Riding Poker

[april]

I ride Poker onto the track and immediately begin a brisk trot. His sleek skin ripples over bulging muscles that stretch and leap into action. He jiggs excitedly as we turn back towards the mile pole. When we reach it we turn again so we’re going counterclockwise. It feels like he’s made of springs, gathering and collecting, and then stretching like rubber bands. Now that every muscle is as limber as a wet rag, and then I give him the signal to gallop. It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. The wind of our own making tears past us, the ground flows along in a blur, There’s nothing else in the world at this moment except my horse and I, everything around us indistinct and unimportant. With an effort of will I manage to remember to not let him go at top speed. It‘s clear he yearns to go faster. Riding him is like being on a thunderbolt. The brightly colored poles flash past us in a blur of color. Blue for the quarters, red for the eights, black for the sixteenths. We ease into a full out gallop and move towards the rail. Ease is a strange word for his tremendous drive and power, but it‘s the only one that fits. One second we’re flying and the next we’re rocketing. His tail and my hair are flying, his neck is outstretched, and he’s suddenly longer and leaner, his hooves just barely skimming the earth. We tear up the track in a good breeze, and then pull up slowly. I get off and walk him until he’s cool and then we head for the wash stall. I praise and pet him beyond happily the whole way.