The Runners

WE were raised in Baltimore, not far from the famous Pimlico race track. While we never went to the track, we did know quite a bit about horse racing, perhaps through some mysterious process of equine osmosis. Horses like Seabiscuit, War Admiral, and Secretariat were as much part of our lives as were Babe Ruth and Joe DiMaggio to young boys in other parts of the States. The legendary racing Triple Crown — the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont — were as integral parts of our world as was the World Series, especially since the Preakness took place in Baltimore. I still remember the ripple of excitement when a horse named Palestinian almost won the Preakness in the 1940s, in the pre-Israel days when Eretz Yisrael was called Palestine. As youngsters, we had a fun time with this “Jewish horse.”

A racehorse is a thing of awesome beauty. Standing over six feet tall, it is the epitome of grace, majesty, and power, although its average life span does not exceed twenty-five years.

As I grew older I began to wonder: If a horse, say, wins the Kentucky Derby, its owner wins millions of dollars and much esteem. He is an instant celebrity, wined and dined, interviewed, quoted.

As for the horse, what is the reward? According to most experts, the horse does not know if he won or lost. This handsome specimen of physicality, having undergone rigorous training, endured difficult exercises, imbibed special horse diets, and run his heart out at the race, receives as his reward a loving bath from a stable boy, a private barn and stall, and is allowed to gorge down as much hay and grass as he likes. All the while, his owner has become wealthy and is basking in the acclaim of the public.