Winning the Race

Jebediah Hanson was a seasoned standardbred horseman, veteran of many fall fairs and other such occasions where the old men gather to swagger and wager on which one of the horses that they think is the fastest. He had come to the track as a youngster, lured by the colour and flash of it, but also by the harsh language and hard drinking that permeated the barns, tired of the goodness of his religious upbringing, brought on by his righteous parents. And he did well at the track, becoming a favourite in his early teen years, and it was as if nature smiled on him, because he stayed a small man, and so was favoured to ride the horses he came to love. And he gained in success as a young jockey and rose through the ranks.

But it was soon after his initial success that his failing became obvious. And it was the bottle. And, finally, his drinking caused him to argue with another jockey, until the argument turned to drunken blows, and he killed the other man. After that, it was five years in stir, and then slinking away to where no one knew him so it might be possible to begin again. And Jeb made such a start, quitting drinking, getting a job, courting a lass and marrying, and having the first of his children. But he was forever drawn to the track and the horses. And the small town where he had chosen to make his life had a small racetrack, not the high-strung thoroughbreds he'd come to know and love in his youth, but standardbreds, the more pedestrian harness horses -- not as shiny and sleek, but fast and exciting just the same.

And it had been years ago that he had come to this small town, after his jail time, and he was a grandfather now, somewhat old and wizened, but still a horseman through and through. He was a hard and tough man, brought on by a lifetime in the barns, where there are no niceties and surely no sugar coating. Horsemen say what they think. They work hard and they play hard. They battle and they brawl and they curse and they swear and most drink more than their fair share -- and he was one of them -- except for the drinking -- and he had loved that life among the horses.

Even now, as he sat in a corner of the barn, with a few of his cronies gathered around, he revelled in the sounds and sights and smells of the place. They were busily discussing that night's racecard, taking odds on whose horse would win the stakes race planned as the feature in an evening of racing. But they were no longer the drivers -- only the old men who do the swaggering and wagering around the barns. They were indeed the old men.

And Jeb would stand for hours at the rail, watching as the horses were put through their paces, and it was his son who was now the driver. And how the father longed to once again sit behind a horse and feel the wind against his face. He knew he no longer had the capacity to make the split second decisions that needed to be made in the heat of a race, but he would still have tried it if they'd have let him. He loved everything there was about the horses and the track.

But one day, as he was standing at the rail watching as his son jogged a new horse they'd just bought, and he suddenly felt a weakness come over him, so that he had to reach forward and lean himself against the rail so he didn't fall. Even then, it was everything he could do to stay erect. It had happened to him before, but this was the worst, and came the closest to bringing him down. And the worst of it was that Frank McGee was standing with him and couldn't help but see, and Frank was taken aback by the seriousness of the attack.

"God, what's the matter, Jeb?" Frank asked, concern in his voice, reaching forward to steady his longtime friend. "What's the matter?"

Jeb wasn't able to answer right away. He struggled to maintain himself.

"Jeb, I'll get somebody," Frank said, starting away.

"No," Jeb answered, recovering himself from the fit as best he could. "I'll look after it myself. I don't need no doctor." And it was a typical answer for him, and it was true that he'd always steered clear of doctors and their potions.

But later that night, as he was changing for bed, it happened again and this time he couldn't stop it until he had grasped the door jam and was nearly brought to his knees. His good wife of forty-odd years, Mary, came to his assistance.

"Jebediah!" she exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

"I guess I've been better," he managed to gasp after he'd recovered somewhat. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees and tried to take several deep breaths. It was difficult, but he managed it, and it seemed to calm and relax him, so that he was better able to stand straight and look at his wife.

"What caused that?" she asked.

He shrugged, but looked away, knowing that she wanted to pursue it.

"Jebediah," she said, and there was impatience, but also compassion, in her voice. "Has this happened before?"

"Maybe a couple of times," he answered, a sheepish tone to his voice.

"Why didn't you say something?" she asked. "You've got to see a doctor."

"Ah, Mary," Jeb said dejectedly. "He'll poke and prod me and you know what it'll be like."

"Jebediah, you've got to see the doctor," she said. "You're not a young man anymore, and you're going to get sick. This could be something serious."

"I'm sure it's nothing," he said, putting up a brave front, but knowing full well that he was lying and that the attacks almost scared the life out of him, and each time he was in the grip of one, he thought he was perhaps in the midst of his final moments on this earth.

"You will phone the doctor tomorrow, or I'll phone him for you," Mary said, and there was a stern tone to her voice.

"Yes, Mary," he answered, and he knew there was no point in arguing, and that he was on the way for medical treatment and the requisite poking and prodding that always went with that experience.

So, he went to the doctor and endured all of the indignities, both subsequent and consequent, that he had been expecting and, finally, he sat in the doctor's office waiting to hear the results of all of the various testing that had been carried out upon his person.

"You've got a problem with your heart," the doctor said, a serious tone to his voice. "You've got a couple of arteries that are partially blocked."

"What does that mean?" Jeb asked, but he'd heard of this before in other people and had a pretty good idea what it meant.

"It means you've got a lot of stress on your heart," the doctor said. "It's a dangerous situation. Very dangerous."

"What should I do?" Jeb asked, but he thought he also knew the answer to this question, feeling it had something to do with surgery.

He was right, of course, and when he left the medical clinic and walked back out into the bright sunshine, he was shaken. He'd had cuts, burns and breaks in his life, but he'd never had surgery. And it scared the bejeezus out of him. He liked to be in control in all situations and when you went into surgery, you lost control, and it was up to others whether you came out the other side.

But he said nothing to his wife, other than to admit that the doctor had suggested surgery. They talked about it over supper and he gave no other idea than he was going to have the surgery and everything would be fine. But even as he was talking to his wife about what the doctor had said, he wasn't so sure that having the operation was his only option. After all, he was an old man, hoary with age, and perhaps he had used up his time and he was being told.

The next morning he was back at the track, watching as his son worked with one of their horses. It was an apparently ornery young stallion who refused to take his direction form the boy, until the son had just about lost all patience. Finally, after trying several times to get the horse to respond to direction, all without success, he raised the training whip and prepared to strike the animal.

It was then that the father interfered, entering the training ring and walking to where the son was standing, exhasperated with the horse.

"Let me try," he suggested to his son.

"Dad, you're not supposed to be doing stuff like this," the son answered. "And, anyway, this horse just isn't trainable. I've tried everything with him. I think we've wasted our money on this stubborn son of a bitch. He's just a no good horse."

"There's no such thing as a no good horse," said the father; "just no good trainers." He walked slowly up to the horse. It was trembling with fear and anxiety. He gently stroked the animal, talked quietly into its ear, and soon it had calmed.

"Dad, if Mom knew you were in here with this horse, she'd whip me," the boy said.

"I should whip you," the old man said. "I've tried to teach you to be patient with the horses, but it seems you haven't learned anything. You can't just bully a horse and expect to get what you want."

"Well, I'm selling this damned thing," the son said, gesturing to the stallion. "And I'll likely have to sell it for dogfood. Damned thing isn't worth a plug nickel as a racing animal."

"You're not selling it," the father answered. "I still own half of your stock and I say we keep the horse -- it's got potential -- you're just not tapping into it in the right way."

"Well, then, who's going to train it?" the son asked, throwing up his hands and losing his patience all over again, this time with his two-footed father. "I'm not working with this damned horse."

The old man again approached the horse, which was standing stalk still, as if waiting for a decision on its fate. He reached out and gently stroked the horse's mane. "There, there," he said softly, reaching into his pocket and taking out one of the sugar cubes he always carried for just such an occasion. He offered it to the horse, which gladly accepted and nuzzled his hand to say thanks. "I'll train the horse," the father said, evenly and firmly, looking over at his son.

"Dad," the son said, "Mom will skin me alive if I agree to something like this."

"You've got no choice," the father said, "because I'll skin you alive if you don't."

"I don't know," said the son. "This would really upset Mom."

"Your mother doesn't even need to know," Jebediah answered. "I'll just take my time and see if I can do something with him. I'll take it easy."

"God, Dad, you make my life difficult," the son finally said, after pausing a minute to consider his options.

"That's what parents are for," the father answered. "But he's my horse from here on in?" he asked.

"Go for it," the son said, shrugging his shoulders. "It seems I have nothing to say about it." And he walked out of the training ring and disappeared into the barn.

"There, there," Jebediah said to the horse, reaching into his pocket and offering the steed more sugar, which it gladly accepted, again nuzzling the man's hand in return. "We'll show him."

And the old man was good to his word. At the track each morning while it was still dark, taking the horse out and working diligently with it, taking time and having patience, gradually getting the horse into harness. And he learned that the horse lived in fear of the whip, and that whenever it appeared, it became skittish and was difficult to control. So, he never used the whip to strike the horse, but used it only as a means of signalling to the young animal concerning his intentions. He trained the horse so that if he wanted it to run more quickly all he had to do was hold the whip out within the stallion's line of vision, and give it the slightest of flicks, and the horse would run like the wind. And this young horse could indeed run like the wind -- and the old man knew he had a winner on his hands.

But he still could not drive in a race. He was too old and had long ago yielded his license, so that finally he had to approach his son about getting the horse onto a race card.

"I'm telling you that if we treat this horse right, he'll be our ticket into the stakes races at the big tracks next year," the father said to his son.

"I'll believe that when I see it," the son said.

But the father went that day and entered the young stallion in the qualifier for a big stakes race that always came later in the racing year at their own local track. And it was necessary to enter the horse into some lower key races, just to get it used to racing conditions and also to have it establish a record in an official race.

And it seemed only natural that this was where the son would again come into the horse's life, to drive in the actual races once the father had finished with the initial training.

"Remember," the father said to his son, as they got ready for the horse's first outing, "don't use the whip on the horse. He'll break stride for sure."

"I've never seen a horse that you didn't have to use the whip on," the son said, disdain in his voice.

"Well, you're looking at one right now," Jebediah answered. "Just hold the whip out where he can see it and give it a little flick when you want him to go."

The son shook his head. "This'll never work," he said. "We'll end up dead last -- and you've got him entered in the stakes race qualifiers. I can't believe you'd do something so foolish before we've even seen what he can do."

"He'll do fine," the father said. "He's a good horse." And with that he patted the animal on the neck and offered it sugar.

The call came for the parade to the post.

"Remember, don't use the whip," the old man said, as the son climbed aboard the sulkie and started to slowly direct the horse to the track.

And the old man found himself a good vantage point to watch the race.

The boy seemed to follow his father's advice as the race got underway. He dropped the horse in along the rail, fourth in a line of eight, moving well, holding its position with no apparent difficulty. They passed the quarter and then the half and the horses stayed strung out along the rail. Finally, as they reached the three quarters, a couple of the horses started to make a move on the leader and the race began to heat up. The father watched as the son moved the young horse out from the rail and began to accelerate forward. And, then, as if the horse was doing something undesireable, the son brought the whip forward.

The father watched. He wanted the boy to offer that little forward flick which he knew would cause the horse to go like the wind, but, instead, he raised whip and brought it snapping down on the horse's flank. "No!" cried the old man, but the word was lost in the noise of the crowd as the young horse reacted to the hated whip and lost his stride, causing the horses behind to crash into him and three of the animals went down, taking drivers with them, and it was a nasty spill for all concerned.

Fortunately, there were no serious injuries, and horses and drivers were able to make it to the barn without assistance.

The father watched as the son strode back into the barn.

"Christ!" the boy exclaimed. "That no good, son-of-a-bitch of a horse! Could have killed us all!" He was clearly in an agitated frame of mind.

"You shouldn't have used the whip on him," the father said.

"He wasn't going to go," said the son, anger in his voice. "You have to use the whip," he said with determination.

"You do not have to use the whip," the father said.

"Well, if I can't use the whip, I can't drive the damned horse," the son said, remaining angry and red-faced.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore," the father said to his son.

"Why not?" asked the son, bristling.

"Because you won't be driving him anymore," the father said.

"Yea, right," said the son. "And who's going to drive him?"

"I'll find somebody who can follow a simple set of instructions," the father said -- and with that he left his son to lick his wounds.

And he did find another driver, a young man he knew and thought highly of, and who was glad for the chance to get into a few more races. And the young man followed instructions perfectly, and raced the horse as he had been told, and was able to guide it to three straight first place finishes, leading up to the qualifier for the big stakes race.

And it turned out that his son had a horse that was also a fine steed and which the boy had high hopes for as well. And that horse was also entered in the qualifier for the stakes race, so it seemed the father's horse and that of his son would race against each other. And there was no talk between the father and son about the race as it approached, but it was clear there was an intense rivalry between the two men as to which had the fastest horse.

And, finally the day of race arrived, and the old man gave his horse some sugar and wished him well, along with offering a few parting words of encouragement to the young driver and wishing him well also. He then walked to where his son was preparing for the race, and offered the boy all the best in what was to follow. All he received was a grunt of acknowledgement in return. Then, he found a good place to watch the race.

The horses started out slowly, settling in along the rail, the boy's horse setting the pace, leading the way, and the father's horse in the three hole, moving effortlessly on the pace. They passed the quarter pole a little more slowly than expected, but by the time they'd reached the half, it was obvious they were running more more and more quickly. By the time they reached the three quarters, the pace was torrid and it was clear that the track record was in jeopardy and the crowd was abuzz.

The boy's horse had led all the way and it gave no sign of relinquishing its position as the pace-setter. None of the other horses seemed able to threaten its lead -- none had even made a move as they entered the home stretch.

And it was then that the young driver made his move. He brought the whip out into his horse's line of vision, as the old man had instructed, and he gave it a slight flick. The horse responded magnificently, stepping out of the three hole along the rail, and starting to quickly accelerate past the two horse. In short order, it was coming alongside the son's horse and challenging for the lead. The son reacted by bringing the whip to bear on his own horse, so its crack could be heard even in the stands where the crowd watched eagerly.

The boy's horse strained against its harness, reaching deep inside itself to try to run even faster, to try to hold the lead, to try to answer the whip, but the old man's horse had too much for it. It reached past the son's horse right at the finish line, causing a photo finish and a loud murmer in the crowd. All waited anxiously for the result and there was a huge cheer when it was announced that the old man's horse had won the day.

And so it was that while both horses had qualified for the big stakes race, the old man had won bragging rights until then. He was glad to pay the young driver a bonus for his efforts and rewarded the young stallion with an extra cube of sugar.

And during all of this racing commotion, the old man weighed the decision about the surgery. His good wife, Mary, wanted to know when it could be scheduled, and the doctor's office had phoned three times wondering why he hadn't been back in to get the process started. In the meanwhile, there had been the excitement at the track and he had avoided making any decision at all. Each time he thought of it, and he thought of it often, and each time he was almost overcome by the weakness, and that happened also, he felt fear deep inside of him. God, he was frightened at the very prospect.

He had done nothing about it by the time the day of the big stakes race had arrived, and he was at the barn early on that day. And it wasn't just that he wanted to win to show his son, it was that he somehow  saw this as the last hooray -- his chance to win just one more race before his frightening decision had to be made. He wished he could be in the sulkie, but knew that was an impossibility, so would ride through the young driver, so would watch the young horse carry out his will from afar.

He felt his level of anticipation rise as the hour of the race approached. He seemed even more excited than he usually was when a big race was at hand -- it was the rush he had always felt from when he'd been a young boy who'd first come to the track to escape from his overly-religious parents. But it seemed he was even more excited than usual. He paced the barn from end to end.

And on one of his passes through, when the big race was less than an hour away, he heard the sound of someone being ill in a secluded area of the barn. He went toward the sound, possibly to offer any assistance he could. And when he came around the corner to the area where he thought the sound was coming from, he was surprised to hear what he thought was singing. He looked and saw a most despicable sight -- his young driver, drunk beyond belief, laying in his own vomit, singing a most foul drinking song.

"Christ, you're drunk," cried Jebediah. "What about the race?"

"I'm drunk," moaned the young driver.

"What's the matter with you?" wailed Jebediah. "How could you do this?"

"My Dad's died," said the young driver. "My Dad's died," he repeated, more softly, lament in his voice.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Jebediah, his heart softened at the news. "But what can I do about the race?" he asked, and in that split second he knew.

So, that when they went to the post, the young driver remained in his drunken stupor in the barn, mourning the loss of his father, but the young stallion was at the ready, with an experienced hand at the harness. No one looked too closely in the pre-race excitement, and it was true the young man's colours were on the track, even though he was not.

They exploded out of the gate, and by the half it was clear that the track record would fall. The son's horse again made for the top of the field and set a blistering pace, hoping the other horses would fail. The father's horse sat in, third at the rail, until the pacesetter started to pull away a little too much, then with a subtle flick of the whip, it glided out and made a short move up to where the leader was running in deliberate and machine-like fashion, then settled in at its shoulder.

And so they came to the top of the stretch, the father and son's horses shoulder to shoulder and neck to neck. They thundered around the final turn and made for home and the son brought the whip crashing down on his horse again and again, and the poor horse struggled valiantly to answer the call and to maintain its lead. But the young stallion heeded its master and began to slide by on the outside, its gait effortless and calm and almost peaceful beside the frenetic actions of the son and his sorry steed.

The crowd rose as one as the horses came to the wire, now neck to neck, now nose to nose, until finally they flashed across the line and there was nothing to choose between them, although everyone knew who had won. And the son reigned in his horse and had pulled up a short distance beyond the finish, along with the other drivers in the race. But it seemed the young driver had given the young stallion its head, because it continued on around the track and finally came to stop in the backstretch.

It was only then that the sulkie's occupant slumped forward, and finally fell off onto the track like a crumpled rag doll. The crowd hushed as those on the track ran toward the fallen driver. What could have happened?

And the old man was no more. He was dead and gone. But not before he'd driven one more winner, and he'd done it the way it should be done. He'd had one more chance to feel the wind against his face and to know the excitement of the race. And that had made it worthwhile. His time had come and he'd known it. And it was the right way to go, not in a hospital, but on the track.

And when they reached him, and pulled off his racing goggles and helmet, they saw that he was smiling. He was dead, but he had won the day. And that somehow made it okay.