On a quiet Sunday morning, in
the shy hours of a Kentucky day, I traced a path.
Before the hum of sound
system checks and the call of vendors, before the rattle of gates and the cheer
of the crowds, before the sun had noticed the morning dew, and, most
desperately, before the passing of time had allowed the magic to fade into
crumbled dirt and workman’s boots.
I stood at The Start and felt
the power of a hundred hooves. I looked down and placed my own foot gingerly in
the print before me, still soft and perfect in its outline, feeling a pang of
guilt as the form collapsed to accommodate my weight. I let my eyes gaze down
that historical lane, and then I walked.
And I listened.
In the hush of that morning I
listened to story of the prints below. I followed along like an eager child,
stopping in my own tracks at the dizzying magnitude of obstacles as they came
into view, an obscene combination of beauty and terror, and for a moment I became
lost in a memory of imagination.
I hear the disconnected
reality of thousands of voices muted into a faint echo. The law of time suspended
as motion slows and each stride becomes its own pulse. Nostrils widen, breath
quickens, a bead of sweat falls away. And for a fleeting moment gravity patiently
waits and there is only air. Perhaps
a spectator’s gasp escapes the silence and an ear twitches to follow the sound.
But then hoof and earth reunite, the ticking of the clock returns to its proper
pace, and the raucous joy of fans is left behind in the wake of effort. A private conversation is shared with a pat on
the neck in a single gesture of gratitude, encouragement, and trust.
I made my way around that
famous course. Turn by turn, jump by jump, my own breathing becoming labored at
times, until I reached the last. I paused at The Finish and looked back at the
prints that had allowed, possibly even welcomed, my company. I quietly thanked them and a subtle nod of
respect passed between us.
And then I stepped beyond the
boundary and it was over. A gentle wave of sadness rippled through me as I suddenly
became just a girl occupying space on a random clod of dirt. Around me there were dogs splashing, children
climbing, workers coiling miles of cable, and memories of victory and defeat
sinking into the earth to escape it all.
I traced a path of greatness
that morning, a path built upon hope and struggle, of jubilance and sorrow. A
path that many will dream of, but few will achieve.
As I walked away I submitted
to a brief delay in my return to reality and took a sentimental glance over my
shoulder. I was surprised to see a man
standing alone and quiet at The Start. He gazed downward at the rounded
outlines in the grass and tentatively took a step forward.
And I smiled.
