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The Sweetheart Trot
Patricia Miller
The high-strung
trotters, black manes flashing, are ready to roll.
Tossed heads, swishing tails speak of nerves; feet stomp, eager to go.
Betters nod and check their tickets, full of hope, full of doubt as they start.
Drivers tuck the lines beneath their butts, feet in the stirrups, starting to
sweat.
Trotters prance, strain forward, and swing into the gate and lightly step.
All are ready. Ears, eyes, and heads forward, as tight muscles start to stretch.
The car and starting
gate moves slowly toward the opening stretch.
Catching speed and wind as it hurtles forward in its roll.
Her trotter swings into the turn beating race time in his step.
Accelerating gate keeps time with pounding hooves and hearts as she hears GO!
Horses surge forward, feet churning the track to dust, Chests pouring sweat,
legs stepping out in the timeless rhythm of the trot, flying out to the start.
Eight women's eyes gaze toward the steward's car as they start.
Sixteen eyes reflect excitement, drive, fear, resolve. The horses stretch
out their slender legs, heads dipping lower as speed builds and sweat
smacks back on brilliant colors, dirty boots, yellow goggles, as they roll.
She ducks into the rail, resting her trotter on the lead. Saving his strength
to go
fast at the finish, when others tire, when lungs heave and gasp, springless in
his step.
Look lively now!
With the final turn in view and horses moving to step
out to pass the rail horse, leading the way, rating his speed, calm from the start.
She leans into the turn, finely balanced, feet spraddled and pressing the stirrups.
Go
to the front, she yells, mostly to herself, somewhat to her horse. And, it's
the stretch!
The fiercely racing trotters surge off the final turn, straighten, and then they
really roll.
On toward home, heads high again. She raises her whip, leans back, and crack.
Sweat
flies from backs,
legs and faces. She screams HOUDINI, urging him on, more sweat
will fly from his flanks and girth. Drivers yell and pump, faster, step by step.
The finish line looms as some horses fade, exhausted, some surge ahead on a roll.
The women reach exhaustion too as nerves, exertion, focus, and daring start
to fade, as the horses are fading. Total concentration is demanded in the home
stretch.
All the training, skill, and daring, collide in a sublime moment, she and her
trotter go
across the finish
line, FIRST! A cry of victory, a sigh of relief, release, no more go.
Whip held high, she eases back the lines. Her trotter senses the release and slows;
sweat
pours freely from her arms, brow and back, as from his body. He tries to stretch
his neck, pulls at the check rein, lungs beating, nostrils flaring, staggering
his step.
The trotter jogs slowly on. She talks softly to him- whoa now, slow down,
back to the start.
Sulky wheels, no longer blurred, stop as she drives proudly to the winner's
circle. No more on a roll.
The conditioned
trotters extend their gait, urged by the women, as the stretch comes in view.
GO
is the only important thing left to do. Roll those babies out and make them sweat.
Those thousands, pounding strides in step a race do make: circle in circle, back
to start. |
