Fearless

Most people, observing from high above, find the thrill of the short-lived races admirable. They love the rush, the strain of pure muscle, the final, valiant effort. The strategy fascinates them, the great, long-legged beasts awe them, and the small figure crouched over the back reminds them of true nerve.

But they're missing the real thing. Every one of them. It’s like watching a concert on tv, or seeing a lion in a cage; the prize is in the experience. You have to be there to really hear the pumping music, or you have to actually feel the tingle of fear at the wildness of the lion in it’s natural habitat.

You have to ride the horse if you want to find the real thrill of the races.

The roar of the crowds greet us coming out of the tunnel. My mount for the race is eating it up, flipping his head and jigging in time to the cheers. His ears flick back and forth alertly, his tail swishing behind him. While the crowds see him as nervous and jittery, I know better. I understand the glint in his deep eyes, the fire in his nostrils. He’s not nervous. He’s ready. And I am too.

White Hot is the name of the stallion I’m riding, and while he’s fairly new to the game with only a few small races run, he’s got fire in his heart. From the instant I set eyes on him, I knew he was born to run. His bones were light as feathers, his neck sleek and balanced, his long legs reaching, his head fine and nostrils wide; athleticism was written all over his body. And one look in those wide set, deep brown eyes and I knew he had it in his temperament as well.

His silvery dappled body glimmers and shifts as we walk out to the track. I’m wearing the name Copper Farms today, my silks pale blue and black. The sky is gray, though thankfully the rain stopped. The track, while a bit muddy, isn’t as bad as it could’ve been. I’d ridden much worse, and judging from my earlier practices on White Hot, he ran a great wet track. We enter the track, our escort rider meeting us at the entrance. I let White Hot break into a smooth, powerful trot next to the escort horse. I let my eyes close and take several deep breaths, aware of the rider next to us watching me.

My body falls into sync with my horse’s, and suddenly we speak each other’s language. Breathe in, breathe out. Our bodies are one. My eyes flutter open, and I smile. It’s going to be a good race.

The rider next to us, a man riding easy in a western saddle, grins at me. “Good luck out there,” he tells me. “It’s not often I see someone who not only knows his partners, but loves them.” I thank him as we steadily make our way around the track. I sit the trot and keep an eye on the other horses around us. Most of them are bursting with energy, taking short, choppy steps unlike White Hots long, fluid gait. There’s a few veterans out here who are calmer, but most of them are nearing the end of their career and lack the fresh speed of younger horses.

The loading begins - a loud, sometimes messy process. I’m not in a good slot, but not a bad one either; right in the middle. We line up to wait our turn. We’re lead toward the small, cramped slot and White Hot strides in without hesitance. The gate clangs shut behind us. Inside, I pull my goggles over my eyes and concentrate on breathing deeply and talking gibberish to my mount. Adrenalin begins to pump, making my mind clear and focused. Steam billows up in hot breaths from the horses next to us and one horse trumpets his war cry to the others.

The last horse is loaded. Instantly, the atmosphere changes into a pregnant pause. White Hot feels it too; his weight settles back against the gate, ready to leap into his fastest gait. I crouch low over his back and twine my fingers in a lock of his mane. My gaze lands between his ears, and I whisper a prayer for safety.

One. Two. Three.

We’re ready.

The gates spring open.

As one, horses and jockeys leap from a standstill with a mighty surge. Our minds are one; we think only of the race ahead, of the horses that stand between us and the finish. All traces of fear vanish from my mind. I don’t think about the ground flashing underneath, about the fact that I’m riding an animal running at about forty miles per hour. I don’t think about the dozens of hooves striking the ground with hundreds of pounds of force behind us. I don’t think about the small effort it would take for my mount to send me flying into danger and death. It’s just me, my horse, and the race.

Below me, White Hot is powerhouse. He shoves off in perfect timing, his hind end powering us in one, two, three, huge strides that carry us into the clear. As usual, I almost laugh aloud at the pure joy of all that raw power that I sit upon. We settle into the middle of the pack, matching breaths with the horses beside us.

Mud flies up from the horse's hooves. In front of me is a mass of flying manes and rippling bodies. Next to me the white rail flashes by as we come into the first turn. White Hot burns through it with ease. We pound through the backstretch, maintaining an effortless, steady speed. I change out my goggles once they become too muddy to see. Coming around the next turn, a few horses tire and drop back. We’re riding a steady fourth, but as the turn is coming to a close, it’s time to really give it all. “Alright chap. Give it all ya got.” I murmur, and push my hands up his neck a few inches. With the extra rein, he lengthens.

We scream into the home stretch with all we’ve got. His hooves hit and leave the dirt so fast it's hard to tell if we’re running or flying. One two three four, one two three four… faster and faster and faster. We’re flying towards the finish line, fearless as to what awaits on the other side.