Flatter: The therapy of a visit to the Churchill Downs backside
Louisville, Ky.
The doctor told me this month my blood pressure had gone up, and so had my blood sugar. Career highs I shall not want. The same goes for my gross tonnage, which zoomed past one-eighth of said ton sometime between the Belmont Stakes and the Breeders’ Cup.
Throw in 10 days sounding like a backfiring jalopy while I marinated in the bronchitis I caught somewhere between here and California, and that was how I spent my vacation.
If laughter is the best medicine, horses may be the second best. Not betting on them so much as hanging around them and the men and women who look after them.
My first day back at work took me to Churchill Downs on Wednesday. It probably was my last morning over there before everyone clears out for the winter. After the horses are gone, the only souls left in the immediate gaze of the twin spires will be construction workers, the year-rounders who do maintenance and whatever unseen seasonal gremlins, real or imagined, who are doing their damage to the turf course.
I may not stroll as quickly as I did the first time I hit the Churchill backside in 2007 or that maiden voyage around the stables in 1986 at the old San Joaquin County Fair racetrack in Stockton, Calif. What I lack in speed has been made up in more mellow appreciation of the animal kingdom’s ever powerful, often placid and most majestic creation.
The therapy a horse can provide by merely being is immeasurable. If Cody Dorman, God rest his soul, taught us anything, it was his personification of that unbreakable bond between humans and horses. Cody and Cody’s Wish not only reminded us of that, they underscored it. In their own quiet way, the message was loud and clear.
That they were able to share their relationship was a blessing for which we can be thankful in this week of thanks, even as we continue to mourn the passing of the inspiration for the story that will be celebrated this winter. That is when Cody’s Wish will be named the horse of the year at the Eclipse Awards. If you want to bet against it, I would love to book it.
Winter is very much at hand here in Kentucky with frost on the pumpkin and all that. I made the mistake of wearing old sneakers around the stable area Wednesday morning, only hours after it had rained. I really should dig out my old boots. Or get new ones.
The rhythm of the morning walk belies the change in seasons. Whether it is dark or already light, wet or dry, cold or warm, it always is peppered with exchanges of “good morning” with friendly faces. Whether they are trainers or riders or grooms or doctors or hot walkers or track bosses, there are as many known acquaintances as there are folks who are unfamiliar to me. There is even the occasional media colleague, the number of whom dwindles with each passing season.
It occurred to me that the most friendly hellos come not at eye level but from horseback. No matter what mood the animal may be in, the human taking the ride seems to be in a better place that groundlings like me. There is a fortune to be made if someone could figure out how to bottle equine dander and attitude.
The raison d’être of the backside is training. Even though it goes on for hours on either side of dawn, it always peaks around 7 or 8 o’clock. At least it seems that way. That may vary by as many as two or three hours with individual trainers, who would say rightly that the work of the morning peaks when they and their horses are good and ready.
Good conversation on the backside is always around somewhere, although it often comes after a long wait. Such was the case Wednesday while I cooled my heels until a few trainers got a break from their horses.
Dale Romans drew a short straw and got stuck with me for a while. He had just come down from one of the clocker’s stands to take care of the less glamorous paperwork that inevitably acts as an anchor in any horseman’s barn office.
Part of our conversation wound up in my podcast this week, the first episode since the Breeders’ Cup that was not recorded far in advance of my 17-day retreat from good health. But that was only about eight minutes of the time we spent spinning yarns.
We talked about horses a little. And we talked about how the Clark Stakes still should be a Grade 1. We talked about some other racing issues, and then we went on about families and travel and football and sports betting. Oh, yes, we also talked about cigars, too. After I told him my usual post-Breeders’ Cup smoke was postponed by the bronchitis, Dale kindly hooked me up with a Liga Privada that I plan to enjoy this weekend.
The biggest perk of this job a typical morning at any racetrack and the attendant camaraderie. I have had the absolute privilege to wander through dozens and dozens of stables on six continents. If they ever concoct the McMurdo Station Stakes, I will find my way to Antarctica to cover it and make it all seven.
Afternoons at the track are a whole different animal, figuratively speaking. Like so many sports, actual competition may provide the climactic chapters to the stories we gather, but the real meat comes from going to practice. In horse racing, that means morning visits to the backside and the old-fashioned chats with the people who help make this sport what it is. Let that be a lesson to those who think texting is the be-all, end-all.
Oh, back to what started all this. My blood pressure went back down to a more livable normal this past week. It was 127/80 on Wednesday morning. I believe that was no coincidence. I probably should not have observed the occasion with the very generous breakfast bowl from the track kitchen, one that was stuffed with sausage and biscuits and eggs and gravy and cheese.
I just checked it again Friday morning. It was back up to 156/99. Ouch. I wonder if that had anything to do with my being away from horses and back on the laptop to write this column.
Doctor?
Ron Flatter’s column appears Friday mornings at Horse Racing Nation. Comments below are welcomed, and they may be used in the feedback segment of the Ron Flatter Racing Pod, which also is posted every Friday.