Bloodless Day

Translation

I can't see a race as a race anymore. The Thoroughbreds aren't running, and the winner isn't winning. It's a battle, a rush of shouting, leather against skin, the spray of dirt and metal bits, rolling eyes and the clang of horseshoes. I can't see a galloping horse as freedom anymore. They're all flared nostrils, red as blood, streaked with sweat and effort.

But I don't think I love it any less for that.

Bloodless Day danced under my firm hands, fighting the bit and reins that held him back, as Lilac lined Jersey Boy up next to us, a careful distance away. We were having a short race, watched by "DO NOT LET THE HORSES ALL OUT. RATE THEM, DAMMIT" Willifred. He wanted to see how BD would do under pressure, before he was introduced to the gate, before we would bother finding him a jockey- I felt a pang at this: someone else riding him- and before we entered him in a race.

Plus, Jersey Boy needed to be sharpened up for his final shot at the Derby.

I glanced past Lilac and Jersey Boy and towards the railing. Willifred was there, stopwatch in hand. Jack was there, crutches clattered to the ground, leaning heavily against the railing. Kentucky was just remembering spring, and it was slightly warm out, but I had a jacket slung over a stall back in the shedrow. Winter still fought for its time.

"We'll work them a mile. See if Bloodless Day has staying power," Lilac reminded me for the fourth time.

"I know," I said, also for the fourth time.

She nodded curtly at me, gathering her reins. Willifred shouted something, and the horses shot away from the first marker as though they were bullets from a gun. I curled a hand into BD's mane, leaning forwards to circumvent the wind we created.

Jersey Boy worked alongside us, muscles pumping, ears back, head lowered and legs extended to their fullest. He knew the game.

BD was more playful. He loved the game, lived for the gallop, much like I did. His head was high as he sprang forwards, easily and cheerfully. I laughed, every soundless joy I'd experienced that week surfacing. With that sound, BD tipped his ears uncertainly back, slowing.

Lilac took that chance to guide Jersey to the inside. For a moment all I felt was Jersey's kicked-up dirt in my face, all I saw was his tail in my face, all I was was BD's outrage and indignation.

I was forced to check him. Jersey Boy pulled ahead, steamrolling away from us. The fifth furling passed by. We were losing! "Get up!" I shouted at Bloodless Day. He roared back into gear, flying past the sixth, but Jersey Boy was on the inside and strong. Lilac rode him subtly, every muscle telling the stallion something different.

All I knew how to do was keep myself on, and let BD run.

We lost.

As he cantered down the track again, slowing, foaming and white with lather, I went over the race. What went wrong? BD hadn't really tried, I could tell, and Jersey Boy, while also not allowed full out, had been making an effort. The only thing I could think of was the moment where I had to check him.

Defeat radiated off of BD. I patted him. "Sorry, bud."

Slowed to a walk, we made our way back to the gate, and I knew what I'd done wrong- or, rather, what I hadn't done at all.

"Strategy," I said as we approached Willifred and Jack, but Lilac was already there, helmet off and shaking out her blonde hair. I noticed a flash of color within the strands.

"Kool-aid," Lilac explained when she caught me looking. "I did it last night."

Of course.

Willifred was old, but Jack looked older, leaning against the fence, longing and incapable. "So, what do you reckon went wrong, Anna?"