Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Executive Decision, Epiphany & Instigator

To look at them, you would think nothing of them.

When Ripley approached me this morning to tell me that she had three of the hottest young turf horses, I was expecting flashy, glorious creatures or horses with the eagle-eyed arrogance that often donned the faces of Mastermind and Sun King; horses that just screamed talent or trouble, depending on which side you fell on. The three horses that strutted toward me this morning were classy looking, of course. Battle Brook is nothing if not meticulous about what goes into their breeding shed and, therefore, what comes out or makes it onto their racing roster.

The two dark bay fillies were stoutly built animals with powerful muscles in their shoulders, strong haunches and thick chests. One of them had a blaze that expanded down her face, the other a nearly perfect circle on her forehead. Each had a sober look to her eyes, a seriousness that undermined their youth and neither looked particularly happy on this drizzling, cold morning to be on the track.

Both of them were sweet movers, picking their dainty feet up fluidly even though the sand was cuppy and not many horses seemed to be tolerating the going. There had been minor concern that the workout would get rained out, but Ripley was certain that the track foreman would let her get this workout in. She was nothing if not persistent and she was currently waiting at the gap between the turf and dirt. I was pretty certain that the foreman was intimidated by the small women with the flyaway auburn hair. She had ice in her veins at times, hence why I was out at the track at 6AM on a lazy, rainy Sunday.

I nearly followed the pair of fillies across the dirt when I heard the sound of squishing mud and glanced up to find another baby dressed in the BBS saddlecloth. This one was extremely familiar and he exuded power with every snorty breath he took. His muscles rippled with smaller muscles and his neck was bowed as if he were the most studly little juvenile there ever was. I followed his excellently sloping shoulder to meet the eyes of his rider: Reese Balling Jones.

Once the pair clipped by, I bolted across the track, as if suddenly I had been electrified. Reese Balling Jones was on a two year old. While it was not a rare thing as she had mounts every single year, being one of the most trusted riders at Battle Brook Stable, the mounts she took were notorious for both being a little nutty and very, very good.

The trio of young horses moved into their canters, the colt held back from his female counterparts, as I reached Ripley. “Who are they,” I asked breathlessly.
“The filly with the blaze is Epiphany. The other filly is Executive Decision and the colt is Instigator,” was Ripley’s short response.

My special assignment to follow Ripley Marsh and Battle Brook Stable could be difficult at times. She’s not as open as she once was, far more secretive and she required more intuition than the average reporter nowadays had. Luckily, I was granted more opportunity to explore than the average reporter and I knew that names because I’d spotted them in books and sales pages.

The three horses had each hit the sales, but none of them had been sold publicly this season. Instigator, a son of Canjun Moon and Sweetness Unlimited, had passed through the ring as a weanling, but his home had fallen into bankruptcy and he’d somehow found his way back to the former home of his sire. The excitement surrounding that particular baby was unmatched at the moment, owing to the tear that his older, half-sister, Never Surrender currently was on in her juvenile season.

Executive Decision, the filly with the circular star, and Epiphany had been entered into a sale earlier this year, but wiser thoughts had intervened in that regard per Malcolm Floyd, Ripley’s assistant. Money had nearly lured Ripley into selling both, but word had it these fillies were awesome when pressed for speed.

The trio glided onto the turf, their ears all simultaneously pricking. They were experienced enough to know that things got more exciting when they set foot on the grass. The colt became more unruly by the minute, thrashing his head and switching his tail back and forth as if he couldn’t wait to take off. He appeared ever the powder keg and I nearly wanted to rub my hands together in anticipation.

Instigator took off like a bullet, head and tail in the air and drew a mirror-image of Never Surrender when she first got going. His ears were pricked and his enthusiasm seemed unmatched. Ripley’s eyes glinted with excitement and I knew that this one might be the first promising young turf colt since Breaking Point to hit the BBS roster.

Epiphany was the next to launch into action. Clearly tempted by the sudden speed of her stablemate, the daughter of Divided Notion and Paranormal Hunter, rolled forward into a smooth stride that reminded me of waves on the ocean--constant, strong and relaxed all at the same time. She was soon tracked by the sturdy, Executive Decision who needed a little encouragement from Maggiletti Reynolds at the start. Once moving, I could see why the filly I call Exec excited her team so much. She moved with absolute, easy-going authority.

Instigator led the fillies by a good seven lengths and I had no doubt that this was intentional. He was a machine on the grass, pure and simple. Reese had her feet up on the dash and her butt practically sitting in the saddle to keep him at the cruising pace, but he gave off the impression of doing it with ease. “Is he always like that?” I asked.

“Yup.”

Shaking my head, I moved my gaze to the fillies. They were unchanged in their position; Epiphany still led Exec, but the gap between them had closed. Epiphany and Exec both had their ears pinned to their necks and I could see the tension rippling between them as if the competition was threatening to consume them. Both of their riders held their hands steady, holding them for what was to come as they motored down the backstretch.

The blaze faced filly stretched upon command, daring her rival to keep up. Exec responded in turn and stretched her heavy-set body in order to keep up. And still the fillies each appeared as though they had more to give.

Instigator, in a world of his own, cruised down the stretch, a picture of pure, unaltered speed and power. His ears were still pricked. Reese still had a death grip on his mouth to keep him from doing too much too fast, but watching him gave me chills. The distance between himself and the fillies had grown a bit to eleven lengths even though it was clear they were picking up speed.

Ripley clicked the first watch in her hand when the colt passed through the wire and dropped it, unbothered when the chain holding it to her wrist snapped tight. Her green eyes were locked on the fillies even as mine trailed the willful colt around the far turn. “Wow.”

“He’s so fast that he makes you ignore what could be the most impressive workout put in by two fillies,” Ripley said, her voice level and without judgement.

I should have brought a watch and cursed my rookie mistake. When I looked back, the bay fillies were locked in fierce combat, but neither of their riders so much as moved a muscle. Everytime Executive Decision threatened to poke a nose in front, Epiphany would find another gear and fight right back. Their hoofbeats rolled like thunder in the air and the hair on my arms lifted as they soared by, the wind they created stirring my hair.

I held my breath until the second watch was clicked to a stop. The fillies continued their battle beyond the wire, switching their leads so smoothly that I would never have guessed that they were cued to do it. Neither gave an inch and when I looked away, I found Ripley watching me with a smirk upon her lips.

“Good thing I have zero intentions of allowing those two to face one another.”

Knowing the pedigrees, I knew that both fillies were apt to run the same route of ground. “How?”

“Easily. One sprints. One does miles.”

With that, Ripley turned her back on me and walked to clip a lead line on Instigator’s bridle. She tossed me a lead rope as she walked by. “You watched. Now you get to help. Grab Pip.”
I scowled for a brief moment, taken aback by the curtness of the order, but then I slapped myself mentally. I was about to clip a lead rope to the halter of a filly who one day could be a potential superstar.

When Epiphany and Exec reached me, both of them were still blowing slightly and still eyeballing one another with great dislike. Maggie, on Exec, grinned at me as I clipped the chain to the halter underneath Pip’s racing bridle. “You’d never guess that we just blitzed 1:01 around the dogs.”

“What?” I said blankly.

David Carter laughed and patted his filly’s neck. “They must have looked good if you thought they went any slower.”

Maggie chuckled and peered ahead to Instigator. “My only thought Dave is this: If we went in 1:01… How fast did Gator go?”

Dave pursed his lips and glanced at me. I lifted my shoulders defensively and he sighed heavily. “Typical Ripley. She invites a reporter to our damn workouts and doesn’t reveal the time.”

Their conversation faded to the background as I pondered on the question of speed, pondered the fact that three plain yearlings had just fooled a visual clock that I had come so close to perfecting. The hair on the back of my neck rose when I thought that perhaps I was going to reach a new level in my career as a track reporter... a level I had never imagined reaching in a million lifetimes.

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Angel Of Mercy & Victorina

Challenges are a daily piece of any trainer’s life. There are days it rained so hard that the track was soup and only the bravest trainers dared to send their animals forward for exercise. There were days the fog was so dense that one could barely see a foot in front of them, let alone the wide stretch of track that could hold dangerous things like a loose horse, an injured team or on any given day, wild life. There were also days that the turf track proved so slippery that turf horses simply had to deal and gallop over the dirt even though it made their movements appear just a tad bit more ungainly.

This was one of those mornings that mixed challenges into a big, black pot and said, ‘Have at it if it’s that important to you.’ Ripley Marsh, not one to duck a challenge, had accepted. We marched through the squelching mud on the path that led to the track, our heads down because even if we wanted to see out, we couldn’t. I could hear the snorting breaths of the two fillies behind us and took comfort in the fact that neither of them seemed particularly skittish.

“Any thoughts on what’s about to happen?” I asked softly.

“Your inner-reporter is showing,” Ripley said teasingly. Her gem-bright eyes were bright with excitement in spite of the fact that Mother Nature was determined not to cooperate. She relented at my expression, fully knowing that her job was not to make my life miserable as she’d been the one to reach out to me about following her stock. “I think we’ll see something worth seeing today. The dirt won’t be their best surface by any means, mud even less so, but these fillies come from tough stock.”

Tough stock is an understatement. Angel Of Mercy, a filly by former Battle Brook horse, Hokum and out of the gritty, mare Passion Heart, was the epitome of what toughness looked like. The first time I ever saw this one, I’d mistaken her for a colt, so strong and volatile had she appeared that morning. Her rangy body topped the stick at 16.2 as a mere two year old and to watch her run, the spectator could only be mesmerized by the hugeness of her hooves. Her attitude only enhanced the appearance of intimidation. She had the ‘If looks could kill’ expression down pat.

Her sire was one of my personal favorites. I’d never seen such an explosive three year old until Ripley brought Hokum to the track. He’d gone from grade five to grade one in just a season, capping off his year with a resounding victory in the Donn Handicap. He’d also won the Doncaster Cup over the turf and the Spring Dawn Treader Cup. His early retirement had come as a bit of a shock, but he’d retired sound after cramming 32 races within a year and six months.

Passion Heart, the beautiful black mare, had been a constant of racing until she suddenly rocketed to stardom at four and five. A winner of the Just A Game and Queen Cup, Passion Heart’s career had been marked with grit and determination. Her soundness had been applauded and that was exactly the type of mare needed to balance Hokum’s size and prowess.

I glanced over my shoulder at Angel of Mercy, noted the way she carried herself. If anyone was ready to rumble, it was this filly. Justin Santiago sat still on her back, only angling his head to talk to David Carter, who was riding Victorina. His reverence reminded me that once upon a time Angel of Mercy had been purported to be quite the violent miss. She’d outgrown the tendencies after a bit of training, but the sinister promise flashed into her gaze now and then.

Victorina nickered inquiringly as they reached the track. Her mule-sized ears flickered side to side and for the first time today, she appeared wary. David crooned to her, patted her soft neck and urged her onward in his gentle way. Vicky was a stubborn type and if she felt the need to do it, she would slam on the brakes and not move until the jaws of life arrived. Her stature was broad like Angel of Mercy’s, but she was much smaller, almost a full hand smaller. She wasn’t an Amazon type, but her thickly muscled hindquarters and large chest invoked respect.

Victorina came from blue-blooded racing stock. Her sire, Grand Silence, was now pensioned, but he seemed to have sired or grand-sired every type of top turf runner in recent memory. Dazzling Dame, a resident of Battle Brook, had already marked herself as a queen on the track when she produced Eternally Smoldering in her first foaling. In my opinion, Victorina appeared very much like her dam and half-brother. Watching the filly move was like watching old racing reels.

Ripley and I stepped to the side to allow the horses free passage onto the track. Instantly, Vicky set to jigging and jogging alongside the confident Angel of Mercy. David Carter moved with her, his body fluid and morphing to fit whatever the youngster threw his way. For a moment, she appeared unnatural on the muddy surface, but as we followed them on the other side of the railing, I noticed both fillies didn’t seem to mud quite as much as I anticipated.

“We work them over all the surfaces at Battle Brook,” Ripley said in response to my unspoken question. “I know most trainers would want to keep them inside and safe, but we can’t guarantee those things on race day. And if a turf race comes off and onto the dirt, I want to know that they’ll do it when called upon.”

“How far are they working today?” I asked. The horses were becoming shadowy as they picked up a canter into the first turn. The warm air had created a fog that was lightening up with each passing minute.

“Five furlongs. I told them to take it easy today, to let the fillies get the feel for the track. You saw the workout they had together last week, that was fast enough pre-racing.”

That was the truth, I thought to myself. While the turf writers had been impressed by Gator, Exec and Pip, I had moved on to witness Angel and Vicky tackle the turf enthusiastically.

I lifted the binoculars to my eyes when the fillies made a lap around the track. Angel Of Mercy had taken the inside the lane with the smaller Victorina to her outside. Angel dominated the binoculars, but Vicky gave the appearance of keeping up just fine. Her strides were efficient and confident, telling me that her earlier skittishness had dissipated.

As one, the duo moved into their strong galloping strides. Angel of Mercy was intent on holding the lead right off the bat, her ears pinning flat to her skull in warning that any challenges wouldn’t be taken lightly. Victorina seemed just fine with that. I had seen the filly when she was full-throttle and today, the Grand Silence daughter appeared content to settle at the larger filly’s barrel.

The speed increased by degrees as the pair moved up the backstretch. From this angle, I could only see Angel. Her monstrous stride was impressive to behold. She moved like a colt, strong, powerful and totally focused. Her eyes were war-bright and in the binoculars, I could see her nostrils flare as Justin asked her for a tad more. She responded valianly, extending her lead from a half-length to three-quarters of a length.

Victorina appeared undeterred. When David shook the reins at her, she leapt into the bit and annihilated the lead Angel of Mercy had just obtained. For a brief second, I noted that Vicky’s ears were now flat against her head as they swung into the far turn. I knew it was game on.

In spite of the fact that the mud was not their preferred surface, both fillies ate it up hungrily, consumed by the competition. Angel of Mercy carried Vicky a little wide, but the smaller-framed filly pushed back and held her own as they straightened up into the stretch. The two battled down the length of the stretch, neither giving up the ghost.

My eyes shot down to Ripley’s stopwatch as they crossed the wire together. 1:01 ⅗. Not too fast, not too slow. I noted the satisfied smirk and knew that the fillies would be ready for the challenges of their juvenile campaign. With so much time left to go between now and the start of Year Nineteen, Ripley’s pair of unscrupulous fillies were becoming professionals the more they were exposed to life at the track.

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Diminutive Miss & Halcyon

”Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I called in warning as I dodged the swinging haunches of the fleetest filly I had ever seen. I sucked in a deep breath when the warm horse-flesh barely missed me and peeled the hair back from my eyes. Ripley placed a hand on my arm, checking to see if I was okay as much to steady herself. We’d become fast friends in the time I’d been following her horses and reporting on them.

“You good, Kelsea?” Ripley said as she watched the fiery bay filly shake her head viciously. Al rode up on the black behemoth that was Cold Mountain and put a quick stop to her nonsense. Suddenly, the 15.2 hand filly was walking along as docile as a kitten beneath Ripley’s husband, Brookson Wells.

“I’m good. I forget that this is her usual behavior.”

Ripley scoffed and stepped up to give Kendall Williams a boost into the saddle of a colt who appeared an angel beside the fiery filly. She stroked Halcyon’s blaze and straightened the bridle while Kendall situated herself. The girl grinned at her boss and shook her head. “Remind me to thank you again for not putting me on that filly.”

That filly was Diminutive Miss, a powder keg of energy waiting to explode. She was a short thing, but her haunches were powerful and her legs clean and strong. Marked only with a small white star between her eyes, Minny wasn’t likely going to draw eyes on just looks alone. Her personality and hot-headed charisma would do that all on her own. Partnered with the fact that she was the half-sibling to Game Over, winner of two legs of the Turf Sprinter Tiara, and The Good Fight, winner of two legs of the Dirt Sprinter Crown, Minny was never going to be second fiddle to any horse.

Ripley and I each grabbed a lead rope connected to the halter beneath Halcyon’s bridle and followed the mismatched duo of Cold Mountain and Minny. Hal bobbed his head enthusiastically as he walked, the stalwart blue-collar beast just like his mom, Juvenile Filly of the Year, Nirvana. Hal came in to the world with less fanfare than Minny, but he was as brawny as she was brazen. His body was stout and promised a whole wealth of speed with his broad chest and well-muscled frame. Hal had always been the kind-hearted animal who’d never placed a hoof wrong. In a group of youngsters destined for stardom, Hal stood out as the cuddly, barn favorite.

The wet dirt track spread out before them, the white railings surrounding it glittering in stark contrast to the moody winter sky. Ripley hummed as she watched a pair of horses fly by in Battle Brook Stable colors. I didn’t need a stopwatch to tell me that Cascabel was soaring in his penultimate workout before the Breeders Cup Dirt Mile.
It was surreal to recognize that I was watching Ripley prepare the barn’s future runners while she was also orchestrating the final curtain calls on some of her most unique stars. Chill went down my spine as we released Halcyon at the gap. The two year old dropped his head and picked up his fast-footed trot, passing Cold Mountain despite that one’s angsty expression.

Diminutive Miss thrashed her tail in annoyance when Hal cut in front of them. She jigged, but could not move forward while attached to her proverbial anchor. Brooks patted the filly’s neck and his lips moved as though he were soothing her in his patient voice. She would not be soothed easily though. Her back end lifted in a rocking horse buck, but a stern word from Al and a look from Cold Mountain had her cooperating once more.

Spirit was the word of the day.

After one jogging lap around the track, the duo picked up their canter strides. Halcyon still maintained his lead, but only because Minny was still attached to the black gelding. She was growing more frustrated with every passing moment, her eyes bright with venom. “She just wants to run!” I remarked to Ripley.

Ripley’s eyes were hidden by the binoculars, but she took the time to shake her head. “Not yet. If I let her go now, Hal will be blown away.”

As if on cue, Kendall released Halcyon. The son of Mighty News and Nirvana grabbed the bit and rolled into his galloping stride as easily as a flag unfurling in the wind. He left behind Diminutive Miss without a thought and settled into a potent mechanical stride alongside the rail. When Halcyon had put fifteen lengths between himself and Diminutive Miss, the trainer gave the cue into her radio and Minny was released.

Every time I watched this filly, she stole the breath from my lungs. She moved like a tigress when Al released her head. At first, she ran with her head low, digging into the ground viciously even as Brooks guided her from the center of the track toward the rail. Her mane and tail streamed backward as she ate up the ground between herself and her workmate.

I pulled my binoculars up to watch the pair as they headed up the backstretch. Halcyon still had five lengths on Minny, but she was motoring now. Kendall peeked under her arm, keeping tabs on the loose-cannon filly. Hal’s ears were still flicking about easily and he gave the appearance of having so much more in the tank for this six furlong workout. I personally loved the colt and knew that anyone watching right now would see the filly dominate the colt, but that wouldn’t be the end game.

Just as I predicted, Diminutive Miss blew by Hal. Kendall kept her hands low on the colt’s neck even though he pinned his ears in anger at being passed. The early start had been more to keep the juveniles in the same zip code. Hal was a natural closer whereas Minny was a guns-blazing type, keep-up-at-your-own-risk.
Minny’s head came up in triumph as she scorched through an impressive first quarter in :44 1//5. Brooks sat quietly, neither putting up resistance or encouraging her to move forward. Minny thrived on stimulation and this was about the only way to get her to relax without someone to settle alongside and rate her. Minny ripped through the far turn, switching leads so quickly that the viewer would miss it if they blinked at the wrong moment.

When the filly reached middle point of the turn, my gaze was drawn back to Halcyon. The blaze-faced bay was soaring over the dirt, his sudden speed carrying him three wide off the rail. Kendall was as still as a statue on his back. Although the horse was a shorter type, his presence was a sight to behold. While the filly had a lead of seven lengths, he cut into it with every bold stride he took.

Ripley let out a laugh that made me jump. “I love when my plans work out,” she said before she went silent again.

During the brief interruption, I noted that a few people had gathered along the rail to watch the workout. I returned my attention to it myself when Halcyon stretched his body and dismantled Minny’s lead. The filly sensed the onslaught and pinned her ears flat to her skull and gave as good as she got.

Together, the duo flitted through the wire, neither relenting in the gallop out despite Hal’s momentum. In a normal race, I questioned if Hal would have gotten to her. Minny was a skillful runner when she had a target to follow, but Hal’s closing talent was out of this world even in the face of a slow pace. I knew the blazing fast end time to the workout would likely seat the duo high on the time list for the day. If Ripley meant to serve up notice, she’d done just that as I’d caught more than a few of those onlookers hitting their stopwatches.

“What do you think?” she asked me as we walked toward the gap.

“I don’t think it matters what I think,” I retorted. “However, I think you’re set up for an impressive year.”

Ripley hummed. “I think I’m set up nicely for several impressive years with these two.”

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Scarlet Letter & Turbulence

It was a balmy morning for a winter day in December. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been 70 degrees and sunny for a morning workout. I’d pushed the sleeves of my sweatshirt up past my elbows, watching the sun reflect off of my pale skin. My eyes were tracing the elegant bay form as he galloped up the backside of the track. He wasn’t a yearling, but he drew my eyes nonetheless. If the light caught him just right, he looked so very much like Mastermind. The perfect stride, the billowing mane, the classic head. He took my breath away as he clipped off fractions with the ease of the mega-talented.

Beside me, Ripley held her breath as he rolled around the turn. I admired the way the colt stretched his body out upon a cue from Kendall. He surged through the wire, hitting the speedy time of :58 ⅖. “Cruising!” I remarked to Ripley.

The trainer smiled and nodded, resetting her watch. “We’re ready for the Breeders Cup. That was our final work. Now… we can focus on the next generation.”

As if on command, a snort sounded from behind us. I looked up and found myself face to face with a pair of unmarked juveniles. The horses were of an equal appearance in color, a normal, strong brown-tone, but their frames were vastly different. The colt was barrel chested and broad. His shoulder was massive and almost gross in muscle tone. His eyes were sharp and mean and he looked like he was about to execute someone at the gallows. Brookson Wells sat confidently upon his back, a hand on his hip, looking as dapper as a knight in shining armor.

The filly was as lean as a fish. Her frame wasn’t the prettiest, but it hadn’t mattered. She’d never been through a sale’s ring, wasn’t intended for that. She was built to run. Her legs were long and she gave the appearance of being rangy. Her long mane and forelock were wild, blowing in the breeze. Her gaze was equally as willful and determined as the colt’s. Her rider was a little more tense in the saddle and for good reason. On many mornings back at Battle Brook, Laura had been pitched from the fiery filly’s backside.

“You’d never guess that they are the easiest horses to handle on the ground,” I said to Ripley as the trainer stepped up to check their girths and polo wraps.

“Just getting on this one was no easy task,” Laura DeComte said, rolling her eyes toward Brooks. “Al had to glue Cold Mountain to her side until we reached the path toward the track. She was ready to blow a gasket.”

“Candy gives us wily babies,” Brooks smirked, stroking the colt’s neck as if he would have done so to the gray mare who produced the filly. “All of them were a little tough to handle. Hell, Cat is still nutty and she’s a blooming four year old this year.”

“Cat is not nutty,” Ripley laughed, stroking her half-sister’s soft forehead. “She may be a little crazy at times, but it’s all for good.”

“Good for fast races,” Laura remarked under her breath.

“Which is what we are in the business for,” Ripley said through a smile.

I loved the look of these two horses. Turbulence was the total opposite of the colt I’d witnessed running on the track and their shared sire. The colt took after his renowned dam, Hall of Famer, Ventura, winner of three Breeders Cup races. He was a brawny individual with known dominance issues. He wasn’t an arrogant type of animal like Silent Game or Cataclysmic. He just existed and his existence was distinguished as ever.

Ripley and I followed the horses to the track, remarking on the way Turbulence was filling out in his hind end and the way Scarlet Letter was seemingly bomb-proof for such a high strung filly. Of all the incoming juveniles we’d seen on the track so far this year, none had caused Ripley’s eyes to light up so much as this pair. We all had our designated favorites, but it was obvious where the trainer’s heart remained.

“Just take them five furlongs. They run about the same so it’ll be a good, well-matched workout from the get-go. Let them run a bit in the last furlong and into the gallop out.”

The riders nodded and allowed their horses to trot off up the track, their hands soft on the reins for the moment. I knew that of the two horses, Scarlet Letter would likely be the hardest horse to handle today. There were so many horses working out and she was naturally more forward than the colt, who seemed to go with the flow more often than not.

We lifted our binoculars to our eyes to track the bay horses as they covered the track. Scarlet Letter was on the inside with Turbulence moving fluidly at her barrel. He ducked his head and blew through his nostrils. I could almost hear the sound from across the track. Ben was a mesmerizing individual because of his heaviness. One didn’t know if he were lazy or an impending powder keg.

The filly was the first to step into her gallop when they cantered back around the track. Her narrow body suddenly appeared beautiful in full movement. She carried her head nearly perpendicular to the ground, giving the appearance of controlled energy. It was only the tension in Laura’s hands that hinted that the filly was giving her grief.

As one, the juveniles bounded into full strides, going from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye. The filly was quicker off the mark, placing a length between herself and the colt with a shocking turn of foot. Briefly, her head went up as she fought Laura, but in a matter of strides she was running long and low over the track.

Ben’s ground-eating stride unfurled like a flag in slow motion. One minute he gave the appearance of lollygagging, the next he was powering over the course. Encouraged by Brooks, the colt motored up to run evenly with Scarlet Letter. She pinned her ears at the reinforced competition, but did not break away from the rolling animal this time. I could not tell if this was because of Laura or because Turbulence was in flight.

The duo bounded into the turn, swapping strides on cue. Scarlet Letter regained her edge when the heavier colt was carried outwardly on the turn. Give the filly an inch and she’ll take a mile, I thought to myself. Suddenly, Scarlet Letter was sweeping to a length lead. She’d cut the corner and looked as wild as a mustang as she straightened into the stretch. Her lean frame lengthened to its full advantage as she flew for home. Laura was silent on her back, a bug lost in the billowing mane.

Turbulence was not quite done. While the filly was fleet and much more apt to appreciate the short distance due to her running style, Ben was using the long stretch at The Wire to his full advantage. With hand shaking encouragement from Brooks, the colt gobbled up the ground between himself and the filly.

I held my breath when, in a matter of two jumps, Turbulence was at the filly’s throat latch. Suddenly, it was a horse race to the wire. The fiery filly would not give the ponderous colt an inch, no matter how much pressure he ratcheted up on her. The riders were silent as the duo galloped through the wire. Neither filly nor colt gave in during the gallop out, which was perhaps as impressive as the workout.

I heard the click of the stopwatch and cursed inwardly. I’d forgotten to watch the time so intrigued was I by the battle on the track. When I glanced over, the numbers were already gone, but Ripley’s gaze was still locked on the stopwatch, shadowy and unreadable.

“Wow!” a voice proclaimed from behind them, causing both women to nearly jump through their skin. “Those are some horses you’re bringing up next year!”

I turned to take in the heavy, well-suited man and nearly smirked when I saw the watch in his hand. Nathan O’Leary, one of the track foremen, knew his horses and by the electric-light in his eye, I could tell he’d caught something impressive.

“Say! Is that the Mastermind, Ventura foal?” He asked as he came closer. “Who’s the filly?”

“Yes,” I said with a smile. Ripley shot me a look, but a moment later, sighed and said, “His name is Turbulence. Her name is Scarlet Letter.”

Nathan chuckled, fully aware that he’d caught Ripley in a moment of weakness. “Well, Marsh, I won’t tell anyone, but you’ll excuse me if I get some good odds on those two when they start racing.”

He patted the women each on the shoulder as he walked down the rail, whistling a tune. I was quick to note that he never took his eyes off the juveniles as they jogged back up the track. I couldn’t blame him. I couldn’t help myself either.

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Poltergeist & Smuggler

By the time we reached the second planned workout of the morning, I had completely stripped off my sweatshirt and was regretting the long-sleeve I’d worn underneath. I wiped the sweat from the back of my neck, grimacing at the thought of showering just because of the heat. Hell, I wasn’t even doing anything. I couldn’t imagine how the exercise riders were feeling. Although, from the look of it, most of them had dressed accordingly. I was the odd track reporter out on this one.

I watched Ripley cold hose Scarlet Letter’s legs. The filly wasn’t tired by any stretch of the imagination following her work, but she was back to being her kind self. Currently, she was lipping the waistband of Ripley’s jeans with a loose lead rope dangling to the ground. Even at the hectic racetrack, Ripley’s team of people and horses carried an unsung air of relaxation in a world renowned for its calamity.

The next set of colts needed this calm atmosphere if they were to go into their workout with open minds. Correction: Only one colt in particular. Smuggler. The lean bay colt may look innocent enough walking around with his head low, like some sort of puppy dog, beside Reese Balling Jones, but he wasn’t. Usually, the fool horse would scream his head off until you wanted to strangle him. I could just catch the white puff balls of cotton that Ripley popped into his ears when we returned from the workout.

Smuggler was a beautiful animal, so refined and delicate looking with his perfectly dished nose and wide forehead, his elegant neck and perfect body. Smug was a looker as was his well-known half-brother, Breaking Point. They differed just slightly enough in body styles because Vagabond was a horse that promised to sire distance into his youngsters. Smuggler had the large chest, long legs and hind end that fulfilled that promise.

The dark horse following behind Smug at a more alert rate was just as handsome, but a lot more aloof. Poltergeist, a son of Heartless Revenge, a descendant from the imposing Admiral’s Revenge family line, and Eternal Phantom, one of the most revered distaff mares in turf lore, had a brain that didn’t ponder too much on the little things in life. His thoughts often seemed to circle through how to drive his humans mad, how to behave like your innocent when you’re really guilty and how to frame others for your wrongdoings.

Poltergeist had a way of looking through me that gave me shivers. He was a nice enough colt, but I kept my distance. In a way, he reminded me of The Devil’s Touch, though they weren’t related. Another similarity: Both of them had Ripley firmly in their corners. It was Ripley who had broken the colt, not Malcolm and his regular rider, Brookson Wells. He trusted her implicitly and even now, his attention was captured by her while she finished up with Scarlet Letter.
The colt’s head shot into the air when Ripley stood up and clapped her hands, clearing them of water. Brooks steadied him and shook his head. “You sure you don’t want to come out of retirement for this one?”

Ripley turned, a slow smile spreading over her face, and walked to the colt. If he were a cat, I’d have expected him to purr at her slightest touch. He closed his dark eyelashes and rubbed his white star against her hands. “I couldn’t do that. He likes you well enough now.”

Brooks chuckled and kissed Ripley before she legged him up into the saddle. “Now that you’ve given me a five star recommendation, he does.”

She rolled her eyes, straightened Ghost’s bridle. “Don’t pout, Brookson. It’s unbecoming.”

I snickered so loudly that Brookson looked my way and smiled. I averted my gaze in time to watch Reese settle into Smuggler’s saddle. Just like that the colts were both uppity and ready to go. They settled into a long-legged walk toward the track with Ripley guiding Poltergeist from the ground and Al controlling Smuggler from Cold Mountain’s back.

I followed along, my camera hung around my neck like the tourist that it sometimes felt like I was. The sunlight caught the colts in such a way that made me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside, like I was in the right place. It was a satisfying feeling to say the least.

I knew the drill now. Ripley would have the horses go through their normal five furlong breezes. I hadn’t seen much of these two on the track. They’d always been the pair to go off ultra early in the morning at Battle Brook, away from the prying eyes of people like me. I knew Ripley was extremely high on both of these horses and I could visualize it when I looked at them why. To know for a fact what Ripley saw in them would be a completely different story. I wanted to write it.

When we reached the track, I walked away from where I normally stood with Ripley and headed for the grandstand. There were a slew of people eating at the complimentary breakfast the track served in the morning. They’d received a show this morning if they’d witnessed Turbulence and Scarlet Letter. I believed they would like what they saw from the BBS crew in a few moments.

As was customary for him, Cold Mountain kept Smuggler locked to his side for the duration of the youngsters’ warm up laps. Poltergeist was ever the stately pro. He had a beautiful, easy grace and carried himself like a king. He was a perfect combination of his sire and dam, and rumored to have the fighting spirit of his grand dam, El Sol del Mar.

Smuggler did not beg for release from his handler, but he was becoming quite the funny horse. He jogged and cantered sideways, his chest facing Cold Mountain, while his attention sat squarely on Poltergeist. I wasn’t concerned about this one’s stamina in the slightest. One day his juvenile brain would catch up to his body. It’d been that way for his sire as a younger horse too.

The colts drew attention like flies to honey when they set off up the homestretch in their customary canters. Poltergeist fought the idea of being drawn up next to Cold Mountain for a bit, but with Brooks’ patient coaxing, he relented. I could practically see Smuggler’s nostrils flare to the size of saucers when he realized that his nemesis was now within reach.

I found myself bracing against my seat when the duo broke away from their babysitter into the clubhouse turn. Poltergeist went from calm to fierce in the matter of seconds, dropping his head and sweeping the lead out from the hopeful Smuggler’s nose. Ghost established himself as the pro-tem leader, defiant in the face of the usurper.

Smuggler galloped freely alongside his cohort with Reese perched just so on his back. The woman could make a bronc look easy. She just had a way about her that gave a horse more confidence than he needed. Currently, Smuggler was stretched out and elastic, pacing Poltergeist with undeniable ease.

Assured of victory of gaining the lead, Ghost’s ears were pricked and he was running on the bridle, but doing no more than what Brooks was asking of him. Like Smuggler, Ghost was on cruise control. I felt the hair stand up on my arms as they clipped through their first quarter in :22 ⅖. Neither of them were doing more than a gallop, or so it appeared.

I heard a murmur of conversation stop when the colts were shaken up a bit entering the far turn. Poltergeist bounded away, clearing Smuggler briefly until his opponent came back at him. It was like watching a superior game of cat and mouse between these two. Through it all, they did everything flawlessly. I counted myself among the mesmerized when they soared across the wire, nose and nose, but never fully extended. My watch had caught them in 1:00 on the nose, but I almost wish I’d kept it going longer for the six furlong gallop out.

Poltergeist had cleared off Smuggler again in that part of the exercise, his strides still powerful and ground eating, while Smug lost his focus. The Vagabond colt was too smart sometimes and I imagined Ripley would have to really work him through the wire to get him to understand that he couldn’t just shut it down when he reached his goal.

I started my descent down the steps, pondering what I had just witnessed. Poltergeist was ready to go, a sparkling professional. Smuggler needed to focus on his job and lucky for him, Ripley would know just the trick having dealt with his before him. For all of the improvement I could see, however, the buzz was undeniable about both colts.

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Mockery & Mercenary

Laura DeComte was bouncing off the balls of her feet, practically jumping out of her skin in anticipation of this workout. I was doing the same, but not necessarily from anticipation. It was absolutely freezing today! How Mother Nature could go from 70 degrees of paradise to the 20 of the arctic in the span of a day blew my mind. I rubbed my hands up and down my sleeves before promptly stuffing them back into my jacket pockets. I could see my breath and watched as it framed the pair of fillies.

The morning sun was just rising over the backstretch, casting shadows and casting the horses in a moody-blue tint. I was fond of all the Battle Brook horses, but I really liked these fillies. They had legs for miles and their bodies were unmatched in athleticism. The taller filly had a flower shaped star and she jigged over the ground, as pumped for her exercise as her rider. She was a scopey thing, passed onto her by her towering sire, In Front. She was a tough one, all competitor without any sweetness. I admired and respected Mercenary, and from past mornings, I knew she would be effective on the track.

Ripley legged Justin Santiago onto the back of the other filly. Her dark bay body gleamed in good condition and she even had some dapples flickering over her back end. She held her nose parallel to the ground and snorted, casting herself in the image of a dragon, smoke pouring from her nostrils. Her sire, Saintly Touch, could have rivaled Sun King at eight furlongs, but she came from the solid lines of the finest distance families. Her dark eyes were huge and she nearly blew up, sidling away from Brooks as he made for her halter.

Feisty was an understatement. Mockery did not suffer fools. The near black mare reared up on her back legs, pawing the air as if she thought she were the second-coming of the Black Stallion. Justin forced her down, his face only slightly paler than normal. Brooks huffed as he grabbed the filly’s halter, shooting Ripley a look. The head trainer wasn’t phased. Everyone knew that Mock took after her rebellious mother.

Al reined up alongside Mercenary aboard Fire It Up before she could take advantage of the chaos. The whites of her eyes were showing and she was more than a little amped up. The filly threw her head defiantly when Al tucked her in close to Comet, but the mature gelding wasn’t going to accept her bratty behavior. The son of Native Flame, a relation through his dam Winning Touch, knew all about the big and the bad. He’d grown up in a fiercely competitive crop and didn’t take anyone’s shit.

It was like watching a well-executed ballet. The team moved in sync, completely confident in their morning routine. The defiant behavior was just a minor piece of the written script. Momentarily, I forgot my ice cold toes and chattering teeth. I was just happy bearing witness to the spectacle.

I snatched my heavy coat from my car and followed along at a decent clip. Mercenary and Fire It Up led the way with Mockery held on the ground by Brooks and Ripley Marsh. Today, there wasn’t a following. It was much too cold for other people to come watch the juvenile workouts. I wondered if there might be a viewer or two behind the glass of the grandstand. Ripley hadn’t been able to keep these fillies a secret like the others. Their rebellious souls simply wouldn’t allow for their speed to be contained.

Malcolm was waiting alongside the rail and nodded at me when I approached. The blue eyed Irishman was well-liked on the racing circuit and gave advice like a man who’d worked with these animals for hundreds of years rather than his good-looking 40. “How you holding up, Kelsea?”

“Just dandy,” I said, pausing briefly to watch Mockery move into her traditional prance. She looked the part of a trojan horses readying for battle. Justin sat quietly in the saddle, his aura one of collection and confidence. He wasn’t the type to get rattled by a reckless filly. “I’m surprised that you’re here. I heard you were assisting with the foaling.”

“The mares will be fine. Lane and Kendall have it handled until I get back. Plus I wanted to see these two on the track. They’re special to me.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you have a soft heart for the fiery females.”

“Hmph,” Mal grunted. “Just don’t tell Adele. She has enough sass for ten women.”

I smiled at the name of Mal’s wife. Adele was a wily woman, but I liked her spirit and the fact that she could put Mal in his place with just a look. My eyes trailed to Mockery and Mercenary. Merc glided over the track, keeping herself a half step ahead of Mockery as they broke from a jog to a canter. Mock threw her head irritably, enraged with competitiveness. She didn’t transition as smoothly, more like she gave Justin whiplash, but he moved with her.

The duo settled down as they traveled into the clubhouse turn. Mercenary ran like the wind, eating up the ground with boundless energy. Her ears were pricked, full of knowing that this workout would last longer than just this moment when Mockery was pressuring her to keep up the pace. Laura was a burr on her back, tucked into her blowing mane, lost in the focus of the speed.

Justin stood in the saddle, combating the willful energy that Mockery threw at home. Mal shook his head, pulled a radio from his pocket and clicked it on. “Stop fighting her today, Justin.”

In what seemed like a millisecond, the filly was blowing by Mercenary. Her near black body dashed forward, her ears pricked right up as if she were out for a morning jaunt. It was quite the opposite, however. The five furlong workout had just been extended to six.

With Mockery in overdrive, Laura had no choice but to let Mercenary step it up. The light bay filly stretched her rangy body over the dirt, lowering her head as she naturally settled into the quicker pace. Merc was a deadly foe. She had stamina for days and she just did everything with ease. While Mockery wasn’t going to play the rating game today, she would be difficult to catch. Once the headwind was blowing full force, it was hard to stop.

Mockery was no longer fighting Justin. Even as she set a strong pace, the reins were looser than before. She moved strongly, but not like a powder keg about to explode. While the tactic might not prove out in a race, I knew that with this filly, there was no fighting. She would self-destruct. I couldn’t count the number of times that Mockery had decided she wouldn’t play ball by refusing to work because they wouldn’t let her run to the lead. I also couldn’t count the number of times, Mock appeared to blow a workout by lagging so far behind, but suddenly appeared on the front end by the time she hit the wire.

Her mercurial mood was the most dynamic part about her. By the half mile marker, Mercenary had closed the space between herself and Mockery. When Laura switched her to the outside lane, Mercenary’s ears flew back into her mane. As if that was her cue, Merc went on the attack. Her large body hurled forward as if she’d been shot out of a cannon. Suddenly, Mock was under attack.

The settled front runner pinned her ears back in retaliation, kicking onward with such ease that I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I knew that every juvenile work had looked good, but the disdain that Mockery possessed for her competition intimidated me. I knew why Malcolm wanted to see this filly because he knew her mind, held the key and thus understood how she wanted to run.

Laura DeComte threw the gauntlet down, pumping her hands on Mercenary. Just like that the 16.2 hand filly was running side by side with her smaller work-mate. Neither filly would give in to the pressure. They merely pushed one another harder and harder as their legs blurred beneath them and time fell in shards at their hooves.

I glanced at Malcolm when the duo swept through the wire, separated by only a nostril. His blue eyes glittered with pride and he nodded. “That’s why I came today.”

Ripley walked over then, shaking her head. “The clockers are going to think we can’t control Mockery.”

“We can’t,” Mal stated firmly. “You can’t control her mood, just like you can’t control the effectiveness of Mercenary’s late kick. Yet, when nurtured properly, both will be lethal weapons.”
Ripley met Mal’s eyes at that statement, a smile unfurling over her lips. “Just the way we like it, right Mal?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Charlatan & War Monger

The final day of juvenile workouts began without fanfare. The Breeders’ Cup was over and The Wire was a quiet scene with most of the major barns pulling back their stock for rest and relaxation. I enjoyed the peace. The reporters, the hoards of fans and the track people lingering about had a way of ratcheting up the pressure on the staff. I wasn’t even a piece of the Battle Brook Stable team and I’d felt tension creeping all over me when I’d follow Ripley out for morning workouts.

The morning air was clear and crisp, still winter, but my anticipation for the coming racing season had my blood warm. My breath framed the pair of juveniles that were walking around the shedrow, heads down as if they were prepping for a mission. Their riders sat upright in the saddle, feet hanging rather than in the stirrups. These colts weren’t the most uppity animals until the saw the track. At that point… shit got real, real quickly.

Ripley appeared at my elbow, pressing a thermal mug of hot coffee into my hands. “Welp. Two workouts left now.”

I smiled and sipped my beverage. “Only two because you kept Saccharine.”

“I wasn’t about to privately sell him,” Ripley said with a raised eyebrow. “If people miss an opportunity like that, I’ll take advantage of it. To be fair, I have kept his training pretty private.”

I nodded instead of responding. Ripley’s attention had already moved from Saccharine to the workout at hand. I knew she was fond of these next two horses as they were going to be very valuable in the breeding barn. Besides that long-run plot, they were two extremely talented animals. Charlatan and War Monger. The names rolled through my brain easily, forming around the syllables, the letters, the sounds. I thought each name suited its owner quite well.

Charlatan, a bay colt with long legs, was a son of Sweeto Cheeto, one of the hottest sires at the moment thanks to his Breeder’s Cup Turf winner, Melusine and the fleet-miler mare Sweet Mimosa. He was the first foal of his long-retired dam and had actually been bred for another barn. The business deal had fallen through, but the colt had grown up under the watchful eye of Ripley Marsh. He was a character, difficult to deal with in the stall and not afraid to take shots at his staff. I often admired his spirit, but I kept that a secret. He really was notorious for his attitude and I imagine, if not for his pedigree, he’d have been gelded really quickly.

Opposite him was War Monger. He was a few inches smaller than Charlie, but he was ever more imposing. His thick body gleamed nearly coal black in the soft morning light. He wore blinkers today and just gave off an aura of powerful control. Justin Santiago, his jockey, had ridden his sire’s half-sister, Dazzling Dame. I knew that Ripley had long ago wiggled a breeding out of Amber Black to Infinite Warcry before that horse even retired. I had to admire my friend’s eye. Combining Infinite Warcry with the steely grit of a Touch Up grand-daughter and Belmont Turf Classic Winner, The Devil’s Hourglass had been shrewd.

While Hourglass’ first filly, Fallen Angel, leaned heavily toward the dirt, there was no doubt that War Monger would be potent on the grass. Justin paused the colt in front of me and I held the colt’s rein while Ripley gave him a once over. War Monger chewed the bit irritably, tracking Charlatan as he made one more loop around the yard.

“Alright, they are all set,” Ripley said, nodding toward Brooks as she backed away from Monger. I watched Brookson ride Fire It Up out of the shadows to take up Charlatan as he walked by. The son of Sweeto Cheeto threw his head up, clearly insulted when his least-favorite babysitter joined him. I smirked. Charlie was a troublemaker. Kendall would have her hands full the minute they hit the track. The less time that colt was on his own, the better.

At the track, Ripley and I released War Monger. The colt walked off, so nonchalantly I had to grin. He could be such a jerk at the barn, but I loved everything about this horse. I don’t think I experienced this kind of affection for any of the other juveniles, except him. Justin cued the colt into a long, steady jog, one that ate the ground up so impressively that I felt like I was watching Infinite Warcry on the track.

Ripley’s eyes were trained on the strong-minded Charlatan as Fire It Up stepped into a canter. The bay horse frolicked briefly, crow-hopping one, two, three strides before he settled down. Ripley shook her head, but I could feel her relief when the colt settled down. He was a firecracker, notorious for his bad behavior. The more experience and rote things became, the better he became.

Justin and Kendall kept the horses at a consistent warm up pace their first time around the track. When the duo came down the lane a second time, Ripley radioed Brooks to have him release Charlatan. A few moments later, her husband released the juvenile and promptly pulled up on Fire It Up. Charlatan tossed his head defiantly, stutter-stepped two strides before promptly launching a buck that nearly jostled Kendall from her seat.

“Oh boy,” I said breathlessly. Ripley whistled through her teeth when Kendall took up on the reins. Justin brought War Monger close enough to keep Charlatan engaged until Kendall regained composure. Soon enough, the pair was chugging into the clubhouse turn, their strides growing longer as they calmed down.

I could hear War Monger snorting from across the track with every stride he took. Charlatan was notably silent, often only grunting or groaning during episodes of misbehavior. At the moment, he had a narrow lead over his darker counterpart, his ears bobbing back and forth over his head as he settled into his job.
War Monger tracked his workmate easily, his ears pricked as if he wasn’t putting in any effort at all. Justin got along well with these type of horses. I was brought back to the days of Hokum, where his efficient stride could turn into a blazing late-race kick. Justin could just stay out of a horse’s way and let them do their thing. It was a gift and clearly one that would benefit Monger in the long run.

The duo kicked up the pace into the final turn, moving stride for stride with another. I actually had to check my stopwatch to get a gauge on the performance. The time I saw surprised me. They were going so easily! How could two horses who were notorious for putting in slower times during their workout be moving this swiftly in a morning workout.

Ripley expressed similar surprise when Charletan lead the way out of the turn, his ears pinned against his skull. His long legs drew my eyes while War Monger’s imposing presence demanded me to pay attention to him as well. I didn’t know who to focus on. Each colt was equally impressive over the grass. The jocks waved their sticks, each received a mind-boggling response fifty yards from the wire.

The gallop out time was a demonstration of what closing speed could look like. I whistled through my teeth and exchanged a happy look with Ripley. Battle Brook could be set up with the most impressive turf colts they’d had on the track in a while. The sky was literally the limit for this handsome pair.

Second Edition: Juvenile Crossing
Alnitak & Saccharine

This was it. This morning would produce the final official juvenile workouts for Battle Brook Stable. Ripley Marsh had staged a proverbial clinic this morning, sending out her rising stars in a series of top-speed workouts. I knew a lot of this wasn’t the show of strength that the media would spin it as. I knew Ripley was just prepping her horses for the arduous year ahead, but seeing the likes of Breaking Point, Escape Artist, Roussong and Cataclysmic go through the gauntlet this morning reminded me that Battle Brook was still a force.

The force was just getting a lot stronger with the juvenile group that was ready to burst onto the scene. The next duo were sneaky good types with sneaky good bloodlines. Alnitak, a well put together chestnut colt and Saccharine, a kind-eyed gray, were model citizen types that didn’t typically draw attention to themselves unless they were begging for a treat or a pat on the nose. Their morning gallops were consistent, but not powerful and they certainly wouldn’t blow you away with any brilliant morning glory efforts. They would leave such amazing feats to others.

I know my audience is thinking… Well then why do we care? This sport is a “what have you done for me lately” kind of sport; one where speed figures and crushing leads matter and consistency only counts when discussing a Hall of Famers record of achievements. I am just as fallible when it comes to blazing demonstrations of speed, but I know there is something there when I watch these two colts. I’ve witnessed Saccharine’s incredible ability to just cut leads in half without making much effort at all. I’ve watched Alnitak go at stunningly consistent fractions over a distance of ground and come back breathing as though he were just out for a walk.

When Saccharine failed to draw a bid in the New Year Sale, I was there to hear Ripley let out an audible sigh of relief. Similarly, I remember Malcolm telling me that the only horse Ripley had actively pursued in recent years was Euphorion, Alnitak’s sire. In all of Battle Brook’s success, they never pursued the hot sire unless it was a sire that needed to be developed or that they had personally developed themselves on the racetrack. Tenacity, strength of will, consistency and physicality were the traits they wanted most in a horse. I believe they have found all of those traits in these two colts.

Maggiletti and Kendall were boosted into the saddles without fanfare. Each woman settled in, their feet dangling by the barrels of their horses’ sides and quietly picked up the reins. Unlike previous mornings, there was no outrider to come collect these juveniles. Steady-eddies often made less trouble than firestarters. I followed Malcolm and Ripley quietly as they took a hold of the lead ropes connected to Alnitak and Saccharine’s halters. Malcolm petted Al’s cheek before leading them toward the track.

I loved the way these two moved, docile as kittens but with the athletic strides of the best in the business. Al and Ace were the same size, but Al had more thickness in the chest and shoulder. Ace had an underlying tone of fragility to him, but I was certain it was only because of his coloring. One day, he would look like everyone’s favorite childhood unicorn, sans horn. I knew for a fact that Ace was a wiry sort of horse, one who couldn’t stand to be messed with and didn’t tolerate bullies.

Ripley and I settled along the rail when the horses skipped onto the track. Malcolm followed them down the rail a ways, settling into his customary spot. When I’d first taken up following the Battle Brook team, I had--like others--mistakenly believed there was a rift between the trainers. Now, I just realized this had more to do with strategy and the need for different angles while watching the horses train. It was a wise decision and made sense as Malcolm had a keen sense of when a horse just seemed naturally off. Even Ripley deferred to him when he was adamant that something was wrong.

While Alnitak took his jaunt around the track, Saccharine put up his typical morning fight in the laziest fashion possible: he didn’t budge an inch. The gray colt watched his stablemate take off, his big chocolate eyes bright and interested, but his hooves were dug four poster into the surface. The first time the son of Beyond His Candy did this, Kendall had looked around abashedly, but now she just sat there, watching Alnitak go through the motions as if she had all day.

“Al’s just such a terrific mover,” Ripley murmured. I had to agree. The good-looking son of Euphorion and Night Goddess covered the ground with such ease. At times, he appeared to hang in the air, a picturesque chestnut Pegasus. Maggiletti perched on his back, her eyes forward and her body stone still, but loose. Al’s ears were pricked and his eyes bright, clearly enjoying his job as always. I knew from Maggie’s words that Al was probably her easiest horse to ride. Even in group workouts, other horses bounced off of him like Teflon while he just continued forward, straight and true.

When Al completed his pre-exercise loop, Saccharine finally moved. The duo made a good match to go to the track, but they weren’t made to exercise together. Saccharine stepped out into his athletic trot, stretching his neck long and low as if he were just a western pleasure horse. When Al loped by, Saccharine threw his head, his first act of defiance, but didn’t move out of his consistent pace. I shook my head in amazement. If anyone tried that with Instigator or Scarlet Letter, I’d send my thoughts and prayers.

While Saccharine moved through his stretch, Al stepped from the dirt track to the turf. Although he was equally adept at both surfaces, Al would be aimed for the turf to start his career. Immediately upon touching the grass, the chestnut became more uppity, lifting his knees higher when Kendall signaled him forward. He didn’t ease into his workout, rather he leapt like a merry-go-round horse. His long body stretched into his perfect galloping stride and soon he was clocking fractions that were fast and efficient.

Alnitak had disguised talent. At first he could look average, but to watch him go through his morning tests, you would swear there was never any question. Once upon a time, Maggie had referred to Vagabond as her Michael Jordan. Honestly, I thought this could be her second coming as he flitted through four furlongs in :46 ⅗ around the dogs. She merely had to lift her hands as he bound around the turned to display a jaw-dropping gear of late speed.

Maggie only moved past the wire to give the horse a pat on the neck. Ripley was smiling, but the final time was hidden to all but herself as she cleared the stopwatch. I couldn’t help but note that despite the workout being completed, Alnitak’s gallop out could have been impressive all on its own.

Before I knew it, Saccharine was moving into his portion of today’s show. Kendall had to give him a little encouragement as they moved into the clubhouse turn, but as she guided him down to the rail, he seemed to gain steam. His competitive drive was that of a slow burn: his energy built the longer he ran. Soon, Ace needed no encouragement. Unlike Al, he ran low and long, his ears turned to listen to his rider. He had an imposing aura as he cut over the dirt, something I hadn’t expected to see from such a light-framed animal.

I was impressed to see a :23 flat first quarter pop up on Ripley’s watch. She quickly hid the screen, her eyes lingering on it for longer than usual. I returned my gaze to Ace, thrilling at the sight of his ease, but the speed of the watch. Kendall’s face was hidden by his blowing gray mane as he dashed for the turn. She flicked the reins across his withers. I barely saw the cue to change leads. The handsome colt shot around the turn, demonstrating speed and agility belonging to that of a sprinter.

“The most amazing thing about this one,” Ripley began as the gray sprinted down the lane, “is that he can sprint with the best of him, but I know he can go the classic distance. I can owe that to his pedigree and his level head. He’ll confound his opponents because they’ll think they can put him away, but he just keeps on coming.”

The gray soared through the wire, his stride stretched to its maximum length. I held my breath, capturing this image in my head like I would a still photo. Like Al, his gallop out was equally as impressive as the work, despite the swift fractions he’d just thrown up.

“Now you see why I’m glad Saccharine came back to me and why selling Alnitak was never an option?” Ripley asked rhetorically. I knew it was a question that didn’t an answer, but I still found myself nodding yes. My arms were covered with goosebumps and suddenly, my blood was up in anticipation for what couldn’t come soon enough.