Saturday, May 16, 2015

Miniscule Men and Fast Horses

Jockey silks (which I saw on my semi-seedy pre-#Preakness Pimlico Race Track tour, which is Number 1 on my Top Ten Things I Kinda Am Alright About Baltimore) are so beautiful and medieval and blindingly colorful.

The jockeys, those little men (and I'm talking directly to you, Victor Espinoza -- best of luck on #AmericanPharoah on the inside rail) remind me of knights atop their war horses if they had had a drab cinderblock locker room instead of a nice Round Table in stories that were swoon-inducingly read to me by my mom who, in the late '70s, had a King Arthur phase, as retold by John Steinbeck in his only work of fantasy literature.

 Uther Pendragon. How come no one has named a horse that?

Secretariat's 1973 run is still the Preakness track record.  I learned that on my tour. I also learned that racing saddles are as thin as a feminine napkin so those jockeys are going 45 miles an hour basically bareback (imagine the strength of their chicken thighs) with sand flying everywhere from the hooves of the bolting horses in front of them mucking up their goggles so they can hardly see, so they wear multiple pairs of goggles and as one gets dirty, they fling them off, and continue, mounting up with wings as eagles, and...oh good gracious, I've lathered myself into a Chariots of Fire moment complete with the soundtrack from Vangelis. Sorry.

The Triple Crown races are the best collective six sports minutes of the year for me.

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