January, Ocala, Florida
“He sure is good lookin’, ain’t he?” drawled Speedy, the stable hand, towering over his broom, thin and lanky as a whip. Five Jack Russell terriers sat around him on the perfectly swept, dark green rubber-tiled center aisle of the long barn, watching in anticipation as he slowly put his hand into his pocket and tossed a handful of corn-smelling goodies to them. The dogs excitedly raced after them, gobbled them up, and looked up at him once more, tails wagging. A row of well-groomed horses looked over their stall doors curiously at me as Bob led me into the barn and handed me to Oakley, Michelle’s tanned, fit-looking young assistant. Above the polished brass-and-wood stall fronts, a row of brightly colored shiny strips of cloth, mostly blue and red with gold lettering, fluttered in the breeze that was wafting through the barn.
“He sure is,” Oakley replied, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes and wiping his hands on his breeches before leading me past a row of neatly arranged tack trunks, past a big wash stall lined with bottles of shampoo, brushes and a tidy stack of folded towels and past the curious horses, to a woodsy-smelling stall filled with shavings. Bob and Speedy followed, with the pack of terriers close on their heels. After he put me in the stall, Oakley stood with Speedy, admiring me.
“He’s huge. And beautiful! Wow! What a powerful looking hind end. I’ll bet he can jump. That’s an interesting marking on his forehead. Like a scythe. I’ve never seen that before. Those are some impressive scars on his hind leg, too. It must have been some accident.”
“It was a bad one. He’s had time off. Now he’s ready for a new job.”
Bob cleared his throat as he gave me a lingering pat. “I guess I’d better get going. Good bye, Raja. I’m gonna miss you.”
Sticking my head over the outside stall door and chewing on a mouthful of the alfalfa that I found in the corner, I watched the van drive away with a frenzied white-and-brown dust cloud of Jack Russell terriers chasing it away, barking furiously.
Speedy shook his head. “Dumb dawgs are gon’ get smushed, I’m tellin’ ya.”
That night after supper, my new neighbor, Holzmann, a small, black, athletic-looking horse, struck up a conversation with me.
“We heard that one of the Sheikh’s horses almost won the Kentucky Derby. Did you know him?” He seemed to know that I was a racehorse. I nodded.
Max. He was my best friend.
“Well, you won’t ever go that fast again,” exclaimed Holzmann, “but those big timed jump-offs can be pretty fun. It’s nice to see another Thoroughbred in here. I was feeling a bit outnumbered by the Warmbloods. I started out racing myself, you know. I’m very well bred, but I never really liked racing all that much. I hated all of that jostling and bumping and mud in your face. It just seemed rough and it wasn’t intellectually challenging. I’m fast, but I just didn’t see the point.” He paused to scratch his nose, rubbing it on the side of the stall door. “On the other hand, I love being a jumper. Michelle got me because she had one of my half-brothers. Turns out my family are all amazing jumpers. Lots of Thoroughbreds are, you know.” He rubbed his nose again on the stall door. “We horses figure out pretty quickly whether we want to race or not. No one can force us to run. If we’re too slow or don’t like to race, we usually find other careers like showing, eventing, foxhunting, trail riding, even polo.”
I had no idea there were so many other careers.
What about the horses that can’t have other careers, the lame ones?
Holzmann looked at me sadly. “You don’t want to know. Usually they move farther and farther down the line, often getting abused along the way. The lucky ones get adopted as pets, or companions for other horses or go to special retirement farms. The unlucky ones go to the auction and are sold to the killers for meat.”
Meat? He can’t possibly be right.
“And don’t get me started on Warmbloods.” He rolled his eyes. “They act so superior. Sport horses, they’re called. I have to admit — they’re good jumpers.” Holzmann stopped to yawn, sighed a deep, rumbling sigh, and continued,“I’ve been to all of the big international shows: Aachen, Dublin, Hickstead, the World Championships and the Olympics. Michelle and I won the silver medal, second best in the world. I like the concentration and the precision of show jumping. It’s a thinking-horse’s sport. Now I’m retired and I teach Michelle’s better students.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” chimed in a grey almost white, pony in the next stall, “He just likes to show off for the crowd. Give him an audience and he’ll go like a champ. At home, with no one watching, he acts like a two-year old. I’ve seen him buck off more than one of those kids he claims to be ‘teaching.’”
“Speak for yourself, Shorty,” Holzmann retorted. “You’re vainer than everyone.”
The pony laughed good-naturedly.
“I’m Farnley Prism. I take kids to big horse shows and win blue ribbons for them. Short stirrup, pony hunter, equitation, you name it. I’m famous. Everyone knows me. I teach kids about winning and I give them confidence. If they can halfway ride, they’ll win with me. And if they can’t ride, I’ll take care of them and teach them. Michelle doesn’t usually coach pony hunter riders, but her niece, Grace, is riding me now.”
Prism giggled mischievously, as though she enjoyed stirring things up, then winked at me with her white eyelashes and big eyes. “Unlike Lord Holzmann, who finds it amusing to buck off anyone who gets on him, I was taught that the mark of a well-bred horse is kindness and patience. After all, I’m a Farnley pony, one of the best Welsh pony families.”
Holzmann rolled his eyes again. “See what I have to put up with? Over there is L’Etoile du Nord — “Toile” for short. She’s a Selle Français and used to be owned by someone on the French Olympic team. Michelle has some rich owners who want her to win the gold medal so they buy her nice horses. Toile doesn’t say much, but she’s a very good jumper and she adores Michelle.”
The big chestnut mare looked over at me with a guarded look and nodded slightly. I felt a twinge of jealousy.
Minty-smelling, tingly, warm baths, every day.
Oh, how I love them!
Michelle tried on several of the strange big saddles to make sure that one fit my back perfectly. And the fussing! It made me feel like I was really special. At least
30 minutes a day grooming, boots on for turn-out to protect my legs, and the massage lady once a week to keep my muscles loose. I usually fell asleep when she came.
Speedy sang along with the radio as he flicked the two dandy brushes in a rhythmic motion across my back.
I relaxed, enjoying his singing and the scratchy sensation of the brushes and smelling the delicious salty corn chips he always carried. I reached around and stuck my nose in his pocket looking for them. Speedy just laughed. “You sly dawg. OK, here’s a treat.”
Thick saddle pad and saddle on. Hoof polish, mane brushed down with water, a wipe with a soft rub rag, a final squirt of fly spray and it was time to train.
“I told you that he’d be good. He’s so smart and athletic,” Michelle told Oakley as he watched her ride me. The springy sand underfoot, mixed with bits of rubber, made me want to show off my fancy walk and trot as Michelle rode me around the big arena, stopping to show me brightly colored wooden jumps and trot me over the row of poles on the ground. Next, she headed me to two rails crossed in an X. I jumped it.
Fun!
Another X, then a single rail, then two together, like a game. I gave a playful buck.
“Look how balanced he is. How he measures the jump as he approaches it, adjusts himself and uses his back. He’s a natural jumper and has tons of scope. Can you please set that oxer up one more hole? Thank you.”
Sitting lightly and perfectly balanced, she told me things with the way she sat and used her weight and reins and legs. Stretch my neck and back, bend and straighten my body, change my balance and speed, it was a new language. At first I didn’t understand, but she kept asking and asking and when I did it right, she rewarded me with a big pat.
“Good boy! You’re a smart one.” She turned to Oakley. “The most important thing we can do is to give Raja a good foundation on the flat. Dressage is a jumper’s secret weapon. He needs to be working in the right balance and tuned to our aids: seat, hands, legs, voice. Then his natural athleticism can take him where it will, maybe even the Olympics.”
I wasn’t sure what the Olympics were, but I knew they were big.
“I went to zee last Olympics with l’équipe du France,” Toile told me one night when I asked her about them. “Eet ees un grande show. Only four ’orses from each country. Zee best in zee world.”
“The Olympics are overrated if you ask me,” Holzmann snorted, “but I’ll admit that it feels good to know that you are the best in the world. I still get little girls at horse shows wanting to pat me. That’s the best part, being a show-jumping legend.”
“Oh, great Holzmann, you’re a legend all right,” Prism giggled. Holzmann pinned his ears and snapped at her, swishing his tail.
“Who’s the one with the silver medal, Shorty?”
Prism could barely contain herself, she was laughing so hard. “You, Lord Holzmann, how can we ever forget?”
The best in the world. A gold medal! Those sounds perfect.
A group of Michelle’s students sat in the shade of a big moss-covered live oak on the long wooden bench in the corner of the arena, watching her teach Oakley on me. Piewacket and Muttley lay contentedly at her feet.
“Now that he’s warmed up, let’s start with the red vertical rails to the brush box. Try it in five strides. As my old coach, Colonel Nicolai Belanov, one of the greatest horsemen of our era, used to say: your horse must come to the obstacle in the right direction, speed, balance and impulsion. So…your job is to get him to the fence in the right canter and stay out of his way. His job is to jump the jump. Wait…wait…good, nicely done. Sit quietly…good…again. Now do the in-and-out.”
I bucked after the in-and-out.
“I think he’s enjoying himself,” Oakley laughed as Michelle taught him on me.
“Now, do it again. It has to be perfect. That’s what Colonel Belanov drilled into me and I’m going to drill into you. He used to say, ‘There are no shortcuts in horse training. It’s like watching grass grow, but in the end you have a beautiful lawn.’” She paused to raise the jump a hole. “He was the real deal, a genius, an old school riding master at the Russian Imperial School in St. Petersburg, who came to this country during the war and coached the United States Equestrian Team for years. I was very lucky to be taught by him.”
Oakley circled me around yet again, sitting up to adjust my balance as we headed toward the in-and-out in a light, springy yet powerful, canter.
“That was good. That’s enough for today. Good boy, Raja. Give him a pat.”
March, Ocala, Florida
“The official show time is nine o’clock.”
A loudspeaker! We can’t possibly be racing. I’m not in shape!
I started pawing the trailer floor impatiently and tossing my head.
“Relax,” reassured Prism, along to keep me company for my first show. “It’s really easy. All you do is go around an arena and jump. Try not to knock down the rails. You get jumping faults for that and for refusing.” She continued, “The worst part is the warm-up area with all of the riders careening around and not looking where they are going. You’re going to hate it.”
Whoa! What are those horses doing?
I spooked across the arena as three horses came at me. Horses and ponies were everywhere, warming up and jumping in the three arenas, each filled with brightly painted jumps and decorated with flowers. A small dog held by someone driving a golf cart yapped at me as I stared at a horse with his mane tied up in little knots — braids, Prism called them — while a groom carrying a rub rag and fly spray trotted after him.
“More leg, eyes up,” the instructors shouted to their students.
“Heads up, vertical,” the riders called out to the other riders, heading to a jump.
We were on deck, then it was time to go.
An audience!
I tried harder, showing off my “floaty trot” and “springy canter,” knowing they were all watching me. Michelle sat up taller, also basking in the audience attention.
Interesting — I didn’t know she was such a showman.
We were alike, Michelle and I. Winning was everything. But winning in style in front of a crowd was best of all.
Let’s go! Let’s go!
“Easy, love,” I felt Michelle’s weight suddenly get heavier. “Whoa,” she said without words, doing a strong half-halt as I galloped in the arena, on the muscle. Six fences, then across the arena diagonally. Two more, an in-and-out and, finally, four more jumps the other direction.
Easy peasy!
“Good. We’ve qualified for the jump off.” Michelle told Grace, who had come to help out, “I think I’ll let him roll on a bit, see how he likes it. I hope I have brakes! He’s still pretty green. This might be interesting.”
This time, Michelle let me go a little faster.
“A clear round for number 27, Raja, ridden by Michelle Taylor. Raja is our new leader!” The loudspeaker boomed.
We won!
“Well done, Raja.” Michelle gave me a sweet, delicious sugar lump and patted my neck over and over as Grace helped her take off my tack, wash me and cool me out before we headed home. “I was only out for a school today, but you were going so well that I thought, ‘Why not go for it?’ You’re a natural. I’m very pleased with you.”
June, Chester County, Pennsylvania
“Those chicken coops in the fence line are for the hunt to jump in and out of the fields when they come through the farm,” Prism nodded sagely as we grazed under the weeping willows at Michelle’s summer base in Pennsylvania. I looked up at the endless line of post-and-rail fence, interrupted every once in a while by green mesh metal gates or the funny wooden triangles Prism was talking about. Michelle’s barn stood shaded by thick-trunked old maple trees, grassy paddocks and buttercup-filled yellow and green fields dotted with turnout sheds and more shade trees. A row of horse trailers lined one side of the large, jump-filled outdoor sand arena and a knot of plastic chairs huddled under a shade tree at the other end.
We had come here for the summer months to be closer to the big horse shows in the Northeast and it seemed like every day a new student arrived to work with Michelle. Mostly, I loved the big grass fields we lived in every night.
Alfalfa! And clover!
Pink-and-white nectar-filled clover flowers that lingered like sugar cubes on my tongue. Summer days rolled into one: schooling in the cool mornings and afternoons dozing under the weeping willows with Holzmann, my best friend. Telling stories; nibbling at each other; eating clover; standing head-to-tail swishing flies; eating more clover; and watching the tractors next door drive across the big fields, cutting and combing the grass into long rows and dropping neat square bales of hay onto the field.
“Ah, The ‘summer girls’ are out of school,” Holzmann observed as more people and horses started arriving at the farm. “Oakley had better watch out. They all buzz around him like bees to flowers.” He gestured toward a tall girl, Mary, who was heading toward Oakley.
“Oakley, can you help me with this figure eight noseband? Do you want to go swimming with us later?” she asked hopefully. Suntanned, with her long dark hair twisted into a braid that swung from side to side when she rode, Mary liked Oakley.
Oakley always smiled quietly and helped, but he never said much.
“Chip...chip...chip,” a sparrow warned. Swallows swooped and soared over the endless timothy and corn fields as Oakley on me and Mary on Legato, her big brown Dutch Warmblood, hacked out one late August day after a lesson. I jigged a little. I was feeling fitter from going up and down the hills surrounding the farm. A red-tailed hawk above us glided effortlessly in an arc as a summer breeze rippled through the hay fields and rattled the tall stalks of corn beside us, now as high as my withers. Mary chatted the entire hack, oblivious to the fact that Oakley was more interested in riding me than listening to her.
Suddenly, we heard a loud CRASH!
Whoa! What’s that?
Legato and I both stopped suddenly and stood frozen, hearts pounding. A second later, a six-point buck followed by a doe and fawn burst out in front of us through the corn, bumping into Legato’s hind quarters. Surprised, Legato took off galloping across the field. Mary, who had been adjusting her stirrup and chatting, fell hard onto the sun-baked ground and lay still.
She’s not moving.
“Oh my god!” Oakley whispered as he breathed in sharply. Almost as suddenly, he vaulted off. I noticed that his hands were trembling as he tried to wake her.
“I’d better not move her — it could be her back or neck. Mary, are you OK? Speak to me! Wake up!”
The hot sun beat down on us silently as a bot fly buzzed around my belly. I swished my tail and stamped. Legato, the buck and his family were long gone.
Mary still didn’t move.
I thought of my mother and how still she had been in the field.
Mary! Wake up…Wake UP.
“Rats, where is my cell phone,” Oakley cursed, fumbling in his pockets. Then he jumped back on me. “Raja, we need to get back to the barn to call an ambulance, quickly. Now you can show me your speed.”
My heart started to spark as we galloped.
This was what I had missed.
I hadn’t galloped fast since I was racing, over a year ago. We headed to a big post and rail, part of the fence line. Gallop, gallop. Balance, lock on, one, two, three, fly!
Wow, jumping at that speed really feels like flying.
Over another fence, then down a hill to the farm road at the edge of the field next to the barn. Now I was doing a two-minute lick with Oakley crouched over my neck urging me on. I ran, worried for Mary, but secretly happy to go, go, go!
“Mary’s had a fall. She’s unconscious. I need to call an ambulance.” Oakley jumped off and handed the reins to Speedy, then leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“No problem.” Speedy took me from him. “I’ll send one of the girls to find Legato.”
Within minutes we heard a loud whirring sound in the air above the barn.
“There’s the helicopter. Those boys’re quick,” remarked Speedy, as he gently toweled me dry after my bath.
“I just talked to the doctor,” Michelle told Oakley later that night as he crouched down, smearing the cool thick clay poultice below my knees, wrapping wet brown paper over the poultice and finishing with a stable bandage.
“She has a concussion and four broken ribs, but other than that, she’s OK. She’ll stay in the hospital tonight, but she’s expected to make a full recovery. Her parents are with her.”
Oakley finished the bandage and stood up. “Broken ribs are the worst. It hurts whenever you breathe. Poor Mary.” He shook his head. “Thank goodness I was on Raja today. No other horse would have been able to go that fast and jump like that. He’s the one that saved her life. The EMTs said that if the helicopter hadn’t gotten there so quickly, she could have died. I think Raja liked it — going fast, I mean…Raja, you’re the best,” he said, giving me a hug, “you saved Mary’s life.”
Michelle patted my neck and pressed a sugar cube to my lips. “You knew her life was in danger, didn’t you, boy.” She turned to Oakley, “I swear this horse is a genius.”
Oakley nodded in agreement, “Apart from being scared for Mary, that gallop was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, even better than the jumpers at Wellington.”
I agree. Galloping and jumping across country is almost as good as racing.
“I saw you blazing across the field,” Prism grinned at me the next afternoon. “You looked like a timber horse coming up to the finish.”
“What’s a timber?” I started to say, but was drowned out by the terriers barking loudly as a big hay wagon lumbered into the yard, then the grinding, gravelly creak, creak, creak of the hay elevator bringing the bales up to the hayloft above us, and thump, thump, thump as they were unloaded and stacked.
Speedy wiped his dripping face with his shirt, joking with the farmer as they lifted the bales off the precariously stacked wagon and placed each one on the elevator.
“I’m glad we’re gettin’ this hay in today. They’re callin’ for some bad weather. The cows are all lyin’ down. We gon’ get some RAIN.”
He shouted as the bales chugged their way toward the big hayloft door in the side of the barn, “Oakley, ready? You keepin’ count? After this load, we’re done.”
“Ready” a voice replied from the dark opening.
Sinister clouds gathered on the horizon, slowly advancing, accompanied by low rumbles of thunder. The sticky, unbearably heavy air was so thick that you had to push your way through it, if you had the energy. I stood still, head next to the fan on my door, drenched in sweat, not wanting to move.
After the hay was unloaded, Speedy began afternoon chores. He turned up the radio and sang along as he swept the aisle, “Ahhh’m so in love with you.” He paused outside my stall to turn on the hose and give me a casual pat. “The Reverend Al Green, ain’t no one better.”
He moved from stall to stall, topping off the water buckets and singing with a group of interested terriers following him, hoping for a corn chip, then racing toward him each time he casually dropped one.
“BLEEP, BLEEP,” the radio interrupted Al Green, followed by a voice. “A severe weather warning for the tri-county region has been issued. A storm is moving east with hail, wind gusts up to 50 miles an hour and possible flash flooding. A severe weather warning is in effect.”
“Sounds like we’re in for a big one,” he muttered, turning off the hose. Several horses heard him as he started measuring out the afternoon feed, and nickered and banged their buckets in anticipation. As another song came on the radio, a heavy rain started drumming an insistent rhythm on the barn roof. I began to paw the ground.
“What is it, Raja?” Speedy went out to close the outside top doors of all of the stalls and then came back to me, “Easy, boy.”
CRASH! The thunder sounded as if it were tearing the sky apart.
“Why, Raja, I think you mus’ be afraid of thunderstorms. I had an old dawg scared of thunder — he’d hide under the bed until the storm was over.”
The big barn door slid open.
“We got soaked,” laughed Michelle, leading Toile into the barn, followed by Oakley, both laughing and dripping and making squishy sounds as they walked in their sodden leather riding boots.
“I was on course and the skies opened up — couldn’t see anything. It’s a good thing Toile could. We won, but I couldn’t tell you what the last three fences were.”
“What’s wrong?” She looked at Speedy, then me, her eyes flashing.
“Raja don’ like thunderstorms,” drawled Speedy. “I mean, he really don’ like thunderstorms. If it’s okay with you, I think I better stay here with him tonight.” He sat down in his plastic lawn chair and started to sing in a low voice.
Speedy sang to me all night. As the sun’s first rays made patterns on the barn aisle, I leaned over my stall door and nuzzled his wrinkled face. He reached up and patted my nose. “You’re welcome, Raja, anytime. I know you’d do the same for me.”
January, two years later, Ocala, Florida
“Zero jumping faults, zero time faults, a clean round for Raja.”
My favorite words!
“Oakley, I can’t believe how time has slipped by. Raja looks like a different horse than he did when I got him two years ago as a four-year-old. Look at his topline and the muscles in his hindquarters. He’s SOLID. I think he really might be my Olympic horse. This year will tell me a lot about what he’s capable of. I’m going to shoot for a Grand Prix this spring and if he’s as good as I think he is, the Olympic selection committee will start to pay attention to us. I’m really looking forward to this year. I bet you are, too, aren’t you, buddy.” She scratched the tickly spot above my eyes and fed me a sugar cube.
At six, I was younger than most of the other horses and I progressed faster, jumping higher and more complicated courses. And, of course, I won for Michelle.
Just like with Pedro and with Willie, we were better together.
Back in Florida now, we trained every day and went to shows on the weekend. At almost every show, we drew an audience and someone offered to buy me.
“Sell my child prodigy? I don’t think so. He’s the smartest and most athletic horse I’ve ever sat on. He’s not for sale.”
“The Olympics are two years away and people are hunting around for talented horses that might be Olympic material. I think you’re in that category.” Prism told me one day. She always knew the latest about the horses, riders and trainers in the Hunter/Jumper world and loved the gossip traded around by other horses, the farrier, vet and Michelle’s students.
The Olympics!
A Brazilian Olympic rider with a funny accent tried to buy me, and a loud, aggressive man with a nasty-smelling cigar, Tony DeVito, wanted me for his daughter.
“Name a price, any price,” I heard him say, waving the cigar elaborately in the air, “I only buy the best.”
But I wasn’t for sale.
“Out of my way, dogs — dang…oww!” Michelle groaned.
“What happened? Are you OK?” Oakley called from down the aisle.
“No! I tripped on Muttley’s tennis ball and twisted my ankle. Ow! I think I tweaked that metal plate they put in when I broke it last year.” She hobbled over to a hay bale and sat down, grimacing.
“Can you please get me some ice and a bandage? I think there are some ice boots in the tack room fridge. You know, the ones we use on Toile after she jumps. And Speedy’s lawn chair? Thanks. Look — It’s already starting to swell up and turn purple. Dang! I’d better get an x-ray. It’ll be a while before I can ride. I don’t think I’ll make the big Grand Prix in Wellington this weekend.”
She sat for a few minutes, thinking, while Oakley filled up a large wheelbarrow with a bale of hay and pushed it down the aisle, delivering two flakes to each stall.
“Oakley, I think that Raja should take Toile’s stall at Wellington and you should ride him in the $10,000 Junior Jumper Classic. It’ll be a step up for both of you and you’ll be riding against a lot of nice old Grand Prix horses, but I think that you can rise to the occasion.”
March, Wellington, Florida
Wellington!
Palm trees waved, golf carts zoomed, little dogs yapped, and colorfully dressed spectators crowded into the stands surrounding the big arena where the showy jumps flashed their colors in the morning sun, waiting for the action to begin. Electricity and anticipation charged the air. It felt a little bit like Saratoga.
As Oakley sat on me, speaking with Michelle while we watched Mary and Legato’s round, I smelled something bitter, burning. I looked up sharply. Tony DeVito was a few feet away, speaking loudly, jabbing his cigar in the air for emphasis. He caught my eye, stopped talking and stared hungrily at me with his small, hooded eyes, as if I was an object he wanted to possess. Looking away abruptly, I turned my hindquarters toward him, pinned my ears and kicked the ground in warning, swishing my tail.
“There are 70 horses in the class, including some very good older horses. Every fence is big and unforgiving. You’ll need to be precise, especially to the water. If you have even the tip of a toe on the tape along the water, it’s four faults.”
I swished a fly off my belly with my tail and tried to listen to Michelle, but I was still thinking about Tony DeVito and feeling strangely violated.
“If you open his stride up too much, you won’t have time to get him back. Right after the water, shorten your stride. Otherwise, you risk jumping flat and pulling a rail. Remember what we’ve been working on — rhythm, rhythm, rhythm.”
She paused to adjust her crutches and leaned in closer, speaking quietly. “If you make the jump-off, the turn to the in-and-out is where it will be won or lost; whoever makes that tight turn inside the big blue oxer wins, but only if you are spot on. I don’t think anyone else will try it. It’s too easy to get wrong.”
“That big oxer is tough,” Mary told Oakley as she exited the arena, red-faced and out of breath. “It rides shorter than it looks. Everyone’s having problems there.”
We trotted into the ring and circled, then headed off at an energetic canter to the first fence. Fence after fence I could feel my confidence building. As we headed toward the big oxer, I locked my eyes onto it and, with intense concentration, coiled my body, rocked back onto my hocks, and launched up and over.
Oakley patted me as I landed, keeping his hand on the reins, “Good boy, Raja.”
I sped up, wanting to go, but Oakley shifted his weight, asking me to steady. “Whoa, boy, whoa,” he whispered under his breath.
I slowed as we turned the corner to the water. Oakley squeezed his legs, asking me to lengthen my stride. We flew it. Then, whoa, whoa, shorten. At the vertical, he squeezed again. I jumped hard, springing off the ground. He steadied me, finishing the easy long way around the outside of the big oxer to the in-and-out.
“Zero jump faults, zero time faults. Clear round for number 20, Raja.”
Only five other horses were clean. Now for the jump-off, where the fastest time would win. I pawed the ground and tossed my head. The wait was unbearable.
Let’s go! What are we waiting for?
The first two horses had rails down — both went the long way around the oxer. The third horse went clear but slow, also going the long way around the oxer.
A big, white mare entered the arena.
“That’s Luna, a former Grand Prix horse. She’s very well bred. Her sire, Abdullah, won the team gold and individual silver medals at the Los Angeles Olympics. Sue is a good rider, too. Her father rode on the team with me. Watch how they do that line.”
Luna and Sue put in a flawless round. After the vertical, Sue sat up and did a strong half-halt, cutting inside the big blue oxer, and headed to the last in-and-out in six graceful, powerful, perfect strides.
“A clear round for Luna with a time of 28 seconds,” boomed the loudspeaker as a huge round of applause arose from the crowd.
We were next. I pawed the ground harder, losing patience, about to explode.
Let’s go. It’s time to GO!
Michelle leaned in on her crutches toward Oakley. “Even if you’re clean and turn inside the oxer, you may not beat Luna’s time.”
“Why don’t we do this the Thoroughbred way?” Oakley responded. “After all, he was a good racehorse, wasn’t he? He has a huge stride. I think he can get to the last in-and-out in five strides instead of six.”
“Are you sure that you’ll be able to get him back for the in-and-out? It’s short.”
“Are you kidding? Dressage is a jumper’s secret weapon,” Oakley grinned.
Right from the starting buzzer, Oakley “kicked on” and rode faster. I heard him counting to me, trying to keep the rhythm. I concentrated, feeling like a cat, effortlessly stretching and shortening my strides, turning, balancing, and lightly jumping the fences. After the vertical, Oakley did a strong half-halt, turning inside the oxer.
“Let’s go, Raja!” I felt his heels on my sides and sprang forward, opening my stride as if I was jumping out of the starting gate; one, two, three, four. He sat up again. I shortened my stride, one more stride for five, and up and over the first fence in the in-and-out. One tight stride, then back on my hocks, and up and over and out.
“Ya!!, Raja!”
I galloped fast through the finish flags with my neck stretched out as a huge cheer arose from the crowd.
“A clear round and 27 seconds for Raja, our winner.”
Oakley hugged me as we galloped triumphantly around the arena.
“Raja, you have so much power, it’s like riding a rocket.”
Winning is the best feeling ever.
“I knew you could do it!” Michelle greeted us at the gate, “very nicely ridden, Oakley. Raja, GOOD BOY!” She patted my neck.
“You’re a very special horse. You have the talent and brain to be an international horse. I’m sure of it.”
“Six hundred thousand,” a loud voice interrupted, “that’s my offer. It’s a nice price for a junior horse. Cash. We can do the deal today.”
Michelle recoiled at Tony DeVito’s cigar in her face, but smiled politely. “Oh, thank you so much, but this horse isn’t for sale.” She patted me and smiled, once again connecting in her special, intimate way. “This horse will never be for sale. He’s doing the Grand Prix next week.”
The Grand Prix! I can’t wait. I know I can win it. Finally, my chance!
April, Ocala, Florida
I was resting in my stall watching Oakley organize buckets, trunks, shavings and feed to take to the show.
The Grand Prix is this weekend! I can’t wait!
“Oakley,” Speedy rushed into the barn, limping slightly, with a worried expression plastered across his face. He didn’t pay attention to the pack of terriers that followed.
Speedy never got worried — something is wrong.
“I just got a call from Bob. He’s at the hospital with Michelle. She was in a car crash last night. A drunk driver hit her while she was stopped at a red light. The car was totaled. He says it’s bad, really bad. Her neck is broken and she can’t move her legs. It don’ look like she’ll ride again. Heck, she might not walk again. She’s gon’ stay there for a few weeks and then probably move to a rehab hospital.” He shook his head dejectedly, “The Lord do test us, don’ he?”
Michelle, poor Michelle! When will I see her again?
I missed her so much. The way she listened to me and spoke with movements instead of words, and the way she made me feel like I was the best horse in the world.