Before the neon orange and purple of first light romances the Twin Spires and pellet ice dilutes trackside juleps, I head 106 miles north. It’s 5:30 in the morning on the first Saturday in May. Derby’s relevance withers with the distance I-71 offers far past the horizon. I’m escaping. Not true — I’m seeking. I’m on a stubborn, prove-my-point kind of truther task.
Here’s my burden: I don’t understand Derby. Does it deserve holy-holiday levels of reverence? It’s no secret horse racing is always dangerous and sometimes cruel. Safety measures lack, allowing irresponsible trainers to race unfit, injured horses. Tracks opt for dirt despite data proving synthetic tracks are safer. Even the finest horses worth seven figures could use a gang of angels. Millions watching on TV gasped almost a decade ago when Eight Belles’ ankles snapped, a sheet went up, and her Derby run ended in death. A pastel crowd of 157,000 sardined into Churchill Downs stood stunned, frozen, tears running. And yet every Derby, tens of thousands suit up for the good times and breathlessly yell at horses to run faster, harder. Gooooo!!!
Sports institutions resist lessons, resist change. Horse racing’s not alone in that. Still, I don’t get it. I can’t extract fact from festivities. But, for me, witnessing the unsavory won’t happen at Churchill Downs. My quest on this Derby Day veers small or, at least, smaller. I arrive at the backside of Belterra Park racetrack outside Cincinnati (known to many by its former name, River Downs) under a crisp blue sky. Movements here mirror what’s happening at Churchill — horses gallop through morning workouts and lazily click-clack back to stables. No gloss and opulence, though. This scene lacks the media spotlight, the fresh spring flowers, the Bob Bafferts, the promise of fat pockets following a good guess.
I’m here on assignment, working on a story about a 23-year-old jockey who moved from England to Kentucky a few months before to break into U.S. horse racing. I could’ve watched him race the night before Derby or the day after — even the week after. I chose Derby Day 2015. Screw the party.
I trail the jockey as he hustles from barn to barn, trying to persuade trainers to give him a mount in a race. He’s built like a 12-year-old, with a patch of hair the size of a tennis ball missing from the back of his head. Doctors say it’s from stress and malnourishment. He logs hours in the sauna. Some days he drinks only coffee and pops a few laxatives to cut weight. Poor guy, I think. His agent should be here introducing him to trainers, but the agent’s a bit hung over. The jockey points to his nose that hooks left like the letter J. Broken after a fall during a race at Keeneland. Poor guy.
The jockey walks up to a scruffy old man with a heavy limp and dirt-streaked jeans. The two talk about a six-year-old Thoroughbred. “He’s kind of a cripple, but he runs sound and trains sound, so long as I keep the soreness out of him,” the trainer says, each syllable delivered sorghum slow in a thick, weary croak. “You got to remember this is a cheap track with cheap horses.” I knew it! Everything I’ve read is true. Trainers risk horses’ lives for races sometimes worth only $500. Double-check my recorder to make sure it is recording. Yes, red light on. Ha! Never mind the trainers, grooms and horsemen who seem legitimate and loving, devoting every day to babying these 1,000-pound moody, needy, powerful super-creatures. I have my firsthand evidence. (A bit more honesty: Derby’s window dressing bugs me a bit too. Here’s a series of thoughts on the matter that never quite graduated to paragraph form: excessively Southern, goodbye progressive city, Boss Hoggs, frilly ladies. But that’s cosmetic. The danger, that’s what makes me really uncomfortable.)
In the afternoon, under a sparkling spring sky, the jockey mounts a 10-year-old horse for his first race of the day. He crosses the finish dead last. Dirt kicked up by stronger competitors cakes the rider’s helmet, goggles and green silks. He’ll earn a $65 mount fee. I wonder: How on earth does he make a living? He stomps angrily back into the sauna, exiting the jock’s room a little while later for a cigarette to help curb the hunger. As he inhales, he shivers because he’s so dehydrated. “Why?” I ask him. “Why do all this?” He shrugs. “It’s one of these things where it’s like, I don’t know, but I couldn’t not do it. If I couldn’t ride horses, I don’t know…” he says, voice trailing off. “In England and Europe, the general rule is you can’t get very far in racing unless you’re a trainer’s son or an owner’s son. Over here you see a lot of people, they come from nothing. You see these guys come from nothing, and because they’re good at something, they’re not tarred with a brush. Look at Victor Espinoza.”
A few hours from now Espinoza will win his third Derby. A few weeks from now he’ll earn a Triple Crown victory. Later, as I recount my day to my husband, I’ll laundry-list the ugly details: hair falling out, “cheap horses” pumped with meds. Then, dammit, I’ll shift. My calculated excursion wound me to this end: “You can’t blame this young jockey for chasing a dream,” I’ll say. “I really hope he does well.” I still do. I want him to keep racing. I want him to win. I often Google his name and glimpse at his progress from my desk chair.
In the final race of the day, the jockey mounts a young filly. The pack bolts from the gate and he slips back. I lose sight of him. Then, in the final stretch, he surges. His whip smacks the horse’s rump. I hate that. But as I watch I bounce on my toes, hold my breath and muzzle the word I’m eager to scream — Gooooo!!! He finishes a respectable third. “Good job!” yells the horse’s owner, an older fellow with leathery skin and a tuft of gray chest hair. “Thank you, mate,” the jockey replies, smiling.
All around me, even 106 miles north, ladies parade in Derby hats. Near the winner’s circle, a Derby attire contest elicits cheers. I believe a man in drag wins. Before I get in my car to drive home, I receive a text, a photo of my two-year-old daughter. She’s at a Derby party wearing a woman’s hat blooming with fake orange lilies. It hovers above her little round face like a canopy. Perfect. So sweet. I stare at it for a moment. Sort of wish I could’ve been there in person.
Illustration by Carrie Neumayer
