Who are you shooting for, mate?

Who are you shooting for, mate?

The June sunshine beat down on me as I shuffled up the steps and into the foyer of The Queen Elizabeth Grandstand. It must have been thirty degrees in the sun and it felt even hotter under my suit, over which I was wearing a black photographers bib, which meant that I was absorbing even more heat. Racecourse etiquette required that I wore a tie and my shirt collar buttoned up at all times and as a consequence my body heat had no-where to escape from. I was steaming. I could only imagine how the horses felt. When I tried to adjust my white shirt under my suit jacket I found that it had stuck to my back. I checked my watch. It was five to four. I had to clear security in time in order to make it onto the roof for The Derby, which was at twenty past. I stood anxiously in the foyer, waiting my turn in the queue. There was no admittance into the building until it had been cleared by security. At last it was my turn. The security man behind the counter looked at me and said: ‘Can I see your wristband please, Sir?’ I nodded and raised my right hand, to reveal a gold coloured plastic wristband from underneath my shirtsleeve. Wearing it enabled me to photograph inside The Queen Elisabeth Grandstand foyer, on The Queen Elisabeth Lawn, and inside all restaurant and hospitality areas within the building. Saying nothing, he then scrutinised the laminated photo I D card that I was wearing around my neck, in order to check I was who it said I was. Apparently satisfied, he said:‘ Right, how can I help you?’ After I had finished explaining my purpose for being there, he directed me towards the ground floor elevator. He said: ’get out of the lift on the fourth floor. Leaving the elevator, you’ll find yourself in a small reception area, facing a row of tote counters. Turn left and then take the small staircase to the immediate right of the last corporate box. It’s Coolmore’s one, you can’t miss it:  it’s got their sign on the door. Continue up two flights of stairs, passing the Royal Box on the fifth floor and continue up to the sixth. At the top of the staircase, security will ask to see your credentials again before allowing you access.’ Security, security, and more security. It hadn’t been like this yesterday on Oaks Day. I thanked him and headed immediately for the elevator. Fifteen minutes later, I made my way up the final flight of stairs that led out onto the roof. The photograph that I was up here to take wasn’t a difficult one to shoot; it was a simple panoramic picture using my 24mm lens. But it was proving to be a difficult shot to realize. As I climbed wearily up the final few steps, I looked up and noticed four people peering down towards me from a small landing that led out to my destination. They included an officious looking Epsom official sat at a small desk behind whom was stood a very large security guard. Two athletically built police officers; one male and one female, flanked the small table. They were armed with batons and handcuffs and one of them spoke quietly into a radio secured to the front of their jacket. Four pairs of eyes scrutinised me as I approached the desk. The Epsom official was looking down at a checklist of names in front of her and without looking up asked me bluntly for my name. I provided it. Then, looking up at me for the first time she added: ‘Your passport please, Mr Franklin.’ I reached into my camera bag, took out my passport and handed it to her. I also handed over a folded sheet of A4 paper, which I thought might help my cause. I said: ‘ this is a letter from Stephen Wallace, the racecourse manager. It’s addressed to the police, signed by him, explaining my reasons for requiring access to the roof. I’m a photographer, you see.’ She handed the letter to the policewoman to her left who read it. She then passed it to her male colleague who did the same. The policeman handed the letter back to me and grudgingly nodded his approval. Having satisfied their security requirements and been availed of my passport, at last I had clearance to walk out onto the Grandstand roof. I checked my watch again and saw that I had five minutes to spare before the big race. The late afternoon sun beat down on the ivory coloured open plan roof ahead of me. Thick blue, black, and yellow coloured cable coiled like giant snakes across the rooftop floor, disappearing into the doorway to a small room to my left, which had a sign hung up outside saying Media Centre. Four journalists shuffled around busily inside consulting a wall of TV monitors. I made my way across the rooftop anticipating in my minds eye the view that awaited me on the racecourse side. The roof ledge was just above waist height. I passed two giant antennae and a powerful looking satellite dish on my way. As I reached the rooftop far wall, I noticed out of the corner of my eye three men stood to my right, positioned a few meters apart from one another further along the roof ledge. The furthest from me appeared to be adjusting what looked like a camera tripod; the next man was frozen as still as a statue, a long lens camera hung around his neck. He was a study of concentration and was peering purposefully through a pair of powerful-looking binoculars. The third man, positioned nearest to me, was tending to the contents of a large bag, which lay open at his feet.
“And there I was thinking that I had a photo exclusive up here.”
I returned my attention to the view and, reaching the ledge, looked out across The Downs. Wow, I said out loud, under my breath. I stood in awe as I took in the best racecourse view in all of England, possibly the world. The spectacular Epsom Downs unfolded beyond me as I watched 120,000 people swarm around like ants across the horizon and down below me. My eyes panned slowly across the inner racecourse enclosure from left to right. Epsom fairground was in full swing and besides that a giant patchwork quilt of thousands of colourful (occupied) picnic rugs. Along the home straight rail, I counted the rows of red open-topped double-decker buses, each one packed to the rafters with early summer revellers, and beyond them, over on the far side of the racecourse, I saw the Derby runners circling behind the starting stalls ahead of the big race. Immediately below me on the Grandstand side of the course, a sea of top-hatted men and elegantly dressed women swanned around on the immaculate Epsom Lawn, sipping champagne and chatting idly. Then directly, below me the Winners' Circle, a lush green carpet of grass enclosed by white racecourse railing opening at one end into a chute that led out onto the racecourse. I thought of some of the legendary Derby winners of the past who had been led proudly into the Winners' Circle in years gone by; Relko, The Derby winner in the year I was born; The Minstrel in 1975. The mighty Nashwan ten years later and Quest for Fame the year after that. It were as though all of London were here, gathered together on Epsom Downs, to witness and honour the 2005 winner. All I was waiting for now was for the Derby to get underway, for the field to swing around Tattenham Corner and gallop up the home straight towards the finishing line, above which I stood, clicking my camera shutter for all it was worth, capturing the moment. I wondered if it would be the favourite Motivator and Johnny Murtagh who would cross the line in first place? As I removed my camera from my rucksack, I caught the eye of the man stood nearest to me, just a couple of feet further along the roof ledge. I switched on my camera and took some test shots, a couple of panoramic pictures across the course. I checked the exposure on the digital display of my camera. I took the man for being a photographer like me. In a casual voice, by way of making conversation, I asked him:
“Who are you shooting for, mate?”
Just like before, he was again squatted down on all fours tending to the contents of his bag. And upon closer inspection I realised that it wasn’t camera equipment that he was checking. Bloody hell. Everything suddenly made sense. Of course. The photo ID card, the rigorous security checks, the reason for my passport being held. No, It wasn’t camera equipment that he was tending to, it was an automatic machine gun. His eyes caught mine as I realised how darkly funny my casual question must have sounded to him. Who are you shooting for? With a glint in his eye, the man replied with a question of his own: ‘The woman in the sky blue hat, on the balcony one floor down below?’ I peered over the ledge, one floor down onto the balcony of The Royal Box. Sure enough, there was a woman wearing a sky blue hat, flanked by two very tall men. Body guards. It was The Queen. Of course. ‘Well’, the man continued ‘you could say that I’m shooting for her. If I’m required to, that is’.
The woman in the sky blue hat, on the balcony one floor down below?
The woman in the sky blue hat, on the balcony one floor down below?
Unlike Royal Ascot, The Epsom Derby isn’t an official state visit for HRH The Queen; she attends because she wants to be there. The three men with me up on the roof weren’t photographers after all; they were either from MI5, or perhaps the anti-terrorist squad. I had been so side-tracked with getting my roof-top photograph that I had overlooked today’s royal visit. But then I smiled to myself as I realised that the situation I had found myself in was a win-win situation all-round. After all, HRH The Queen’s immediate well-being seemed to be in good hands and it looked as though I did have a photo exclusive after all. A loud voice suddenly boomed out over the racecourse tannoy: ‘Racing Epsom. The 2005 Derby is underway.’ A roar of excitement shot up from the huge crowd on Epsom Downs as the horses shot from the starting gates. I switched on my camera and composed myself in anticipation of my photocall. As the horses shot round Tattenham Corner and charged up the home straight, everything felt good in my world. All I had to do in order to prolong this feeling of well-being was to remember to ask for my passport back from security before leaving the roof. SparaSpara SparaSpara SparaSpara SparaSpara
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Keenland, in rolling parkland on the western outskirts of Lexington.

And then we went to Keeneland

It is a bit corny I suppose, to say that if Mountaineer Racetrack is hell, then Keeneland must be heaven, but that’s how it felt.

  Keeneland saw its first day’s racing on the 15th October 1936, in the midst of the great depression, which had occasioned the demise of Lexington’s previous racing venue, the Kentucky Association Racetrack. The brainchild of prominent local horsemen Hal Price Headley and Major Louis Beard, the track stands as a testament that great things can be achieved successfully, and sustained and improved on, without the slashing of costs and making of redundancies, and the relentless, mindless, pursuit of profit maximization. The racetrack, and indeed the world’s largest bloodstock auction house which is now also part of Keeneland and intimately shares its grounds, are a not for profit venture. Profits realized are ploughed back into improvement of facilities, philanthropic deeds, and prize money. Hal Headley said “We want a place where those who love horses can come and picnic with us and thrill to the sport of the bluegrass.  We are not running a race plant to hear the click of the mutuel machines.  We want them to come out here to enjoy God’s sunshine, fresh air, and to watch horses race.”  They don’t really make people like that anymore do they? Well Mr Headley, lay easy in your long goodnight, because under the leadership of the twinkle eyed and eccentrically named Rogers Beasley, Keeneland is a place where everything is right. And I mean everything. It is so right, it could almost be a definition, a byword, a moniker of right, an appellation. A utopia.
Well Mr Headley, lay easy in your long goodnight, because under the leadership of the twinkle eyed and eccentrically named Rogers Beasley, Keeneland is a place where everything is right. And I mean everything. It is so right, it could almost be a definition, a byword, a moniker of right, an appellation. A utopia.
Situated in rolling parkland on the western outskirts of Lexington, on land purchased from a Mr Jack Keene. The long winding entrance road is immaculately tarmacked and old fashioned street lamps line the route (by the way, whenever I talk about anything here, just throw in an “immaculate” for yourself to save me the job eg the quaint green wooden benches; immaculate, the artfully tree’d and pruned paddocks; immaculate, the catering booths selling premium hotdogs, Kentucky Burgoo, and candy, immaculate, the bars selling bourbon cocktails; immaculate, the restrooms – you’ve got it – and they are too – even during racing). As you drive in trees are scattered across the parkland with leaves in every autumn hue of yellow and green and brown and rust and gold, and incredible reds of every shade, from delicate rose pink, to blood as dark and fresh as from an artery.  Nature at its most beautiful, but helped along by human artistic touch, as these trees have arrived in their setting with the care one could ordinarily only expect of  an actuary with obsessive compulsive disorder. The result is prettier than nature alone could achieve, and as you approach the parking areas you see the trees unite to stand in perfect lines sheltering the cars from the sunniest days. The grandstand itself is built from large light gray stone blocks of Kentucky limestone, a tribute to the original Stone barn that stood on Mr Keene’s land, giving it a slightly castle-like impression from the outside. Entrance starts at only a few dollars, and people flock here, attendants at every entrance are shouting information, greeting and welcoming the people thronging in, ready to answer any questions they may have.  The first area you come to is the paddocks, to the far end is where the horses are led round waiting for the valets to bring out the saddles for their race.  Once saddled they wait for the call to parade into the main ring. Towering above the ring is an imposingly large and beautiful Silver Sycamore. It stands there like some over-sized student of the form, its arms and hair wild in the wind.  Once the jockeys are mounted the horses are led though an opening under the grandstand and emerge into the sunlight and onto the track to the poignant notes of the bugler. Horses in the USA don’t have to be led to the start, but they generally are. The outriders at some tracks often look as if they have taken to sleeping rough, but here they are all in Keeneland green (not far off British racing green). It is a nice spectacle for a nice crowd.  Most people here aren’t huge racing fans, but they don’t ignore the racing, they read the form, they look at the horses in the paddock, and they bet their trifecta boxes, and their superfectas and their pick sixes, and cheer as loudly as at any British track – which is unusual here. And after the horses have passed the post they turn back to their friends, for this is primarily a social gathering, a place to go and dress up and be seen. Blazers, bow ties, and cigars, is the tradition for men.  Ladies anything from casual to high fashion, no one judges, it’s just however you feel, and what the weather is like.  Lots of people enjoy a drink, but everyone seems to conduct themselves well, even on the free admission days for students which was an eye opener. There are many tracks in England and Europe as pretty, and there are some of those tracks that also offer the high levels of prize money. And some of those tracks you can enter for two without getting a payday loan. And there are some that are fairly clean, and some that offer good food and drink easily and inexpensively. And some even have that great mix of people having fun without getting too carried away, somewhere where you could let children run off together and do their thing, allowing the adults to do theirs.  But I can’t think of another track that I have been to that does all these things so well.  It is a shining example of American ambition when it was of a more noble kind, and a shining example of American hard work and can do attitude and efficiency, and all of the things that as a kid growing up I imagined in my mind it was, and have found, now that I have returned, that often, inevitably, it is not.  I suppose it is a bit like an English child brought up in America and thinking of England’s good manners, and dress, and civility, and cosy fires in country inns, and red buses and telephone boxes. And after many years returning to find KFC, and Poundland, and tattoos and litter, and drunks everywhere, and traffic laced with swearing drivers…. But there is still the odd gloriously good pub. Keeneland is good, its intentions are good, and its actions are good. And its execution is brilliant. So I can tell you now, and I am sure that I am the first. It is a mere seven hour drive from heaven to hell. So I beg you please, take careful heed in which direction you are headed.
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The grandstand was built in 1895 and with it the two twin spires, a famous symbol known throughout the United States and beyond.

I tried to watch the Kentucky Derby. Really.

The first Saturday in May holds a special place in most racing fans calendar. The day of The Kentucky Derby. When Americans, who on most other days couldn’t care less about horse racing, go all in. Great marketing work from the track Churchill Downs. So great that racing people all over the world talk about it – although it essentially is a domestic American affair. But (and here’s the point) most of us folks outside the US can’t watch it. I spent several hours trying to find ways of watching this fantastic race day from our base in Europe. The tracks website? Only if you are based in the US and have an account. NBC Sports? I downloaded their App. on Apple TV full of hope – only to find that I was expected to prefer rugby from Wales... Racing UK? Showed re-runs of handicaps from a track somewhere in England. Dubai Racing TV? Nope... I googled and googled and all I found was obscure websites that wanted my credit card number and suggested I log in via proxy... My Facebook feed was full of people with the same problem. It was simply not possible to be a part of the build up that would lead to you ultimately placing a bet and generating revenue for the track and exposure for its sponsors. It is 2016. Red Bull invent new sports by the dozen and downhill ice skating and airplane racing is poured out on our TV’s and smartphones all over the world. But the most exciting two minutes in sport remain a local affair hidden from the eyes of the world. The good thing about this is that if racing can survive under such terms, the potential for growth is enormous! * PS – In the end I managed to see The Derby on a betting site ( after placing a small bet. But only just the race... nothing else.
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SEE THE WORLD – go racing!

IN NOVEMBER we attended a racing education and training conference in Abu Dhabi. We were there with more than 100 female jockeys and a dozen apprentices, plus representatives for racing schools from all over the world. A total of more than 300 people gathered for a week. Some of the participants were young as 16 and some were in their 80s. It was a total mix of ages, genders, ethnicity and what we call ”socioeconomic background,” which is one of the best things about horse racing. People who otherwise might not have traveled at all find themselves going from continent to continent. As long as you ”speak racing” there are no borders in the sport. A young girl jockey from Korea and the apprentice from South Africa are from different worlds, but in the jockey room or on the track that doesn’t matter.
“A total mix of ages, genders, ethnicity and what we call socioeconomic background”
The fact that racing is a sport for individualists plays in. A teenager who goes to a new country to work as an excercise rider goes there alone. It is a totally different experience from going on a trip with your team. Here there is no coach, no fellow team-members, no parents. In other words, there is nothing to keep a young person from learning a new culture, a new language or—most of all —how to grow up to become a citizen of the world. Those are important qualifications that will be increasingly sought after in the future. Regardless of if that future involves horses or not.
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why do they race the other way AROUND?

Horse racing is a very basic and global sport. – Maybe that’s why we so often react with surprise when things are not exactly the same as they are back home. An American woman once asked my why we race the other way around in Europe. Could it be because we drive on the left? It took me a while to explain that only the UK, Ireland and Malta drive on the left. And that there are no rules governing if horses go clockwise, anti-clockwise or – just run down a straight track. I showed her and some of her friends satellite images of different tracks around the world. Ovals, straights, dog legged, triangular, pear shaped… Up-hills and downhills. I showed them all of it. They were amazed, as in the USA all of the major tracks feature flat ovals where races are run counterclockwise.
“Ovals, straights, dog legged, triangular, pear shaped… Up-hills and downhills.”
Many Europeans who go to other continents are, on the other hand, amazed by the fact that horses in Asia and the Americas often live and train at the track. On race day, they are just walked a bit, and then they’re at the parade ring. Whereas in France, Germany, Ireland and the UK, horses normally stay at the trainer’s yard at training centres and have to be transported to the track on the day of the race. Or, depending on distance, they may go a few days before. In Australia, visiting horses sometimes don’t get boxes. It’s the groom’s job to hold the horse for the race day. In Hong Kong, Japan and parts of the USA, every single workout is officially clocked and published for the punters’ information. Unheard of in Europe. As are the lead horses—called pony horses even though most are full-fledged horses—that escort runners to the start. A famous American jockey nearly fell of in Europe when the groom let go of his horse upon entering the turf and it shot off for the starting gates. “Where is the lead pony?!?!?” “Uhh—sorry, we don’t have any of those...” There are so many examples of little things, and there is generally not one way that is better than the other. They are just different. See the world, and see it with your own eyes. Don’t worry, wherever you go people will speak racing – it’s just the accents that will change a little.
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Behind her emerged a man, Spanish looking, neat, with a perfect moustache, and dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a white shirt.


It was Jimmy who gave Jack his first horse to exercise in the USA, and just a few weeks later he told him he had a ride coming up for him at Indiana.

Elmor was the horse, a solid five-year-old gelding in a claiming race at Indiana Grande Racecourse and Casino. Jack had only been riding out for a couple of weeks at this stage of our American odyssey and we had thought it would take a few months before any offers of rides came in, he had however obtained his apprentice jockey’s license in the state of Kentucky a few days earlier, so we thought we were good to go. Indiana is not a place you have probably heard much about. It lies directly to the North of the western half of Kentucky, and the racetrack itself lies about a two and a half hour drive from Lexington, which is far enough (around 170 miles), but driving the 100 miles to Kempton Park racetrack from our stables in Newmarket often felt like more of a journey due to the weight of traffic and frequent jams. We have done the Indiana journey many times now, and it is not unusual once we have driven the two miles onto the Lexington ring road (new circle) to not have to slow down, much less stop, until we reach the racetrack at Indiana, that is how smooth traffic generally flows in these parts. This part of Indiana is generally unremarkable. There is little to remark on, because there is little to see. On our drive down to Lexington from Boston we drove through West Virginia for a couple of hours. Well that was a couple of hours of looking at nothing but rolling hills densely covered in trees. Indiana is a bit like that, but without the hills and the trees. Flat level fields for mile after mile punctuated with the odd religious banner (repent your sins). Indiana natives are apparently known as Hoosiers, a name that supposedly means country bumpkin – and that label was given to them by natives of the Carolinas, West Virginia and Tennessee. Eventually we reached the racetrack. It was flat, very flat, like the surrounding area. You don’t really get topography like it in England, any structure in the distance was a disturbance to the unrelenting flatness. It felt like you were missing a dimension. Our first job was to get Jack licensed to ride in the state of Indiana, since each racing State issues their own license, so we headed off to the racetrack office for what I thought would be a formality. I thought we might be in trouble the minute we walked in there. It was like a scene from some American movie, some half assed seventies style office, the exterior built from breezeblocks, the interior taken from the set of the police headquarters of Starsky and Hutch. There were two girls manning the reception, and I could tell from their passive aggressive smiles that there was going to be a problem. I don’t know if it was the nerves of Jack about to have his first ride stateside, or if it was the mild vodka headache – (I had discovered a store called The Liquor Barn across the road from our hotel. I love America’s literalness. It is the sign of a barn – a very big barn, and it is full of liquor, of a variety and magnitude that leaves you slack jawed the first time you visit), or maybe it was more the alien surroundings, but my pulse was starting to race and I was feeling a bit edgy. “Can I help you?” One of the girls enquired unhelpfully. “I have a ride here today and I need to get licensed.” Jack offered. “Have you been licensed before?” She replied. “Yes in the UK, and I have just got my Kentucky license.” “Ok, well we need you to fill in this form, and then we will need your fingerprints, and we will also need documentation from the UK authorities confirming you held a license there.” “Well, we have a letter of clearance from the British Horseracing Authority which we presented to the Kentucky Horseracing Commission, who also fingerprinted him then when they granted him his license.” I interjected. “We need to fingerprint him, and we need documentation sent to us from the UK authorities.” She repeated as if she hadn’t heard me. “Well here’” I said, “this is the letter.” And I offered her my phone on which I had opened the email I had received from Joanne Crawforth at the BHA… “We need the documentation sent to us.” She smiled, declining to even glance at the phone. “that’s fine I said, can I use your wifi?” “We don’t have wifi.” She said happily.
“No wifi, no phone signals… I don’t know if it was the Grey Goose, but I was getting spooked. And then they brought out the steward and  I really started freaking out”
So I tried to ring the BHA, it was 11.15am in Indiana, 4.15pm in London. His ride was less than three hours away and the BHA people normally knock off at 5pm sharp. There was no signal. “We don’t get a signal in here,” she chortled. “You have to go outside.” There was no signal outside. I went back inside. “Look, I have a letter of clearance from the British Horseracing Authority, and he is licensed to ride as a jockey in Kentucky, and they have already fingerprinted him.” “We need the documentation sent to us.” She cooed. “Is there someone in charge here” I said exasperated. “I am in charge of licensing” said the girl serenely. “I need to speak to someone with authority, I have clearance from the UK but you won’t look at it, he is already licensed in Kentucky, he has already been fingerprinted, this is ridiculous!” I was starting to suspect all was not right here. The office didn’t seem right, it was bare, like it had just been thrown together ten minutes ago. These people didn’t want us here, we were interrupting something. There was something wrong with these girls with their fixed smiles. They were acting like androids, with their scripted responses. No wifi, no phone signals… I don’t know if it was the Grey Goose, but I was getting spooked. And then they brought out the steward and I really started freaking out. The girl shuffled out first back into the office, all blouse and painted smile, though even more forced now. Behind her emerged a man, Spanish looking, neat, with a perfect moustache, and dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a white shirt. He was small. Very small. But slightly sinister. He spoke in a whisper like the chief of police in Miami Vice, and that is who I think he reminded me of. Once I had taken a moment to adjust I explained the problem, and he looked at me somberly for some time, then he whispered seriously,
“We are going to need a list in writing of all the horses he has won on, and their dates and the racetracks too.” I nearly combusted there and then. If I had still been smoking I would have had at least three alight in my mouth whilst igniting a fourth. It was gone 4.40pm London time.
As he began to walk off, I interrupted him, and begged him to please try and call Joanne Crawforth at the BHA and speak to her as she had dealt with Jack’s letter of clearance before we left the UK, I gave him their number. Reluctantly he agreed, and I prayed Joanne was there, as there was no time left otherwise to explain the situation, and get the documents sent in time for Jack to ride. By the time he came back out the androids had received a copy of the official letter of clearance from Joanne at the BHA, and she had quickly typed up and included a list of all Jack’s winners to date. At that moment I had never been so homesick for England. There in the harsh midwestern sunshine, in the flatlands, surrounded by hundreds of miles of flat fields of corn, in some sparse tatty office, with two painted androids and a sinister looking steward. All I could think about was England, the sweeping heath of Newmarket, damp mornings, London buses, Winston Churchill. And the British Horseracing Authority. Had there ever been a finer institution? Joanne’s crisp British efficiency left me weeping for what we had left behind. How could I have harangued and railed against them and not appreciated them for what they were when I was there? How my eyes had been opened. I was born again. An instant convert. The BHA was my church now, and Joanne Crawforth my patron saint.
Joanne Crawforth was his patron saint.
Joanne Crawforth was his patron saint.
So Jack got his license thanks to Joanne, and he rode out onto the track and paraded as the bugler called them to post. Elmor broke a bit slow and was sitting midfield as the runners came round the turn and headed up the straight in virtual silence (to say the crowd was sparse would be like saying Lady Godiva dressed immodestly – there was no crowd) so the field sped past me to the winning post and all you could hear was the thunder of hooves and the thwack thwack of the jockeys whips against the horses hides. They finished last but one. After pulling them up the field turned and cantered back down the straight to unsaddle. They were both exhausted and were caked from the top of Jack’s cap to Elmor’s hooves in inch thick dirt. He jumped off and with weak arms pulled his googles down to expose a patch of clear skin around his eyes, and as he walked off, with his saddle in his hand, his eyes glowed and he shot us a smile as broad and pure as smiles come. It was a good day to be in Indiana.
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