4 Months later.
Yawning the silver metal was exposed in my mouth and the soft velvet leather bent to the whim of my jaw. The girth shifted at each breath and the reins blew gently in the morning dew wind as I stood in the soft wet fields of the countryside. Sherline sat astride my back clicking a button on a silvery box which made a small click noise each time she did so. I cocked my leg, let out a sigh and began to dose as the soft Summer wind blew across the blades of grass. In 2 weeks time I was to run in my first race to hopefully get myself a good name.
Over the last 4 months after 4 jockeys were thrown ending with 1 cracked rib it was decided that despite her weight Sherline was to ride me in the race instead. She had worked me nearly everyday till I looked like a tall, muscular stallion. Unfortunately all of my work had been noticed and my name was spread across newspapers as the 'stallion that could but didn't do'. It seemed that my reputation was balancing on a string held by a rusty nail, one slip up could cost me my racing career and soon enough my life. A horse that had no good track record was considered nothing to the breeding sections and no one wanted an old nag who galloped around all pretty or bucked off every rider at every chance. I felt like a ticking time bomb...
Suddenly Sherline lifted the reins, squeezed and clucked me on, pointing me to home. We set off at a steady walk which quickly changed into a heavy footed trot and then a collected canter as we gracefully ran past the beginning to shed there petals trees. It was beautiful and nothing would change the memory.
2 weeks came and went and the big day arrived. A large blue lorry pulled up outside the barn doors and a army of stable grooms began loading tack and racing colours, not forgetting to mention whips and spurs. Next they threw light cooler rugs onto the horses who were leaving for the racing which included George, me, Bathonel (a 16.2hh chestnut gelding), Muffin Man (a dark bay 16.3hh gelding), and a grey 15.3hh mare called Jeanne. We were all loaded quickly and force fed hay through our Christmas ball like haynets and soon we off and gone.
Once we arrived and unloaded the real work for the jockeys and grooms began. There were people plaiting and tacking up, some grooming and others dragging coffee and tea back and forth to help everyone wake up for the start of the morning. I however stood stock still watching horses and trailers go past, as I was at the end of the long decorated half stalls and could see everything that went on when I strained to see. George however seemed to be snoring as his mane was plaited into small round balls on top of his neck. Sherline skipped around to my side and fed me a strong mint before working my mane into similar plaits to George's, except mine were slightly bigger and lengthened out to cover my long neck.
Before long me and George were all tacked up and shining in the hot summery day and were waiting for our race to be called. George nickered and placed his nose on my neck whispering "I'm scared Storm, I don't want to do this I'm not ready for this" "yes you are" I snorted "you will win the race, you have worked to hard to give up now my friend", it seemed to calm his shattered nerves. An announcer called into a loud microphone calling horses for race number 403 and began to read out names, "Speed O, Bombswick, George Of Fleet Masters, Beastley Thing, Tank, Hello Goodbye, Silver bullet and lastly Red rocket". I huffed 'not that stupid name again...'
Standing in the soft grounded arena we waited for our jockeys to pile out of the room and begin to mount. George had relaxed but continued to turn his head and check that I was still dozily stood where I was before he turned away. Within minutes the jockeys came out and arrived by our sides, I felt ready and fit but somewhere deep inside I felt like I was going to trip up and ruin my chances. Just as the jockeys began to mount my fears for the race began to unroll. The horse stood behind me leapt forward into my back end leaving me with no choice but to spring forward. Sherline tumbled to the ground from her half mounted position and crumpled in a heap. Seconds later the horse reared and came down on Sherline. A loud crack rippled through the air and her scream pierced all ears. Without hesitation I lunged towards the horse, teeth bared, front foot raised, angry, threatening. The horse, Silver bullet, reared crashing her hooves wildly in the air but her small 16.2 body was no match in size or brawn compared to my 17.1 structure. I flung my legs high and pranced forward on my back legs lashing out at the mare, going for the kill. My teeth grabbed mane and my weight pushed the mare to the ground, pinned under me, unable to move she froze. the whites of her eyes flared and her nostrils took wide deep shudders, she was under my mercy. People flew around us, it took 5 people to drag me off of the mare and another 3 to bring her to her feet. The last few on standby were at Sherline's side tending her broken leg. She could not ride like that and I could not not go to this race. To miss out would end me. I had to be ridden by another jockey. A man...
