Exercising Horses

Black without moon or stars when I go out at four AM and kick over the old one l
ung BMW two-fifty. The old windmill no longer pushes the rods to suck out water
, but it still groans and creaks as if it were alive. I smile with the kick of
the motor taking hold, still not believing my parents let me buy this World War
II relic. It doesn't wheeze and gasp nearly as badly as the diesel one lung b
ackup generator motor on the ranch.
I let the old black overweight bike warm up with its single cylinder until the m
otor smooths out, chugs along as if a horse's heart pumping blood. I head up Ca
mpbell and after it turns into Cherry, I hang a left on 18th and follow it along
the tracks to Park. Not one other vehicle cruises the streets at this hour, an
d it looks like I'll make it across the tracks without having to wait for some
miles long freight to pass. The bike bounces over the rough crossing.
I think about the track where I'm headed, and how I've come to be exercising rac
e horses at fourteen. I met Mister McCloud five years ago when I was at the t
rack with my mom. To get away from all the cigarette and cigar smoke which made
me sick, I wandered down to the stable area where I wasn't suppose to be. Aft
er the horses raced they needed to be walked and cooled down slowly, and not be
allowed to drink too much water so they didn't flounder themselves. I asked
a couple of men f I could walk their horses for them. All I got was a few, “Bea
t it kid. What the hell you doin' here anyway?”
I looked away guilty, knowing I wasn't suppose to be in this area, yet very comf
ortable with the smell of sweaty horses, the powdered alfalfa blowing around, t
he dust which I had grown up around. I approached a man leading a bay gelding
up to the cool down ring. He wore a gray felt sweat stained Stetson, had a gro
wth of white/gray stubble on his face and rheumy light blue eyes. “I'll walk the
horse for you.”
He looked at me coolly and coldly, handed me the lead rope. “Don't let him drink
too much.” I smelled whiskey on his breathe and imagined that he was unsteady on
his feet. “What's his name?” He looked at me in disgust as if the horse's name r
eally made any difference at all. He grunted “Seagondollar.” He realized that hors
es didn't talk any real known language, and if they did he would have learned it
years before.
It got so every time I went to the track with my Mom, I'd end up cooling down ho
rses for McCloud. That is when he thought the horses were gentle enough for me
to handle. Some of them were just too mean and would have stomped me.
Slowly I pieced together information about McCloud. He was a well known trainer
and knew most everything about horses there was to know whether he was drunk or
sober. For years he was one of the most prominent trainers in California, tra
ining a whole stable at Bay meadows and running horses from Agua Caliente to Bay
Meadows, then his wife left him, and not too long after his only child, a son,
was killed in Korea. He started seeking solace at the bottom of a bottom of a
bottle, until he trained horses at a two bit half mile oval which was a far cr
y from the bigger tracks. Now he rented an extra stall for himself and had it
set up as an apartment he could collapse into.
I pull up at the track stables. McCloud is up, looking bleary-eyed, rumbled and
in need of a shower. “Good Morning,” I say brightly. He grunts and glares at me
from under his smashed down straw cowboy hat as if it was my fault that the damn
sun was starting to show signs of arriving up for another day. His breathe sm
ells of the morning nip I know he's already taken.
McCloud owns three horses. He lets me exercise them because he only pays me ha
lf of what he would pay a licensed jockey. The other dozen horses he trains he
uses jockeys and charges the owners. I've ridden all my life, but I'm still get
ting accustomed to the tiny racing saddle where one rides with their knees and a
rms.
He has Willy's Boy saddled. The big dun thoroughbred stands nineteen hands at t
he shoulder, and the son-of-a-bitch turns his head around and tries to bite me w
hen McClouds boosts me up into the saddle. I whack him on the head with the rac
ing whip, and he gives me an evil eye as if to say, “I'll get back at you.”
In that gravelly whiskey voice of his, McCloud says, “I want you to run him six fu
rlongs after walking him around the track once. Make him go as fast as you can,
and don't put up with any shit from him. He'll try to swing wide around t
he curves and knock you into the rail. The old bastard knows all the tricks.”
I walk him once around the track, and every once in a while he will turn his hea
d around and glare at me. Every time I give him a whack and think he truly hat
es me. I pull him up where the gates would be for six furlongs on racing days.
I hold him steady for awhile, scream,”Let's go you son-of-a-bitch,” and take the wh
ip to him. A big cumbersome lanky horse, he starts slow which allows me to pic
k up the rhythm of his long strides. I balance on my knees, stretch my body ove
r his withers. He lumbers along, seeming to go much slower than he moves.. Th
e ground seems a hell-of-a-long ways away.
My knees and arms move with his ground eating strides. Willy's Boy likes dist
ance, and isn't really good for anything under eleven furlongs, and prefers a mi
le and a quarter or a mile and a half, trailing the field until midway through
the backfield the second time around the track, then he'[ll close. He doesn't
often win, but is generally in the money with a place or a show.
We approach the first curve and he tries to swing wide. I keep tension on the l
eft rein, and tap his head on the right with the whip and he pulls alongside the
inside rail were he's suppose to be. When we come up onto the back field, I b
ring the whip to bear on his hind quarters and he starts lumbering faster with t
hose deceptively slow grown eating strides, while the rhythm in my knees matches
is long strides.
We come into the next curve much faster than the first curves, and I have to pul
l hard to keep him where he's suppose to be. The faster he goes the less the ta
pping of his head seems to work. He shakes his head as to say, the hell with yo
u.
Soon we pass the finish line. I stand up in the stirrups, take the tension of
the crouch off my legs, and now I can feel where my arms have been straining. I
am always amazed at how easy jockey can make this seem.
Willy's Boy and I walk once more around the track to cool him down. In the cool
morning air, he really hasn't broken much of a sweat.
By the time I bring him back to the stables, McCloud has saddled Mountain Fur, a
sixteen hand sorrel. “How did I do?” McCloud grunts and answers without looking a
t me. “Not bad. But tomorrow you'll have to see if you can move him out a littl
e faster. For this critter I want you to run four furlongs. I want you to us
e the whip the whole way. He's lazy, but he'll move if you hit hm good.” McClou
d had his stopwatch out and I know he had been timing me, though now he smells s
tronger of whiskey from the nips he's taken.
Up top of Fur it feels a lot different than being on Willy's Boy. The ground i
sn't so god awful far away, and I don't get the feeling the horse would like to
kill me if it could.
We walk around the track once and get down to business. I let him have it with
the whip and we move at a good clip. Around the tight curves on a half mile ov
al you always have to keep the horse from going wide, though it is much less of
a fight than with Willy. The feel aboard Fur is much different, and I ride in a
tighter crouch, urging him on with my voice, “Come on, Old Man. You're doing gr
eat.” I don't let up with the whip, because I know if I do he'll loaf without it.
I think he enjoys the fact that I talk to him. He has an easy going personal
ity and likes people..
We walk a circle of the track to cool down. McCloud smiles, looking at his wat
ch. When we get back to the stables he says, . “Damn near a perfect ride. You k
eep at this, you might amount to something.”
At fourteen I'm only ninety-five pounds, but I haven't had my growth spurt yet,
and I like exercising horses, and I'm making five times what I did with the pape
r route, though I don't think I want to make a career of it. I've seen too many
banged up jockeys who can barely walk.
Once I'm top side on Seagondollar whose getting a little long in the tooth, McCl
oud says, “I want you to run him six hundred and sixty yards. He'll try to break
away from you. Hold him back. He's got no wind and doesn't know he can't run
any distance. Let him open up coming to the finish line just like in a race.”
I hear that whiskey voice, and I have trouble keeping this aging horse to a walk
once around the track. Dollar is ridden without a whip. He's one of those hor
se that if you take a whip to, he'll just pull up and not go anywhere. He's wha
t I think of as a smart horse. Riding him one gets the feeling their sitting o
n a powder keg. His muscles ripple and he wants to go. At fifteen hands, he h
as a tighter stride than the other two I exercise.
We stand at the start line, and I let him go. I don't have to urge him. He ta
kes off fast, and it's all I can do to hold him back so he doesn't spend himself
early and has enough go left to make the distance. Somehow he thinks himself a
quarter horse and not a thoroughbred. I don't know why McCloud doesn't race hi
m in a four forty or a three thirty.
I pace him as best I can, and with the urging of my voice we make a good fast f
inish.
When I get back to the stables McCloud says, “You're going to have to hold him bac
k a little more. The old bastard wants to go too fast.” McCloud hands me my fif
teen dollars and says, “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Manana,” I say.
I go out to the bike and have to kick it three times to get it to start. My leg
s are tired from riding and I don't even realize it until I get on the old motor
cycle. My arms also feel heavy. I can't believe I'm getting seventy-five dol
lars a week in cash for doing something I like.
I head home for breakfast, and then I go to my algebra class. I'm determined to
get through high school in three years.
I smile at the singing birds, and the sun now up, making the clouds intoxicated
with color and a raspy voiced as if from a whiskey bottle.