowly groom, and Big Red, a Grand Champion. I walked him to the rail to mount. Even with the rail, it was still a hike, and I wasn’t exactly small either. I whispered a silent prayer that he would hold me and jumped up. I wasn’t prepared for the power rippling beneath me. He shifted calmly. His intelligent eye glanced back, telling me he would be fine and to go on. So this is what it is like to be a jockey, I thought. His energy mounted as he pawed impatiently, ready to go. I nudged him gently and wasn’t ready for the explosion of power that blasted from the coiled spring I was riding. He immediately settled into his twenty-nine foot racing stride, his shoulders rippling rhythmically under me. His hooves were a muted staccato thundering in my ears, filling my mind, blocking all senses. The furlong poles began blinking as a strobe light. I struggled to hold him back. My arms burned in pain. The speed machine only replied with more speed. The ground fell away before me and the wind burned my face. I was getting tired, my arms were giving in. I gave up. He shot forward with more speed. It just kept coming. He didn’t care that there was no astounded roar as he leaned into his third turn. He didn’t care. He was running as he always wanted to run--No restraint, no worries, just racing the stars. All I could do was bury my face deeper in to his mane and hold on. The tears streamed down my face from his mane and the searing wind. After how long, I don’t know, but the speed gently slowed. I immediately took up the reins and encouraged him to ease up. He slowed to an easy lope--Easy and long. His coat wasn’t lathered; he wasn’t even warm. He seemed to say, “What’s your problem? Are you tired? Why? I could go on all night.” On the very last night of his career, he got what he wanted. To run with the wind. As the wind. Free like the wind. And no one would ever know. |
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