Horse racing is a fascinating spectacle. These incredible horses with expressionless long faces are barely tame as they get ready to run untethered toward the finish line. Contrasted with the horse working for the man is the ridiculous hats and outfits worn by spectators there to be seen but adding little to the actual race. I continue to root for the horses as they get put to the crop that they would suddenly stop, rear up and throw off the annoying little jockey sitting on top of them. There seems to me an unusual amount of human pride in the talent of a mute horse. Jockeys are whipping these beautiful animals as if the animal has not already committed to the task at hand. It is as if the menageries of human beings all possess a special language that the horse speaks that only certain humans can understand. Now don’t assume I don’t believe that animals don’t communicate. I believe that all God’s creatures have a soul that connects them to humans but watching this race made me ask what motivates me? I imagined a little jockey riding me whipping me as I run around this track. I wondered if I have become immune to the crop and unresponsive to the lashes I usually doled out to push me to give it all I had on the straight aways. Have I started my sprint too early in the race to get clear of the pack or have I taken the inside turn too quickly wildly hitting myself with the crops of youth, education and tragedy on the backstretch only to lose stamina on the homestretch when I can see the finish line. I have not made the conclusion yet but I can tell you that I have thrown the jockey off my back in the far turn headed to the paddock with no one using the riding crop on me. I am deciding to run for myself no silly hats no oppressive jockey or a buttoned up owner.
Albert R. Hartley
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