A Short Story by Janelle Coulton: Written on 05 November 2001
It was a chilly, crisp morning at the racetrack. The sun was just beginning to come up over
the mountains in the distance as Dad and I led one of our thoroughbreds out of
the stables and out towards the training track.
We were waiting to start track work with one our thoroughbreds; Paragon
Prince, but unfortunately, once again the jockey had apparently forgotten to
show up. This particular jockey had
tendency to spend many a night out with the boys getting on the booze and the
hangover that ensued the next morning, inevitably led to his unreliability.
“Damn that jockey!” cursed my
father, rubbing his hands together, attempting to warm them. “He’s not going to
show.”
I tethered the Paragon Prince to
the rails and studied my Dads face, thinking this was going to be another one
of those interesting mornings. He was
extremely irate and angry and when Dad got irritated with the horses or
situations connected with the stable, any sign of frustration in my father,
usually meant trouble. In all his years
of training race horses, I had lost count of the number of times Dad had lost
his temper.
“What are you staring at?” Dad
suddenly snapped at me.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, turning
back to the horse, checking over the saddle, bridle and straightening up the
saddle cloth. I slid my hands under his
long thick mane, attempting to warm them, and avoided eye contact with my
father, anything to avoid incurring his wrath.
I was convinced that Dad was about to lose it and it was not going to be
a pleasant morning.
I should explain why I was so
worried about my father’s temper. I had
been going to the stables and helping out my father since I was five years
old. I was now fourteen and in all our
years dealing with horses, trainers, owners, jockeys and the like, there had
been many an occasion where things had not worked out the way Dad had
envisioned. Dad was always telling me,
that you could not rely on anyone in the horse business. He would say, “Son, don’t trust anyone in
this business.” Therefore he would quite
often lose his temper, spit the dummy and do some extremely off the wall stuff.
The racing game and more importantly
thoroughbreds can be very unpredictable creatures and things can invariably go
awry and my father could be usually seen, should I say throwing some kind of
hissy fit.
Like the time, a few years
ago, when he couldn’t catch one of our brood mares. Granted, this particular horse could be a prize
pain in the neck when she wanted and this particular day was no exception. She really didn’t want to be caught that day
and after two hours of Dad and I trying out every plan that we had hatched the
night before, she (the mare) decided to go into the paddock dam and stay
there. My father was infuriated with
this mare, and proceeded to call her all sorts of creative names and then he
decided to hurl rocks at her. This stubbourn
mare just stood there, with an expression of complete arrogance, regarding my
father with absolute contempt. She was
not going to budge. She had won this
round, and my father knew it. Anyone
watching this little performance would have considered Dad to be quite mad, but
that was just his way of doing things, not necessarily the right way, but Dad’s
way nonetheless. This particular story
and many others involving our thoroughbreds have been told and re-told to
family and friends, ending with everyone rolling around in fits of gut
wrenching laughter.
Getting back to the morning in
question, my father and I were cooling our heels still waiting for this jockey
to arrive. Cooling our heels was right,
it was freezing. My father was huffing
and puffing, pacing around, totally infuriated with this apparent ‘no show’
jockey. My mother would later say that
Dad’s temper and rash deeds could’ve been disastrous to him and our
family. I’ll never forget the dressing
down she gave him. It was one of the numerous arguments they have shared during
their forty-five years of marriage, concerning our horses and Dad’s tendency to
flip a lid.
I stood there with our horse,
stroking his mane watching my father pace up and down. He was mad, real mad. I did not see it as the end of the
world. We could just unsaddle the horse,
take him back to the stable and go home.
Tomorrow was another day. Dad
could ring our jockey and give him a right blasting for not showing up and that
would be that. If he didn’t have a
hangover, he certainly wouldn’t feel too good after Dad was through with
him. I was not going to be so bold and
suggest it. Why make my father more
furious than he already was?
Suddenly, Dad stopped pacing and
walked over to the horse, with an expression on his face that spoke volumes. A
look someone gets when they think they have a brilliant idea, but in reality
the notion is moronic. This was one of
my father’s idiosyncrasies that I have long learnt to fear. He untied the horse and began to fiddle
around with the girth and stirrups.
‘Oh no,’ I thought to myself, not
fully certain what he was about to do.
“What are you doing?” I protested, a feeling of dread gripping my stomach.
“What does it look like?” He snapped at me, leading the Paragon Prince
onto the racetrack.
“Dad,” I protested again. “What the heck?”
Suddenly I began to comprehend what
he was about to do. Dad was going to
ride the horse himself.
“If this lazy jockey ain’t going to
show up son, then I’ll ride track work.”
He bellowed.
“You can’t.” I argued.
“I can so.” He shouted stubbornly, “It’s
my blasted horse.”
I didn’t argue that would have been
useless. You didn’t argue with Dad when
he was like this, he was not kidding. I
wasn’t even sure if he could ride or not.
I had never seen him mount a horse.
“Dad,” I yelled, feeling just a bit
cheeky, “Can you even ride?”
“How hard can it be?’ He asked me, meanwhile hauling himself up into
the saddle. He turned the horse and
guided him out onto the course, not the training track, but on the course
proper which was forbidden territory for track work galloping.
“Oh brother!” I muttered to myself,
thinking that there are a million reasons why he shouldn’t do this. He’s not wearing a hard hat, just a stupid,
blue, floppy thing. He can’t ride,
obviously. Mum is going to be livid and
will probably kill him, if he doesn’t kill himself in the process. Thoroughbreds are mad at the best of times,
but with my crazy father, with his erratic Irish temper who couldn’t ride a
horse to save his life on a nervous thoroughbred, this was not going to be
constructive track gallop.
“Damn!” I muttered to myself. Where was my mother when I needed her? If she were witnessing this, she would have a
cow. A total melt down.
“Dad, you can’t!” I shouted, but it was too late. He couldn’t hear me anyway, it was a futile
attempt. He walked Paragon Prince around
to the 1200 metre starting area and gathered up the reins. He lent forward, giving the horse an
unnecessary sharp kick in the guts and they took off at a flat out gallop. Dad just clung on for dear life, grasping at
handfuls of mane and reins. I guess he
was hoping the horse would just carry him to the winning post. They galloped around the corner into the
straight, heading for the winning post.
I ran down towards the straight and stood at the rail watching, still
expecting the worst to come. Then all of
a sudden, Dad saw it, I saw it and the horse saw it. The piece of metal wire that had been placed
across the track to prevent idiots-like my father galloping their horses on the
course proper. My father tried and tried
to pull him up, but to rein in a thoroughbred without warning, traveling at
around sixty kilo-metres per hour is virtually impossible. He leaned back and dragged on the reins using
every ounce of strength he possessed, but it was hopeless and he knew it. I stood there rooted to the spot, thinking
for sure that my father’s number was up.
He didn’t have a chance in hell of stopping Paragon Prince before they
reached that metal wire.
All of a sudden, Dad did the only
thing he could do under the circumstances; he bailed. He just plain jumped out
of the saddle on to the ground still holding the reins and it was the funniest
thing you ever saw; my crazy father running alongside this horse, which he
somehow managed to pull away from that lethal looking piece of wire across the
track. Don’t ask me how he did it. It was all so fast, but he did it. I sighed in total exasperation and relief,
leaning against the rails. Dad walked
over leading the horse behind him.
“Well.” he said, trying to catch his breath, his
expression giving away nothing, “That was hairy.”
I said nothing, thinking that his words
were a huge understatement and also knowing full well if I even opened my mouth
Dad would be right in my face, justifying his actions. I decided then and there to just shut up and
agree with him. I decided leave this
task to my mother. Mum would, and did
lock horns with him later, she literally had him for breakfast and then
some. As for the ‘no show’ jockey, well
did he cop a well deserved dressing-down from both Mum and Dad. I don’t recall him ever riding for us again
after that day. I assume my father had
to go before the turf club officials over that incident and furthermore, he
probably got into an abundance of trouble over it. I’m not really sure, I was only about twelve
at the time, so I don’t recollect all that eventuated after that day. However, when I witness that determined,
stubborn, cantankerous expression on Dad’s face, I know the ever -dependable
hissy fit is just around the corner and to hell with the consequences. As far as I know, after the events of that
morning my father never again attempted to ride a horse.
Copyright © 2001 Janelle Coulton
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