June Week Three
Midnight Thriller. Paranormal Hunter& Prima Donna& The Devil's Hourglass. Flashpoint& Van Guard. Hokum.
whirling dervish
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Ripley was grinning like a fool by the time Lane Thompson had Midnight Thriller tacked up for the morning's workout. The woman with the short blond hair was sharp as a tack, viciously funny, and she had a knowledge that Ripley could only credit to Al Blevis, her uncle. Lane was also in high spirits today. Most everyone was. It was not often that a barn was coming off the pivotal high of winning the Turf Triple Crown. In fact it had only occurred once. Right now with Witch Creek. Lane had bobbed up and down enthusiastically with her uncle when Bella Luna had crossed beneath the shadow of the wire to sweep the crown over the boys. She was the only one in thirteen years to do so. And right now she stood watching them just down the hallway. The gray filly's ears were pricked, her nostrils quivered with excitement, but for the next month she would do nothing more than be a horse.
I'm so lucky to have been apart of your team two weeks ago Ripley. The head trainer nodded, grinning as she adjusted Midtee's headstall. We all are. To those people who say we should quit celebrating, I say go crawl under a rock. Lane grinned, patted Midtee's glistening black shoulder. The cobalt filly bobbed her head enthusiastically as if she too were feeling the positive energy floating around Witch Creek. This would be her third week back under tack and training from her hiatus. Ripley dimmed her smile as she slid her hand down the filly's long greyhound legs, searching for the heat that had kept Midtee out of action for so long. The black daughter of Night Stalker and El Sol del Mar was the lesser heralded of the twins. Eternal Phantom was the reigning Horse of the Year off of her powerful victories in the Kentucky Derby and Breeders Cup Ladies Classic. Midtee had finished fourth in the late-fall race behind current stablemate Fiery Touch when she'd raced for Akita Rose Stables.
She sure gets fit quick, doesn't she Rip? Lane asked as she noted the dapples and muscled body. Doesn't take much. Her mama was a very durable horse as well. Your uncle could tell you that. Lane nodded, tightening the girth. He had... multiple times. She raced in the Unicorn Horn with that stress fracture. No wonder it took her so long to heal. And she's been here recuperating for months now. Had to be when we were still in our slump overall that I picked her and Temp up. So she's been out getting our broodies racing fit. No, I'm not surprised she looks this good. But she's still two workouts and a whole lot of gallops away before she races again.
Lane nodded, smiling as the mare flashed her teeth, expressing her badass side when The Devil's Hourglass was lead around her. Ripley perked up briefly to watch that filly walk, as did Lane. Think you've got another candidate for the Crown next year? Ripley shot a grin over. I think we'd give Stride of Perfection Stables a heart attack with the very thought. But, oh, she was already thinking about the three year old classics with Hourglass. Hourglass was special too. Tough, fast and durable. A completely different animal from Bella Luna. An animal who screamed champion from the get-go. Just like Midtee. The lean, mean machine that was the Night Stalker mare practically tore the cross-ties out of the wall trying to go after the stocky filly. Lane and Ripley swept in, unclipped the leads and then swiftly lead her from the barn. Ripley had ridden Midtee mid-season last year, turning her around from a slump. It was time to do so again. The end of year target would be the Breeders Cup Dirt Marathon and Midtee would sparkle like a black diamond come that day.
Ripley cupped her hands for Lane and the sprightly jockey immediately placed her booted foot in it. She was up in a matter of seconds, easy in the saddle and feeling the power that belonged to Midtee. The black mare felt electric beneath her, full of energy and promise. She trotted away from Ripley with her neck bowed, knees lifting in a prance. She was gorgeous and a year older than when Ripley had first gotten a hold of her. Hopefully, she would not have to say goodbye to the El Sol del Mar daughter once again. Ripley followed quietly in Midtee's wake, noting the sassy sway of limbs, confident posture and savagely beautiful head which was carried so high. This was a completely different horse than the one who had left. And Ripley could feel the difference and bet there would be a difference when the black greyhound got to running over the dirt training track.
Brooks came down the path away from the turf track to meet up with Ripley. He smiled at her, then nodded after Midnight Thriller. She sure looks incredible for being off since January. Ripley grinned back, kicked a rock in front of her. It's those stout bloodlines. Brooks put an arm around Ripley's shoulder, thinking to himself that Ripley was pretty stout and sturdy as a rock for a person with such a shaky background. He kept quiet, thinking his loyalty would reward him in the long run. He leaned against the rail just as Lane asked for a canter from Midtee.
Lane let out a whoosh of breath as the mare rocketed forward. She had not been at Witch Creek when Midnight Thriller had briefly run under their colors. However, if memory served correct, the black mare had been turning into quite the marathoner before she returned to Akita Rose Stables. She canter-galloped at an economical pace, head low, legs exerting the least amount of energy possible as she glided over the dirt. Her ears were back, listening for commands, but Lane could tell she was on the back burner for now. It was a little disconcerting for Lane. Midnight Thriller was the type that seemed independent enough to handle this easy job of galloping around the track. Her eyes burned with fire and energy as she flew into the backstretch, stretching her lean greyhound body out to maximum capacity. Birds flew up before her just feet in front of them and that was when Lane realized how quietly she moved.
It was spooky how silent Midtee was. The Night Stalker mare seemed to fly on the wings of dark angels. Her hooves skimmed over the top layer of sand, digging in before quickly lifting off to float unwarranted again. Her nostrils quivered and the reins tightened at varying points of the gallop, but Lane figured that Midtee was playing her cat and mouse game. Just as she would in the races. The cobalt miss had clearly missed the action and the racetrack. She had not been a good patient for her vet, but on the track she was as sly as any predatory animal. Lane leaned close to the whipping black flame that swept away from the elegant neck and savage head. Midtee was lost in her fluid power, but completely in control at the same time. It was an odd experience to be nothing but a burr on the back of a powerful racehorse.
Brooks whistled a low tune of admiration when Midnight Thriller swept into the homestretch with her long legs reaching for a point just beyond her reach. She was the epitome of grace in motion, a combination of savage thrills and championship breeding. Midtee was in a word -mesmerizing. Lane settled down, relaxed for the duration of the homestretch gallop and smiled when Midtee just soared beneath the wire. Her muscular body did not bow to centrifugal force. She ran straight and true up her single path, switching leads on command. Lane smirked. The rider on the raven-coated beauty had been duly noted. Lane wriggled her fingers, felt the leather glide through her gloves when Midnight Thriller began to pick up speed. Lane could feel the wild beauty's mouth, could feel the drive and rush that boiled within. Midtee was all power, all glory. And somehow Lane did not think she had always been this way.
Wouldn't Ripley have told her?
The mare quickened with a brilliant turn of foot until she was surging over the dirt track beneath the hot summer sun. She cruised and even now it did not appear that she was giving any effort. Her body was built to maximum efficiency, little physical impact. Lane niggled the reins and was rewarded with more. Definitely poetry in motion. The Night Stalker daughter cut the oncoming winds like a heated knife through butter, buffeting it, but not slowing down in the least. Her nostrils flared to the size of tea saucers, her ears pricked up. And that was when Lane realized she had a live wire on her hands. This horse was taking a stride for every other horse's one. And yet she was reaching speeds that were almost unreachable by the most taxing effort from another horse. Lane leaned close, yanked her goggles down, knocked the filly a path outward to see if she would receive a response. A response was a big underestimation.
It was Ripley's turn to exclaim in admiring astonishment. The glorious black mare picked up speed like a tornado. She roared over the dirt with such power and force, yet remained so silent and steady. She cranked it into the turn, settling into a high cruising stride. Ripley had not thought to bring a clock, but the count in her head was clicking off at some impressive two-minute mile fractions. Especially for her first major gallop back. Midnight Thriller surged into the homestretch, not urged in the least, looking stronger than ever. More perfect than ever. Ripley knew without a doubt that Midtee would defy the odds of her mother's early retirement. If anything, Midnight Thriller was proving she could age beautifully.
Lane did not budge an inch on the mare as she handily galloped beneath the wire, her ears bopping forward in backward with eagerness and confidence. Lane patted the black, laughed when Midtee threw a gut-lurching buck that had Lane seeing dirt briefly. Of course, not one to let those around her down, Midtee darted to the right, which was some feat at a gallop, to catch Lane before she could fall. This mare was a dervish, but at least she would be able to respond to challenges when they were presented for her. She was going to be more than willing to get back to the track and show those critics that Eternal Phantom didn't just have a twin for a sister, but a monster twin at that.
I'm so lucky to have been apart of your team two weeks ago Ripley. The head trainer nodded, grinning as she adjusted Midtee's headstall. We all are. To those people who say we should quit celebrating, I say go crawl under a rock. Lane grinned, patted Midtee's glistening black shoulder. The cobalt filly bobbed her head enthusiastically as if she too were feeling the positive energy floating around Witch Creek. This would be her third week back under tack and training from her hiatus. Ripley dimmed her smile as she slid her hand down the filly's long greyhound legs, searching for the heat that had kept Midtee out of action for so long. The black daughter of Night Stalker and El Sol del Mar was the lesser heralded of the twins. Eternal Phantom was the reigning Horse of the Year off of her powerful victories in the Kentucky Derby and Breeders Cup Ladies Classic. Midtee had finished fourth in the late-fall race behind current stablemate Fiery Touch when she'd raced for Akita Rose Stables.
She sure gets fit quick, doesn't she Rip? Lane asked as she noted the dapples and muscled body. Doesn't take much. Her mama was a very durable horse as well. Your uncle could tell you that. Lane nodded, tightening the girth. He had... multiple times. She raced in the Unicorn Horn with that stress fracture. No wonder it took her so long to heal. And she's been here recuperating for months now. Had to be when we were still in our slump overall that I picked her and Temp up. So she's been out getting our broodies racing fit. No, I'm not surprised she looks this good. But she's still two workouts and a whole lot of gallops away before she races again.
Lane nodded, smiling as the mare flashed her teeth, expressing her badass side when The Devil's Hourglass was lead around her. Ripley perked up briefly to watch that filly walk, as did Lane. Think you've got another candidate for the Crown next year? Ripley shot a grin over. I think we'd give Stride of Perfection Stables a heart attack with the very thought. But, oh, she was already thinking about the three year old classics with Hourglass. Hourglass was special too. Tough, fast and durable. A completely different animal from Bella Luna. An animal who screamed champion from the get-go. Just like Midtee. The lean, mean machine that was the Night Stalker mare practically tore the cross-ties out of the wall trying to go after the stocky filly. Lane and Ripley swept in, unclipped the leads and then swiftly lead her from the barn. Ripley had ridden Midtee mid-season last year, turning her around from a slump. It was time to do so again. The end of year target would be the Breeders Cup Dirt Marathon and Midtee would sparkle like a black diamond come that day.
Ripley cupped her hands for Lane and the sprightly jockey immediately placed her booted foot in it. She was up in a matter of seconds, easy in the saddle and feeling the power that belonged to Midtee. The black mare felt electric beneath her, full of energy and promise. She trotted away from Ripley with her neck bowed, knees lifting in a prance. She was gorgeous and a year older than when Ripley had first gotten a hold of her. Hopefully, she would not have to say goodbye to the El Sol del Mar daughter once again. Ripley followed quietly in Midtee's wake, noting the sassy sway of limbs, confident posture and savagely beautiful head which was carried so high. This was a completely different horse than the one who had left. And Ripley could feel the difference and bet there would be a difference when the black greyhound got to running over the dirt training track.
Brooks came down the path away from the turf track to meet up with Ripley. He smiled at her, then nodded after Midnight Thriller. She sure looks incredible for being off since January. Ripley grinned back, kicked a rock in front of her. It's those stout bloodlines. Brooks put an arm around Ripley's shoulder, thinking to himself that Ripley was pretty stout and sturdy as a rock for a person with such a shaky background. He kept quiet, thinking his loyalty would reward him in the long run. He leaned against the rail just as Lane asked for a canter from Midtee.
Lane let out a whoosh of breath as the mare rocketed forward. She had not been at Witch Creek when Midnight Thriller had briefly run under their colors. However, if memory served correct, the black mare had been turning into quite the marathoner before she returned to Akita Rose Stables. She canter-galloped at an economical pace, head low, legs exerting the least amount of energy possible as she glided over the dirt. Her ears were back, listening for commands, but Lane could tell she was on the back burner for now. It was a little disconcerting for Lane. Midnight Thriller was the type that seemed independent enough to handle this easy job of galloping around the track. Her eyes burned with fire and energy as she flew into the backstretch, stretching her lean greyhound body out to maximum capacity. Birds flew up before her just feet in front of them and that was when Lane realized how quietly she moved.
It was spooky how silent Midtee was. The Night Stalker mare seemed to fly on the wings of dark angels. Her hooves skimmed over the top layer of sand, digging in before quickly lifting off to float unwarranted again. Her nostrils quivered and the reins tightened at varying points of the gallop, but Lane figured that Midtee was playing her cat and mouse game. Just as she would in the races. The cobalt miss had clearly missed the action and the racetrack. She had not been a good patient for her vet, but on the track she was as sly as any predatory animal. Lane leaned close to the whipping black flame that swept away from the elegant neck and savage head. Midtee was lost in her fluid power, but completely in control at the same time. It was an odd experience to be nothing but a burr on the back of a powerful racehorse.
Brooks whistled a low tune of admiration when Midnight Thriller swept into the homestretch with her long legs reaching for a point just beyond her reach. She was the epitome of grace in motion, a combination of savage thrills and championship breeding. Midtee was in a word -mesmerizing. Lane settled down, relaxed for the duration of the homestretch gallop and smiled when Midtee just soared beneath the wire. Her muscular body did not bow to centrifugal force. She ran straight and true up her single path, switching leads on command. Lane smirked. The rider on the raven-coated beauty had been duly noted. Lane wriggled her fingers, felt the leather glide through her gloves when Midnight Thriller began to pick up speed. Lane could feel the wild beauty's mouth, could feel the drive and rush that boiled within. Midtee was all power, all glory. And somehow Lane did not think she had always been this way.
Wouldn't Ripley have told her?
The mare quickened with a brilliant turn of foot until she was surging over the dirt track beneath the hot summer sun. She cruised and even now it did not appear that she was giving any effort. Her body was built to maximum efficiency, little physical impact. Lane niggled the reins and was rewarded with more. Definitely poetry in motion. The Night Stalker daughter cut the oncoming winds like a heated knife through butter, buffeting it, but not slowing down in the least. Her nostrils flared to the size of tea saucers, her ears pricked up. And that was when Lane realized she had a live wire on her hands. This horse was taking a stride for every other horse's one. And yet she was reaching speeds that were almost unreachable by the most taxing effort from another horse. Lane leaned close, yanked her goggles down, knocked the filly a path outward to see if she would receive a response. A response was a big underestimation.
It was Ripley's turn to exclaim in admiring astonishment. The glorious black mare picked up speed like a tornado. She roared over the dirt with such power and force, yet remained so silent and steady. She cranked it into the turn, settling into a high cruising stride. Ripley had not thought to bring a clock, but the count in her head was clicking off at some impressive two-minute mile fractions. Especially for her first major gallop back. Midnight Thriller surged into the homestretch, not urged in the least, looking stronger than ever. More perfect than ever. Ripley knew without a doubt that Midtee would defy the odds of her mother's early retirement. If anything, Midnight Thriller was proving she could age beautifully.
Lane did not budge an inch on the mare as she handily galloped beneath the wire, her ears bopping forward in backward with eagerness and confidence. Lane patted the black, laughed when Midtee threw a gut-lurching buck that had Lane seeing dirt briefly. Of course, not one to let those around her down, Midtee darted to the right, which was some feat at a gallop, to catch Lane before she could fall. This mare was a dervish, but at least she would be able to respond to challenges when they were presented for her. She was going to be more than willing to get back to the track and show those critics that Eternal Phantom didn't just have a twin for a sister, but a monster twin at that.
gorgon ladies
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
The late evening lighting turned Witch Creek into a world of fantasy. The pink and purple sky spread over miles of lush green grass. Horses of varying colors grazed in herds of up to ten depending on their age. Foals charged around without a care in the world, nursed from their mothers or slept in a complex puzzle of long limbs. The quintet of five white barns spread in reaching arms in the center of the property, surrounded by a hilly turf track, a dirt course and the recent reconstruction of the indoor winter training track. Any direction on a path lighted by glowing solar powered lights would take you to another impressive haunt. Witch Creek was the place of dreams for older horses who needed a second chance and the place where the young ones learned to spread their wings.
Ripley could not help romanticizing the place that had taken her so long to grow and develop. It was her dream land, filled with horses and people she loved and who loved her back. It was fate that she'd finally found peace on a piece of land with such a haunted past like hers. Her green eyes shifted to the broodmares and foals who looked at peace and content. Weaning day would come soon and at first those little lives would be traumatized, but they would learn to forgive and upset. Soon a new generation would be forming in the bellies of those gorgeous mares and then more dreams would lay claim to Ripley's brain,
A gentle breath shook Ripley out of her calming state. She turned to face the burly two year old filly who in the low light looked very much like her powerful damn. The grade four two year old named The Devil's Hourglass was turning back time in the history books to a time when horses were fast and could run all day. Hourglass rubbed her forehead into Ripley's arm, nickering softly and expressing her affection with soft, liquid brown eyes. Ripley stroked the filly's neck, a smile touching her lips. Hourglass was the only horse in the year ten crop to be born and raised at Witch Creek and by Ripley's very own hands. It was only fitting that, for the moment, she was the most powerful runner in their two year old arsenal as well.
Now if only she was that sweet under saddle. Then you'd really have to fight off those incessant phone calls begging for her sale. Ripley grinned past Hourglass' relaxed body at Maggie Reynolds, her best friend. A big brown filly stood grouchily at the end of the lead line she held. Paranormal Hunter, half-sister to Flashpoint, looked quite perplexed at this late hour. Her dark eyes flashed with irritation and anger. Could say the same thing for yours too. Maggie laughed, patted the tough shoulder as she led Para to the mounting block. The blocky filly flattened her ears furiously at Hourglass, red tinging her eyes. Hourglass tilted her head to return the look, all remnants of sweetness lost. Ripley shook her head, backed Hourglass up and jumped aboard with grace. Maggie was mounted as well by the time Justin Santiago appeared with his sporty, agile looking daughter of Royal Assault.
The nineteen year old boy and his sculpture of a horse needed no introduction. Prima Donna was easily the most recognized two year old filly from the Witch Creek barn. She'd raced many times at Green Horse Fields where Para and Hourglass had raced at the lesser known, lesser celebrated The Wire. Her body was that of a panthers, slick, in tune with itself, and capable of serious damage. She would grow to at least 17 hands by the time she reached her four year old season. It was no secret that Royal Assault had produced a filly nearly as big as her in height and twice her in attitude. The filly stood with a cocky stance while Justin mounted up and joined them. She arrogantly flat-walked right on by the now dancing Hourglass and cranky Paranormal Hunter. Prima Donna was not one for standing around when there was running to be done.
The trio of riders made their out to the winding turf track. It ran around the back half of Witch Creek property and now spread about two miles long. It ran adjacent to the creek in some parts, providing a mystic atmosphere. The fillies were galloped on it regularly and flat-walked, danced and grouched their way to it without much direction from their human companions. Para needed the occasional tap to keep her from making a try at the grass alongside the dirt path. Ripley and Maggie chatted away, talking about all of the horses and how they were coming along in Year Thirteen. Justin simply listened, guiding his filly this way and that. To him, Witch Creek was a dream come true. He'd come so far since last year when Ripley had taken him in as just another boy in the inner-city kid program. Now he rode a grade one mare in many top races and he'd been on Prima Donna's back since she'd been able to be ridden. Prima was a dream come true despite her nastiness on the ground. She strode out in the walk, stretching her limbs as far as possible without stepping up into a trot. She never did until she got to run. He stroked her silky brown neck, eyes smiling with happiness.
The trio reached the turf track without much further ado. Hourglass instantly picked up the gallop into the first hillside, ears locking back into her wild black mane. She was versatile during a race, but, here, when she ran with her stable-mates she always ran on the front end. Her compact body easily traversed the changing topography of the turf course. She was much swifter than her towering stablemates. Prima glided just behind Hourglass, her cat-like body finding the perfect combination of effort and striding. Her sharp ears were pricked to listen for further movement on Hourglass' part. She did not pull quite yet. She was a filly who thrived on routine. Routine said that she would get a crack at Hourglass in the three furlong stretch just like always. So for now she was content to glide along in second. Justin settled in for the duration, eyes and ears always looking out for his other riders. A decision by either one of them could knock Routine out the window.
Maggie did not grumble aboard Paranormal Hunter when the other two fillies flitted away at their gallops and hers stayed at a canter up the first hill. Para was not quite as tall as Prima Donna, but she was blocky and it took more than a few moments for her to really settle into stride. Her lumbering gait was often noted in the beginning of her races by the announcers. They had once dismissed her as a one-shot winner based on her supposed need for a pace, but now they searched for her eagerly. Despite her disinterest in the beginning of the race, Para was a freight train coming for the wire. And she didn't care if the pace was fast or slow. She was always coming, a perpetual, enduring threat. She settled four lengths behind Prima Donna and was now six behind Ripley's Hourglass. Her ears bobbed up and down, her tail switched over her large motor. Maggie enjoyed the easy growing ride, but often had to remind herself to keep her head in the game. They were not out here for a joy ride.
Hourglass began to pick up the pace at the second hill. Her stride lengthened and her head dipped lower as she raced. She bounded around knolls and dirt patches, seeking the best part of the track. Ripley leaned close to the black mane, kept her eyes locked ahead while keeping her hands perched and silent at Hourglass' withers. The bay filly with the bold white star had more control of her body as a two year old than any other horse should at that age. She rumbled down the other side of the hill before Prima even reached the crest. Justin was sensing the growing threat coming from the front. And he wasn't the only one. Prima was beginning to mouth worriedly at the bit. Her ears drew off to the sides, uncertain and unsure as Hourglass bounded like a predator away from them. But Justin would not rush Prima after Hourglass. Not on this hill. It was the steepest in the early stages and the most complex. Prima danced nimbly around the knolls, but she had to think about it. Justin patted her neck with one hand while keeping a stern grip on the reins with the other.
Maggie watched tension sweep in and claim Prima when Hourglass began to cake-walk away. Ripley's filly was a different type of horse than Prima or Para. She would have to work out with older horses eventually if she kept improving faster than her cohorts. Para did not grow anxious as the gap widened to six lengths between herself and Prima. It was now nine to Hourglass who was gliding across the valley like a warhorse into battle. Paranormal Hunter was as cool as a cucumber and Maggie began to relax. They would make up the ground like they always did. They'd come charging and blow right on by the other two.
Ripley could feel the target growing on her back with each uninhibited stride that Hourglass took away from the other fillies. The bay daughter of Sand Storm lived, breathed and thrived on the turf course. She moved like an unstoppable, untiring train. In her races she was different. She would settle based on Ripley's terms. Not at home. At home she wanted the front end, wanted to gun it from the get-go. Ripley glanced under her arm to see Prima and Para strung out behind them heading for the fourth hill. Ripley shook her head, but did not draw on the reins for control. Hourglass was in perfect flight and moving effortlessly. To take her off her game now, while not completely bad for Hourglass, would more than likely make her not want to run or play this game anymore.
Prima flew up the hill after Hourglass who was now strolling away to a three length lead. Her limbs danced up the course with such fury and focus, Justin was smiling like a fool. Prima Donna was as athletic as they came. She closed up one length on Hourglass who was beginning to sense the oncoming charge. Muscles were tightening in her rump as she practically leaped the final foot and a half of the hill to get to the valley beneath. They had gone a mile and an eighth so far. There was one furlong remaining and the flat spread before them like a green ocean. Ripley and Justin braced as they entered the grudge match stage of the trio workout. Prima gripped the bit between her teeth, pinned her ears and surged forward so quickly that she caught up with Hourglass within seconds. The white marked filly was not shocked in the least. The Devil's daughter launched forward off her hind legs and quickly put Prima back in her place, a neck behind. Her stocky body became a thing of beauty as she stretched out alongside her greyhound rival. Prima's angled head dipped to the inside, eyes locked with Hourglass as they surged toward the finish line.
Clods of turf flew up and hit Paranormal Hunter in her wide chest as she trucked after her stablemates. The filly had long since began her long-closing kick. She'd leaped the final two feet of the turf hill to begin her run early. Her breadth of reach lengthened with every bounding gallop and though it did not feel like they were moving as fast as the other two, the distance between them was rapidly closing. Para thundered ominously closer, only three lengths behind three-quarters of the way through the final furlong. Maggie knocked the reins to the left, guiding Para out from behind Hourglass and to her left. The massive filly dodged the space as if it contained a demon of some sort, took a deep breath and then let it when she surged up to Hourglass' barrel.
Ripley was pressed between the towering fillies, stirrups clanking on both sides, flesh hitting flesh as they surged to the goal. But Hourglass had long since learned to not back down. She locked herself in for the physical match and pushed on, knocking each filly outward with her broad shoulders. The physicality of it all only egged the trio on. Hourglass gutted her way to the front when Para continued to chip away at the lead with her endurance run. Prima tried to outsmart them all by drifting out to break contact and putting on a burst of speed. But Hourglass repelled even that move. She wanted this victory. She'd braved it out on the lead and she wanted to win badly.
The horses thundered forward as the makeshift wire whipped closer. The riders did not urge them on. They would not break the fillies in a workout. Para gave one last surge and Prima rocketed forward. Hourglass remained steady on the lead, tough and energized by the competition. Together, the horses soared beneath the wire, rumbled on up the next hill. They'd finished evenly this time. It would anger each of them until they got a chance to run again. The two year olds pulled up, ears pinned and teeth flashing in the dying light. Their fury was just another element in the surreal atmosphere that belonged to Witch Creek Stable.
Ripley could not help romanticizing the place that had taken her so long to grow and develop. It was her dream land, filled with horses and people she loved and who loved her back. It was fate that she'd finally found peace on a piece of land with such a haunted past like hers. Her green eyes shifted to the broodmares and foals who looked at peace and content. Weaning day would come soon and at first those little lives would be traumatized, but they would learn to forgive and upset. Soon a new generation would be forming in the bellies of those gorgeous mares and then more dreams would lay claim to Ripley's brain,
A gentle breath shook Ripley out of her calming state. She turned to face the burly two year old filly who in the low light looked very much like her powerful damn. The grade four two year old named The Devil's Hourglass was turning back time in the history books to a time when horses were fast and could run all day. Hourglass rubbed her forehead into Ripley's arm, nickering softly and expressing her affection with soft, liquid brown eyes. Ripley stroked the filly's neck, a smile touching her lips. Hourglass was the only horse in the year ten crop to be born and raised at Witch Creek and by Ripley's very own hands. It was only fitting that, for the moment, she was the most powerful runner in their two year old arsenal as well.
Now if only she was that sweet under saddle. Then you'd really have to fight off those incessant phone calls begging for her sale. Ripley grinned past Hourglass' relaxed body at Maggie Reynolds, her best friend. A big brown filly stood grouchily at the end of the lead line she held. Paranormal Hunter, half-sister to Flashpoint, looked quite perplexed at this late hour. Her dark eyes flashed with irritation and anger. Could say the same thing for yours too. Maggie laughed, patted the tough shoulder as she led Para to the mounting block. The blocky filly flattened her ears furiously at Hourglass, red tinging her eyes. Hourglass tilted her head to return the look, all remnants of sweetness lost. Ripley shook her head, backed Hourglass up and jumped aboard with grace. Maggie was mounted as well by the time Justin Santiago appeared with his sporty, agile looking daughter of Royal Assault.
The nineteen year old boy and his sculpture of a horse needed no introduction. Prima Donna was easily the most recognized two year old filly from the Witch Creek barn. She'd raced many times at Green Horse Fields where Para and Hourglass had raced at the lesser known, lesser celebrated The Wire. Her body was that of a panthers, slick, in tune with itself, and capable of serious damage. She would grow to at least 17 hands by the time she reached her four year old season. It was no secret that Royal Assault had produced a filly nearly as big as her in height and twice her in attitude. The filly stood with a cocky stance while Justin mounted up and joined them. She arrogantly flat-walked right on by the now dancing Hourglass and cranky Paranormal Hunter. Prima Donna was not one for standing around when there was running to be done.
The trio of riders made their out to the winding turf track. It ran around the back half of Witch Creek property and now spread about two miles long. It ran adjacent to the creek in some parts, providing a mystic atmosphere. The fillies were galloped on it regularly and flat-walked, danced and grouched their way to it without much direction from their human companions. Para needed the occasional tap to keep her from making a try at the grass alongside the dirt path. Ripley and Maggie chatted away, talking about all of the horses and how they were coming along in Year Thirteen. Justin simply listened, guiding his filly this way and that. To him, Witch Creek was a dream come true. He'd come so far since last year when Ripley had taken him in as just another boy in the inner-city kid program. Now he rode a grade one mare in many top races and he'd been on Prima Donna's back since she'd been able to be ridden. Prima was a dream come true despite her nastiness on the ground. She strode out in the walk, stretching her limbs as far as possible without stepping up into a trot. She never did until she got to run. He stroked her silky brown neck, eyes smiling with happiness.
The trio reached the turf track without much further ado. Hourglass instantly picked up the gallop into the first hillside, ears locking back into her wild black mane. She was versatile during a race, but, here, when she ran with her stable-mates she always ran on the front end. Her compact body easily traversed the changing topography of the turf course. She was much swifter than her towering stablemates. Prima glided just behind Hourglass, her cat-like body finding the perfect combination of effort and striding. Her sharp ears were pricked to listen for further movement on Hourglass' part. She did not pull quite yet. She was a filly who thrived on routine. Routine said that she would get a crack at Hourglass in the three furlong stretch just like always. So for now she was content to glide along in second. Justin settled in for the duration, eyes and ears always looking out for his other riders. A decision by either one of them could knock Routine out the window.
Maggie did not grumble aboard Paranormal Hunter when the other two fillies flitted away at their gallops and hers stayed at a canter up the first hill. Para was not quite as tall as Prima Donna, but she was blocky and it took more than a few moments for her to really settle into stride. Her lumbering gait was often noted in the beginning of her races by the announcers. They had once dismissed her as a one-shot winner based on her supposed need for a pace, but now they searched for her eagerly. Despite her disinterest in the beginning of the race, Para was a freight train coming for the wire. And she didn't care if the pace was fast or slow. She was always coming, a perpetual, enduring threat. She settled four lengths behind Prima Donna and was now six behind Ripley's Hourglass. Her ears bobbed up and down, her tail switched over her large motor. Maggie enjoyed the easy growing ride, but often had to remind herself to keep her head in the game. They were not out here for a joy ride.
Hourglass began to pick up the pace at the second hill. Her stride lengthened and her head dipped lower as she raced. She bounded around knolls and dirt patches, seeking the best part of the track. Ripley leaned close to the black mane, kept her eyes locked ahead while keeping her hands perched and silent at Hourglass' withers. The bay filly with the bold white star had more control of her body as a two year old than any other horse should at that age. She rumbled down the other side of the hill before Prima even reached the crest. Justin was sensing the growing threat coming from the front. And he wasn't the only one. Prima was beginning to mouth worriedly at the bit. Her ears drew off to the sides, uncertain and unsure as Hourglass bounded like a predator away from them. But Justin would not rush Prima after Hourglass. Not on this hill. It was the steepest in the early stages and the most complex. Prima danced nimbly around the knolls, but she had to think about it. Justin patted her neck with one hand while keeping a stern grip on the reins with the other.
Maggie watched tension sweep in and claim Prima when Hourglass began to cake-walk away. Ripley's filly was a different type of horse than Prima or Para. She would have to work out with older horses eventually if she kept improving faster than her cohorts. Para did not grow anxious as the gap widened to six lengths between herself and Prima. It was now nine to Hourglass who was gliding across the valley like a warhorse into battle. Paranormal Hunter was as cool as a cucumber and Maggie began to relax. They would make up the ground like they always did. They'd come charging and blow right on by the other two.
Ripley could feel the target growing on her back with each uninhibited stride that Hourglass took away from the other fillies. The bay daughter of Sand Storm lived, breathed and thrived on the turf course. She moved like an unstoppable, untiring train. In her races she was different. She would settle based on Ripley's terms. Not at home. At home she wanted the front end, wanted to gun it from the get-go. Ripley glanced under her arm to see Prima and Para strung out behind them heading for the fourth hill. Ripley shook her head, but did not draw on the reins for control. Hourglass was in perfect flight and moving effortlessly. To take her off her game now, while not completely bad for Hourglass, would more than likely make her not want to run or play this game anymore.
Prima flew up the hill after Hourglass who was now strolling away to a three length lead. Her limbs danced up the course with such fury and focus, Justin was smiling like a fool. Prima Donna was as athletic as they came. She closed up one length on Hourglass who was beginning to sense the oncoming charge. Muscles were tightening in her rump as she practically leaped the final foot and a half of the hill to get to the valley beneath. They had gone a mile and an eighth so far. There was one furlong remaining and the flat spread before them like a green ocean. Ripley and Justin braced as they entered the grudge match stage of the trio workout. Prima gripped the bit between her teeth, pinned her ears and surged forward so quickly that she caught up with Hourglass within seconds. The white marked filly was not shocked in the least. The Devil's daughter launched forward off her hind legs and quickly put Prima back in her place, a neck behind. Her stocky body became a thing of beauty as she stretched out alongside her greyhound rival. Prima's angled head dipped to the inside, eyes locked with Hourglass as they surged toward the finish line.
Clods of turf flew up and hit Paranormal Hunter in her wide chest as she trucked after her stablemates. The filly had long since began her long-closing kick. She'd leaped the final two feet of the turf hill to begin her run early. Her breadth of reach lengthened with every bounding gallop and though it did not feel like they were moving as fast as the other two, the distance between them was rapidly closing. Para thundered ominously closer, only three lengths behind three-quarters of the way through the final furlong. Maggie knocked the reins to the left, guiding Para out from behind Hourglass and to her left. The massive filly dodged the space as if it contained a demon of some sort, took a deep breath and then let it when she surged up to Hourglass' barrel.
Ripley was pressed between the towering fillies, stirrups clanking on both sides, flesh hitting flesh as they surged to the goal. But Hourglass had long since learned to not back down. She locked herself in for the physical match and pushed on, knocking each filly outward with her broad shoulders. The physicality of it all only egged the trio on. Hourglass gutted her way to the front when Para continued to chip away at the lead with her endurance run. Prima tried to outsmart them all by drifting out to break contact and putting on a burst of speed. But Hourglass repelled even that move. She wanted this victory. She'd braved it out on the lead and she wanted to win badly.
The horses thundered forward as the makeshift wire whipped closer. The riders did not urge them on. They would not break the fillies in a workout. Para gave one last surge and Prima rocketed forward. Hourglass remained steady on the lead, tough and energized by the competition. Together, the horses soared beneath the wire, rumbled on up the next hill. They'd finished evenly this time. It would anger each of them until they got a chance to run again. The two year olds pulled up, ears pinned and teeth flashing in the dying light. Their fury was just another element in the surreal atmosphere that belonged to Witch Creek Stable.
no flashing lights
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Laura and Brookson slipped out of the barn the next day with two of the most straight forward horses on Witch Creek property. It was a notable feat considering Ripley had yet to make it out of her house and none of the horses had drawn her with screams of excitement. Definitely a rare feat, but maybe not if Ripley was holed up in her balcony room off the back of her house. The cabin was quite insulating from sound and Ripley had been planning on something for quite a while. Laura wondered about the plans, the mysterious phone calls and the need to escape to some obscure places when they were at the racetracks. Brooks shook it off by saying it probably was another man. Laura doubted it. Ripley was much too career oriented, but Ripley wasn't saying too much these days and no one could honestly crack that poker face. And if they could... Laura didn't think she wanted to meet them.
The red head climbed up the mounting block and swiftly swung onto the back of Native Flame's three year old gelding. Van Guard nickered softly, politely, but his voice didn't draw any calls. He was low man on the totem pole and the only friends he had, Wish Upon A Star and Indian Darling, were still awaiting transport back to Witch Creek. Van stomped a foot, eyed Flashpoint with wary eyes. The dark bay two year old snorted, ears pricking to catch nickers from the two year old and yearling barn. He was more popular, but his girlfriends were still asleep at five in the morning. Brooks patted Moose's neck, a grin making its way onto his face. The Flash Limits x Flash At Dawn colt could cheer anyone up. He was kind and comfortable. He did nothing wrong. And he was definitely straight forward. He stepped into a walk down the path, ears twitching when Touch Up charged down the hill alongside him.
Laura analyzed the eleven year old stud as he galloped powerfully alongside them. He was large, as big as Van Guard's sire, Native Flame, at eighteen hands. He was loaded with muscle and that muscle had passed on to just about every foal he'd sired. Touch Up was sire to Flashpoint's half-sister Fiery Touch. The big guy passed down determination, guts and an unbending will. He was a killer combination and already was being proclaimed as Witch Creek's foundation sire. How does Ripley do it Brooks? The blonde man asked Flashpoint to step up into a trot to come alongside Van Guard. He breathed in uneasily at first, but calmed down once Van showed no intention to harm. Moose had a healthy dose of humility and self-preservation which also separated him from the rest of the herd.
Do what? Brooks asked, reaching across to slap Van's powerful neck. Laura smiled. Pick horses that have no business being in the top level and turning them into monsters. Brooks laughed, shrugged. If I knew I wouldn't be working for her. Laura's face crinkled into a frown of concern. Brooks had been hinting at leaving Witch Creek for quite sometime. She hoped he wouldn't because she really appreciated having someone to talk to. I don't honestly know Laura. She's had a few horses not pan out in racing like Touch Up, but then goes and finds the trick in breeding. She is a renaissance woman of racing. Good at everything with hands in every pot. Laura laughed, nodded. The expression fit Ripley that was for sure. She's got to be planning something with the horses then. Nothing else would keep her away or so busy.
Brooks shrugged his shoulders beneath his light flannel shirt. That was neither here nor there. Not for him anyway. He urged Flashpoint into his swift trot and drew away from Laura. The 16.1 hand two year old moved like a machine, classic and capable. It was a gene passed down by Flash At Dawn as Fiery Touch was also in possession of those traits. The unmarked colt was the first of the two year olds to try his hand at the elders. He was also the most experienced and mentally mature of them. Brooks was eager to test the straight and narrow colt against Van Guard. The hulking gelding was known for moving effortlessly and not putting forth as much effort as he should. Moose would give him a challenge.
Laura nudged Van into his dominating canter-gallop, smiling when he tossed his head and flicked his ears only in a slight protest. He was not lazy, but he if you didn't ask him to work hard in the beginning of the workout, he wouldn't try. Laura leaned close to his long black mane as he cruised along on his muscled legs. He moved like a well-oiled machine. Firing on all cylinders today. He danced alongside his smaller workmate, soft brown eyes filling with joy and excitement. The horse loved the game, but due to his size everything was taken more slowly. He would be tough as a four year old and since he was a gelding, perhaps as a five year old as well. The Native Flame horses always did better with age, but experience in the younger years counted for something.
The bay horses rumbled around the clubhouse turn, Van settled into an easy going gallop. Flashpoint swept along on his quick legs, eager to keep up with his larger stablemate. Brooks leaned close, spoke to Moose as he moved. The dark bay expected such whimsical treatment, would have disappointed if it was missing. The bay horse was in a thirditis rut and this type of challenge was just the thing Moose needed to get his gears turning once again. Van loped along, great ears flinging back and forth with his movement. His body was tensing up with every great stride. He was realizing it was time to get a move on. He snorted once, then twice. He switched his tail. Laura felt pressure come to bit. It was something that rarely happened with this Native Flame gelding. He always waited until the rider said go. Today was different. He felt the need to prove to the upstart that age was better than beauty, even if only a year separated them.
Flashpoint mouthed the bit excitedly. Brooks knew the dark bay was really picking up on all of the signals that Van was flashing. Moose's stride grew quicker, not longer because of the grip Brooks had on the reins. He snorted, ducked his head and began to pull. Within two strides the younger soul had scooted up to take the lead by a half length. His classic head looked finer as his racing fury became his most dominant trait. His ears disappeared into his mane and he furiously switched leads when going into the turn. Laura was impressed with the younger horse's gumption. She let Van out a notch and he ground his way to run jointly with Flashpoint. Laura leaned close as the wind whipped at them. Van's strong neck and head blocked her from the worst, but she was wiping tears from her eyes as they whipped into the homestretch.
Four furlong workouts were right up Moose's alley. The Flash Limits colt cut the turn, scraping paint of the railing, as he dashed toward the wire. His stride lengthened in his attempt to out-gun the giant just off of his barrel. Van Guard was not easy to shake because every two strides Flashpoint took, Van only took one. Laura shook her big guy up, reveling when he responded with a quick burst of speed. He once again raced jointly with Flashpoint , kicking up tremendous amounts of dust in his wake. He stretched long and took a deep breath, gathering himself. Flashpoint did not back down. Not when Van swelled up. Not when Van kept him locked on the rail. Flashpoint had gumption and he was very brave. Brooks urged him on with a light tap of the whip, sent him forward. The colt swept up the inside, muscles contracting and releasing with the furious movement.
Laura put Van to a drive at that point. They were 250 yards from the wire and Van would not be beaten by the little tyke. The great bay gelding groaned mightily as he pushed off his powerful hind end. On hooves the size of plates, Van rumbled forward. Laura quieted then, certain Flashpoint would bow down. He refused to back down though and in the shadow of the wire, Flashpoint began to chip away at Van's sudden lead. Brooks remained quiet as Flashpoint battled mightily on the rail. He surged forward on his second wind to just be beaten a whisker. Van let out a sigh of relief when he broke away from the angry midget horse. He galloped along until Moose was seven lengths behind him. The dark bay two year old had not shut down. It had taken the jaws of life on Brooks' part. He wanted to race, wanted to win and make a name for himself. He wanted to prove that he could compete with the best sprinters of his two year old crop. The fury of it all burned inside him. Soon it would break through the surface and be unstoppable.
The red head climbed up the mounting block and swiftly swung onto the back of Native Flame's three year old gelding. Van Guard nickered softly, politely, but his voice didn't draw any calls. He was low man on the totem pole and the only friends he had, Wish Upon A Star and Indian Darling, were still awaiting transport back to Witch Creek. Van stomped a foot, eyed Flashpoint with wary eyes. The dark bay two year old snorted, ears pricking to catch nickers from the two year old and yearling barn. He was more popular, but his girlfriends were still asleep at five in the morning. Brooks patted Moose's neck, a grin making its way onto his face. The Flash Limits x Flash At Dawn colt could cheer anyone up. He was kind and comfortable. He did nothing wrong. And he was definitely straight forward. He stepped into a walk down the path, ears twitching when Touch Up charged down the hill alongside him.
Laura analyzed the eleven year old stud as he galloped powerfully alongside them. He was large, as big as Van Guard's sire, Native Flame, at eighteen hands. He was loaded with muscle and that muscle had passed on to just about every foal he'd sired. Touch Up was sire to Flashpoint's half-sister Fiery Touch. The big guy passed down determination, guts and an unbending will. He was a killer combination and already was being proclaimed as Witch Creek's foundation sire. How does Ripley do it Brooks? The blonde man asked Flashpoint to step up into a trot to come alongside Van Guard. He breathed in uneasily at first, but calmed down once Van showed no intention to harm. Moose had a healthy dose of humility and self-preservation which also separated him from the rest of the herd.
Do what? Brooks asked, reaching across to slap Van's powerful neck. Laura smiled. Pick horses that have no business being in the top level and turning them into monsters. Brooks laughed, shrugged. If I knew I wouldn't be working for her. Laura's face crinkled into a frown of concern. Brooks had been hinting at leaving Witch Creek for quite sometime. She hoped he wouldn't because she really appreciated having someone to talk to. I don't honestly know Laura. She's had a few horses not pan out in racing like Touch Up, but then goes and finds the trick in breeding. She is a renaissance woman of racing. Good at everything with hands in every pot. Laura laughed, nodded. The expression fit Ripley that was for sure. She's got to be planning something with the horses then. Nothing else would keep her away or so busy.
Brooks shrugged his shoulders beneath his light flannel shirt. That was neither here nor there. Not for him anyway. He urged Flashpoint into his swift trot and drew away from Laura. The 16.1 hand two year old moved like a machine, classic and capable. It was a gene passed down by Flash At Dawn as Fiery Touch was also in possession of those traits. The unmarked colt was the first of the two year olds to try his hand at the elders. He was also the most experienced and mentally mature of them. Brooks was eager to test the straight and narrow colt against Van Guard. The hulking gelding was known for moving effortlessly and not putting forth as much effort as he should. Moose would give him a challenge.
Laura nudged Van into his dominating canter-gallop, smiling when he tossed his head and flicked his ears only in a slight protest. He was not lazy, but he if you didn't ask him to work hard in the beginning of the workout, he wouldn't try. Laura leaned close to his long black mane as he cruised along on his muscled legs. He moved like a well-oiled machine. Firing on all cylinders today. He danced alongside his smaller workmate, soft brown eyes filling with joy and excitement. The horse loved the game, but due to his size everything was taken more slowly. He would be tough as a four year old and since he was a gelding, perhaps as a five year old as well. The Native Flame horses always did better with age, but experience in the younger years counted for something.
The bay horses rumbled around the clubhouse turn, Van settled into an easy going gallop. Flashpoint swept along on his quick legs, eager to keep up with his larger stablemate. Brooks leaned close, spoke to Moose as he moved. The dark bay expected such whimsical treatment, would have disappointed if it was missing. The bay horse was in a thirditis rut and this type of challenge was just the thing Moose needed to get his gears turning once again. Van loped along, great ears flinging back and forth with his movement. His body was tensing up with every great stride. He was realizing it was time to get a move on. He snorted once, then twice. He switched his tail. Laura felt pressure come to bit. It was something that rarely happened with this Native Flame gelding. He always waited until the rider said go. Today was different. He felt the need to prove to the upstart that age was better than beauty, even if only a year separated them.
Flashpoint mouthed the bit excitedly. Brooks knew the dark bay was really picking up on all of the signals that Van was flashing. Moose's stride grew quicker, not longer because of the grip Brooks had on the reins. He snorted, ducked his head and began to pull. Within two strides the younger soul had scooted up to take the lead by a half length. His classic head looked finer as his racing fury became his most dominant trait. His ears disappeared into his mane and he furiously switched leads when going into the turn. Laura was impressed with the younger horse's gumption. She let Van out a notch and he ground his way to run jointly with Flashpoint. Laura leaned close as the wind whipped at them. Van's strong neck and head blocked her from the worst, but she was wiping tears from her eyes as they whipped into the homestretch.
Four furlong workouts were right up Moose's alley. The Flash Limits colt cut the turn, scraping paint of the railing, as he dashed toward the wire. His stride lengthened in his attempt to out-gun the giant just off of his barrel. Van Guard was not easy to shake because every two strides Flashpoint took, Van only took one. Laura shook her big guy up, reveling when he responded with a quick burst of speed. He once again raced jointly with Flashpoint , kicking up tremendous amounts of dust in his wake. He stretched long and took a deep breath, gathering himself. Flashpoint did not back down. Not when Van swelled up. Not when Van kept him locked on the rail. Flashpoint had gumption and he was very brave. Brooks urged him on with a light tap of the whip, sent him forward. The colt swept up the inside, muscles contracting and releasing with the furious movement.
Laura put Van to a drive at that point. They were 250 yards from the wire and Van would not be beaten by the little tyke. The great bay gelding groaned mightily as he pushed off his powerful hind end. On hooves the size of plates, Van rumbled forward. Laura quieted then, certain Flashpoint would bow down. He refused to back down though and in the shadow of the wire, Flashpoint began to chip away at Van's sudden lead. Brooks remained quiet as Flashpoint battled mightily on the rail. He surged forward on his second wind to just be beaten a whisker. Van let out a sigh of relief when he broke away from the angry midget horse. He galloped along until Moose was seven lengths behind him. The dark bay two year old had not shut down. It had taken the jaws of life on Brooks' part. He wanted to race, wanted to win and make a name for himself. He wanted to prove that he could compete with the best sprinters of his two year old crop. The fury of it all burned inside him. Soon it would break through the surface and be unstoppable.
where is the king
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
The sun beat down upon Witch Creek by the time Justin Santiago had his first and only mount of the day caught and ready. Such was the life when you were dealing with a fast and monstrous beast. The dark-skinned boy rubbed the sweat off of his face and considered the horse standing before him. They'd only met last year in December when Hokum was unraced and untried. He'd been violent, moody and near uncontrollable. Nothing had changed except now the Kore VS colt was trained to race and pretty damn good at his profession at that.
Hokum dipped his head, straining against the cross-ties holding him in place. His eyes glittered with anger and irritation. His muscles tensed up and ready to fight. The eighteen hand monster only rivaled the newly returned Touch Up and Native Flame in height. Unlike them, his muscles were strong and mighty from days of two mile gallops. It was the only thing that tired them out. It was two days after his victory at Green Horse Fields, the one that had propelled him into grade three territory. He wanted to workout. At least that was what Justin assumed since the big monster had been taunting Touch Up across the fence-line for the better portion of the last two days. Teasing did not go very well here. Sincerely Yours could tell him that having been gelded after coming close to killing Cold Mountain and Mastermind.
And we want your babies Hokum. Mr. No-Nonsense himself should not be taunting horses who could slay him ten times over. The thick maned colt bobbed his head, snorting as if in clear disagreement. Justin stepped up, rubbed the plain spot between his eyes. Hokum stilled, uneasy with affection, but allowed the touch when he once have tried to bite off Justin's hand. The mahogany bay colt was fantastic in form. The goal next year would most likely be the classic with him. He just had the mindset to do it. At the moment there was no end of year goal in sight. Hokum still had to improve in order to move up into the top shelf of Witch Creek Stable. But he was quickly making strides. Justin had accomplished the turnaround last year with Dazzling Dame. He could do the same with the colt who wanted to be a champion. Justin unclipped the cross-ties, called to Ripley, who sat in the racing office, and led Hokum from the racing barn.
The trainer still hadn't appeared by the time Justin was mounted and on his way to the dirt track. He shot a look over his shoulder, saw her peep around the corner with, big surprise, a phone attached to her ear again. She had to be cooking up something. Anyone could walk in when she was making the phone conversations. And that was the reason why Justin stood by his argument that Ripley was not having some illicit affair with some strange barn rat. So Brooks could go mumble in someone else's ear when he felt he was getting the short end of the stick. Justin patted Hokum's powerful neck, admiring the sunlight that lit his frame to maximum health. The Kore VS colt was in the best shape of his life. He pranced and bucked his way down to the track, acting as if he hadn't just raced at Green Horse Fields. Now the big horse was beginning to attract attention. He was moving up the ranks quickly and with style. His wins were powerful and they made even the casual racegoer take a look at the program for his name.
He danced and bugled like a true blue stud, cocking his head this way and that when both stallions and broodmares returned his call. There were threats and welcoming nickers, but Justin simply shook the reins, kept the horse to his task. He marched onto the dirt track, dark eyes brightening with a ferocious energy. He gripped the bit between his teeth, pulled hard, threatening to break the easygoing trot. There was nothing about Hokum that was truly easygoing. He was tough. He was hard to handle. He made you think. His next start would Seashell Cup, his second start in a major stakes race series. The colt would have to run impressively in order to beat the horses he would face next out. Justin would have him ready. Hokum was ready for his next important challenge. The ultimate goal would be the Breeders Stakes, twelve furlongs over the turf, against the toughest newcomers on the block.
The eighteen hand giant stretched out into his ground-eating gallop, pushing powerfully off his hind quarters and lifting his head high. His nostrils flared and his ears were pinned back in his thick mane. He drove forward effortlessly over the dirt, kicking up clumps in his wake. Justin perched at his withers, dark eyes scanning the track. His behemoth of a mount was not even in full flight yet and the way he thoroughly dominated the track, led Justin to believe that the colt was simply going to get faster as he aged. The boy-not-yet-a-man wrapped his fingers in the wild black mane, lost himself in the adrenaline and speed as Hokum swept up the backstretch.
The horse moved like a wild fire engulfing everything in his path and taking no prisoners. He chased birds away, caused the earth to shake with every solid punch his hooves took to the dirt. It was a fearsome speed that this colt possessed. It was also an unimaginably powerful race tactic. He could turn it off and on in the blink of an eye. He was lightning quick for such a large animal. Perhaps that is what made him scarier than any other animal Justin had ever gotten on. It also made him the most special, most unique of all Justin's mounts. The stallion thundered into the far turn setting a blistering pace, but not taking any heat. He was not self-destructive. He could run for days and not stop. Justin remained silent as the horse stretched out up the home track. This was power in motion, all consuming. The adrenaline surge was nothing like anything else in the world. Hokum was perfect.
Ripley whistled to herself as Hokum launched up the stretch. He was not even under any urging. He was scary powerful. It looked as though these simple workouts and gallops were beneath the great Hokum. Ripley leaned against the rail, eyes narrowed, trying to find any critique possible. There was no negative criticism available however. The colt galloped out tremendously around the far turn with Justin finally showing some movement. He stood in the short stirrups, collected the horse who put up a valiant fight. Hokum eventually settled in, mouth agape and looked every inch the knight's charger as he came back. Ripley watched the arrogant three year old as he jogged on by, silent and swift. Ripley hid a grin. It was clear that Hokum needed more than just a workout. He needed more of a challenge. He would get that challenge in the Seashell Cup at Green Horse Fields.
Hokum dipped his head, straining against the cross-ties holding him in place. His eyes glittered with anger and irritation. His muscles tensed up and ready to fight. The eighteen hand monster only rivaled the newly returned Touch Up and Native Flame in height. Unlike them, his muscles were strong and mighty from days of two mile gallops. It was the only thing that tired them out. It was two days after his victory at Green Horse Fields, the one that had propelled him into grade three territory. He wanted to workout. At least that was what Justin assumed since the big monster had been taunting Touch Up across the fence-line for the better portion of the last two days. Teasing did not go very well here. Sincerely Yours could tell him that having been gelded after coming close to killing Cold Mountain and Mastermind.
And we want your babies Hokum. Mr. No-Nonsense himself should not be taunting horses who could slay him ten times over. The thick maned colt bobbed his head, snorting as if in clear disagreement. Justin stepped up, rubbed the plain spot between his eyes. Hokum stilled, uneasy with affection, but allowed the touch when he once have tried to bite off Justin's hand. The mahogany bay colt was fantastic in form. The goal next year would most likely be the classic with him. He just had the mindset to do it. At the moment there was no end of year goal in sight. Hokum still had to improve in order to move up into the top shelf of Witch Creek Stable. But he was quickly making strides. Justin had accomplished the turnaround last year with Dazzling Dame. He could do the same with the colt who wanted to be a champion. Justin unclipped the cross-ties, called to Ripley, who sat in the racing office, and led Hokum from the racing barn.
The trainer still hadn't appeared by the time Justin was mounted and on his way to the dirt track. He shot a look over his shoulder, saw her peep around the corner with, big surprise, a phone attached to her ear again. She had to be cooking up something. Anyone could walk in when she was making the phone conversations. And that was the reason why Justin stood by his argument that Ripley was not having some illicit affair with some strange barn rat. So Brooks could go mumble in someone else's ear when he felt he was getting the short end of the stick. Justin patted Hokum's powerful neck, admiring the sunlight that lit his frame to maximum health. The Kore VS colt was in the best shape of his life. He pranced and bucked his way down to the track, acting as if he hadn't just raced at Green Horse Fields. Now the big horse was beginning to attract attention. He was moving up the ranks quickly and with style. His wins were powerful and they made even the casual racegoer take a look at the program for his name.
He danced and bugled like a true blue stud, cocking his head this way and that when both stallions and broodmares returned his call. There were threats and welcoming nickers, but Justin simply shook the reins, kept the horse to his task. He marched onto the dirt track, dark eyes brightening with a ferocious energy. He gripped the bit between his teeth, pulled hard, threatening to break the easygoing trot. There was nothing about Hokum that was truly easygoing. He was tough. He was hard to handle. He made you think. His next start would Seashell Cup, his second start in a major stakes race series. The colt would have to run impressively in order to beat the horses he would face next out. Justin would have him ready. Hokum was ready for his next important challenge. The ultimate goal would be the Breeders Stakes, twelve furlongs over the turf, against the toughest newcomers on the block.
The eighteen hand giant stretched out into his ground-eating gallop, pushing powerfully off his hind quarters and lifting his head high. His nostrils flared and his ears were pinned back in his thick mane. He drove forward effortlessly over the dirt, kicking up clumps in his wake. Justin perched at his withers, dark eyes scanning the track. His behemoth of a mount was not even in full flight yet and the way he thoroughly dominated the track, led Justin to believe that the colt was simply going to get faster as he aged. The boy-not-yet-a-man wrapped his fingers in the wild black mane, lost himself in the adrenaline and speed as Hokum swept up the backstretch.
The horse moved like a wild fire engulfing everything in his path and taking no prisoners. He chased birds away, caused the earth to shake with every solid punch his hooves took to the dirt. It was a fearsome speed that this colt possessed. It was also an unimaginably powerful race tactic. He could turn it off and on in the blink of an eye. He was lightning quick for such a large animal. Perhaps that is what made him scarier than any other animal Justin had ever gotten on. It also made him the most special, most unique of all Justin's mounts. The stallion thundered into the far turn setting a blistering pace, but not taking any heat. He was not self-destructive. He could run for days and not stop. Justin remained silent as the horse stretched out up the home track. This was power in motion, all consuming. The adrenaline surge was nothing like anything else in the world. Hokum was perfect.
Ripley whistled to herself as Hokum launched up the stretch. He was not even under any urging. He was scary powerful. It looked as though these simple workouts and gallops were beneath the great Hokum. Ripley leaned against the rail, eyes narrowed, trying to find any critique possible. There was no negative criticism available however. The colt galloped out tremendously around the far turn with Justin finally showing some movement. He stood in the short stirrups, collected the horse who put up a valiant fight. Hokum eventually settled in, mouth agape and looked every inch the knight's charger as he came back. Ripley watched the arrogant three year old as he jogged on by, silent and swift. Ripley hid a grin. It was clear that Hokum needed more than just a workout. He needed more of a challenge. He would get that challenge in the Seashell Cup at Green Horse Fields.