Horse Sense and Dirty Work

I didn't intend for my morning adventure to be a post topic.  I actually had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to meet two of Corey's friends at 6:30am for coffee and a tour of the innards of the Saratoga horse racing facilities.

Ohmigoodnessgraciousitwassostinkincool!!

...play it cool, Stace.  Play it cool.

I mean, it was ok.

Yeah, we got to meet some big shot trainers.

Chatted with the owner of West Point Thoroughbreds.

Said hello to itsy bitsy jockeys.

No big whoop.

Thanks to Corey's reporter friend, Claire, we came within inches of at least half a million horses.

Slight exaggeration, I apologize.

On the million part.

Because we were within mere inches. 

I was able to resist petting each one (although barely) thanks to a grumpy rider who scolded Corey for swatting at a bee.  I figured if the horsies are startled by "BEE!!" dancing they certainly aren't going to like a hand darting out in front of their faces with a crazy person attached to it.

So instead I picked at my lip.

We walked all around the barns and I was able to see the "real" side of racing.

Corey will tell you, eyes rolled and totally honest, I bug the crap out of him when it comes to how horse people treat their investments.  Because really, you don't races horses because you like to see them run fast or you think it's funny when they snort across the finish line.  You race them to win money.  And I like to know that they are treated like living, breathing creatures should be.

And as far as I could tell, they were.  Especially by the trainer at this stable.  The dears had their baths and their treats.  They got out to stretch their legs and take a leisurely stroll through the grounds.  In other words, they live better than I do.

Girl's gettin' a manicure.  Or is that a pedicure?

Don't even get me started on how beautiful these suckers are.  The dang things are so long and lean, I could watch them for hours.

I did watch them for hours.  We were there until 9am.

Work?

Eh.

Why work when you can ogle Rachel Alexandra?

Work it girlfriend.  Work it.

I eventually did make it in to work, with the excuse of an ingrown toenail or something quasi-believable, where I stunk up the office with the smell of dirty hay and horse poop still on my skin and in my hair.

...haven't been able to place the dirty feet smell, though.  i'm not wearing my stinky shoes.

So thank you, thank you, thank you Claire for smuggling us into the "other side" and giving us an experience we might have never had as simple spectators.

Or as they say on the backstretch: gracias.