Short story written for school. Hope you like it.

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It was a cool, misty morning that day. Fog blurred everything more than a few feet away from me, and what cars I saw on the little two-lane highway were taking it safe and slow. My old green Ford lurched as I turned onto the service road, damp gravel churning underneath the tires as they sought their grips. It was still cold out, and I had the car’s heater running at full, but the calm weatherman singing a hymn inside my radio was assuring his devoted listeners that the day would be bright and cheery by their lunchtimes.

I was more skeptical - this was early March, after all. I flipped the channel, hoping to hear something worth remembering. Pride of Fury had won the Futurity last night, my new station hummed. I’d always liked him, even with my professional detachment to the sport, I had to admit the little guy had spunk. My destination rose out of the fog in front of me, looming into existence like a mountain springing out of nowhere.

Penthouse Course was just as I expected a small, out of the way racetrack to be - big but boring. I had never felt interested in rural tracks like these, and if I had my way I’d never visit them for anything - but the case I was after was training here.

So here I was, with no one to greet me as I parked my car behind the ticketing area. Penthouse Course boasted a nice little asphalt parking lot out front, and it was probably the best piece of asphalt in this part of Tennessee - not that that said much for it. An old man was minding the ticketing booths, and he barely noticed me when I approached the gate.

“Racin’ ain’t till after lunch,” was all he mumbled.

“I’m not here for the races,” I told him, “My name’s Joe Michaels. I’m a sportswriter for the Times.”

“Eh? What‘s that yuh say?” he asked without looking up from his newspaper.

The Small Town Star, it must have been called.

“I said I’m Joe Michaels,” I repeated, louder, “I work for the Times!”

“The Times?”

“Yes,” I repeated in exasperation, “The New York Times! I’m a sportswriter!”

“Oh,” he said. “Sounds like a nice job. Bet it pays good money for yuh. What’cha looking’ for, Joe?”

“Are the Fast Futures Stables training here?”

“The what stables?”

“Fast Future Stables,” I said again, “Owned by a woman named Margaret O’Donnell?”

“Oh,” he said, “You must mean Missus Maggie. Yeah, she’s here. Should be by the track.”

And he went back to his newspaper.

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Feeling annoyed, I headed inside. There were closed off concession areas, betting parlors with bars over their windows seemingly just a formality. There was just one thing about small tracks that could ever make me visit them - unlike big places like Saratoga, and Belmont, and Santa Anita especially, the floors were free of trash and ripped up betting stubs. It was still cold though, I reminded myself as I pulled my denim jacket closer. Although I have never been a particularly large fellow and the jacket was a little too big, it still let the cold air in. I passed through a covered tunnel and entered the empty grandstands. By now the fog had started to lift, and I could see the whole course as if through a veil. Not much of a track, but the mist gave it a slightly unreal appearance as I picked my way to a space in the fence where I could slip into the area where owners and trainers would watch their horses run from. Penthouse Course thoughtfully gave them a standing area right below the fans as their own, and it was by the track rail that my target was waiting. Small for a woman of thirty-four, I could see why she had the professional nickname of ‘Little Maggie’. She was sitting on the rail itself, and didn’t notice me as I approached from behind.

Prepared for another conversation like the one at the gate, I cleared my throat and said, “Mrs. O’Donnell, I’m Joe Michaels. You may recall we spoke on the phone -”

“Just call me Maggie,” she interrupted me. “I canna stand all that formality.”

She had a strong accent. Margaret hopped off the railing and faced me, her head barely coming to my chest.

“And I remember yea just fine. Yea be hoping to write an article about the Grand Old Man, are yea not? Well, feel free to look around all yea like - I’ll be in the barn if yea need me.”

And without another word Margaret walked off towards the stables. The way these small-town people acted was beginning to grate on my nerves, and I decided to observe the track first. The interview could wait.

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I had been hanging around the track for another half-hour when the first of the optimistically named ‘Fast Future’ horses came by. Pulling out my notepad and a pen, I began jotting down notes. Margaret O’Donnell was notorious amongst the racing industry for taking on broken down, uncontrollable, and sometimes even malformed racehorses that other stables would put to sleep. Most wondered why she even bothered, myself included. I had looked up a few of the more famous cases last night, but it was still a bit of a surprise to see them passing in front of my very eyes.

First came a brown gelding, which was running right alongside a five-year old chestnut called Run Aside. Back in his second and third years, Run Aside had been one of the fastest sprinters ever recorded for the mile. However, any time his jockeys had tried to make him go further the colt would grid to a halt, turn around, and bolt the whole way back to the start, sometimes diving into the starting gate if it was still there and open. His old trainer had tried to cure him of that by having the sprinter run between two other horses at all times during training, forcing him to sprint up to a mile and a half without being able to stop. Besides nearly ruining the colt’s wind, that treatment had forced a second of Run Aside’s unusual traits forward - Run Aside began refusing to go out onto the track without at least one other horse right beside him. He stopped racing and that might have been the end of him as a horse had not Margaret gotten a hold of him. As I watched, the exercise boys on the two horses began a routine of running the horses together and slowly letting the gelding drop back. Run Aside let the other horse’s head get to his hindquarters before slowing down to match with a panicked whinny.

“He’s going a lot further than yesterday,” the exercise boys - both locals - called to each other, speaking in rhythm to the hoof beats.

“Almost made the tail this time. Try again. Try again.”

They moved to the backstretch and I missed the rest of their workout. It didn’t matter - Run Aside wasn’t the horse I was here to see.

There were only three horses of Fast Future’s Stables boarding at Penthouse Course, I recalled. It was later in the morning - the sun had finally risen and the fog was finally burning off - when I spotted the second one gamboling down the track. Even in the shadowy fog, the silhouette was unmistakable. The large gray three-year old that passed me now was none other than Sideshow. His lopsided head, a trademark, bobbled wildly as he trotted along. Sideshow was one of the most famous of Margaret’s malformed racers. If I could recall his pedigree correctly…Sideshow, a colt of Skywalker by Saint Ann. His dam, Saint Ann, had been a professional broodmare owned by the same man who had trained the famous Skywalker. Skywalker hadn’t been that exceptional of a racehorse, with one exception - his neck was over twice the length of a normal horse’s. What made it ever more comical was how Skywalker carried his head up high in the air at all times. Sideshow had inherited his father’s giraffe-like neck, but at a price. From what I understood, Sideshow’s head had actually been twisted around and tucked underneath his forelegs at birth. His neck was still the same long Skywalker neck - two-thirds of the way up. The last third was bent backwards and to the side, giving the poor horse a perpetual list to the left. His owner had kept the colt around for over a year, hoping the neck would eventually right itself. Margaret had swooped down on the prospect the moment she heard of it, and I could see that Sideshow was actually in fully fit condition as his exercise boy wheeled him around and he passed me again. What Sideshow’s career would end up being like remained to be seen.

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I headed for the stables as the racetrack staff arrived, pausing only to finish the half of my sandwich I hadn’t eaten for breakfast and toss the bag into a trash can on the way. There were a few dozen local horses boarding here, and it took me some time navigating past them all to find the row where Fast Future Stables had taken residence. Six stalls were being used at this end, and out of four of them large horse heads stuck out in mute inquiry at my presence. Run Aside snorted and withdrew his head after another minute; the two stable geldings nickered. I paused by Sideshow’s stall as the horse nibbled hay from the manger. It, the water bucket, and his oat box were mounted right up by the top of the door where his tilted head could get at them - since Sideshow couldn’t get his head to the floor. What really surprised me was seeing the yearling filly in one of the last two stalls. There hadn’t been anything about a Fast Futures filly being trained here. I instantly recognized that she had to be one of Margaret’s group, though - she only had one foreleg. It stuck out between where the two forelegs would be on a normal horse.

“Yea’ve met me little Lefty, I see,” came Margaret’s voice from behind me.

I hadn’t seen her before - but she could easily have been in the last stall. Her head only went halfway past the door.

“Lefty?” I inquired.

“Two Left Feet, out of The Bomber by Banshee,” she informed me with glee.

I shuddered as I recognized the name of Banshee. Anyone who’s ever heard of that particular mare would do the same. Banshee was named so because she had a tendency to start screaming and then keep it up for hours. No stable ever wanted her, because none of the horses or grooms or anyone living within a mile radius ever got any sleep and some even went deaf. The only good uses of her screams were shown the few times she’d gotten on the track - the other horses wouldn’t go near her and she won every time. Come to think of it, I wasn’t that surprised Margaret had picked her up.

“So, Joseph me lad, what do yea think of her?”

“Can she even run,” I blurted out without thinking.

Luckily for me, Margaret didn’t take offense.

“Aye, and plenty fast too, without having to drag around that extra leg. I’m just starting up her race training now, she took her breaking without a lick o’ trouble, unlike her ma. But she’s not who yea came to meet, methinks.”

I glanced at the last stall. It was empty.

“Yea just missed him; the Grand Old Man’s running in the first race, which starts just about now.”

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I barely remembered to ask her some of the questions I had worked so hard on last night as she grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me back towards the track. The race officials that were running around getting ready to open the course tipped their hats as we went by.

“Afternoon, Missus Maggie.”

“Good to see you again, Missus Maggie.”

It baffled me that everyone around here both knew her name and would come up and talk to her - several started to, anyway. When they noticed Margaret was with me they simply waved and moved along. I nearly tripped over my own feet when she suddenly halted. Before I could say anything in protest, she was up on the railing and pointing towards the horses warming up for the race.

“Do yea seen him lad?”

It was a little hard for me to miss him: my subject was the only one of the horses not being lightly breezed before the race. He was actually loafing. And this was the horse my editor had insisted was one for the record books? It was impossible to get a good look before all the horses moved into the starting gate. The now-packed stadium grew silent as the last of the horses took their places inside the gate, only to then stand and roar the words that herald every horse race in America -

“AND THEY’RE OFF!”

I don’t actually remember the race that well. Out in front of the pack, all well-bred horses in their own right, was a unpleasant stallion who had the ugliest face I’d ever seen on an animal. His Roman Nose was so pronounced that it appeared the front of his face was falling off; his coat was the exact color of mud; and his body was heavyset. But he didn’t run - he flew - I’d never seen a horse move like that before, and I’d probably never see another one like it again. As he drew abreast with me, I made eye contact. I don’t think I had ever seen so much contempt for humanity in a person before - this horse known as the Grand Old Man looked like he was simply indulging his rider in a ridiculous trot through the park. But you could see the eight other high class horses under the whip a dozen lengths back, and that distance was growing.

And he passed me, and that was it. He won, obviously, and without even trying. I asked Maggie the rest of my questions and headed back to my car, hoping I could manage to get back and write an article that could even begin to describe my introduction to a whole new understanding of horse racing. In my head, I started:

‘They call him the Grand Old Man - though he may not be more than four years of age, this son of Hastings has the same unmistakable bearing of his fabled Nephew, Man o War…’