I had a dream last night that I was on a racehorse. We were mid-pack and flying down the homestretch. A gap between two Thoroughbreds was opening up before me. Power surged through my horse and into my arms as she readied herself for her big move. Adrenaline.
The sun, a low early morning sun, was slanted sideways into my eyes. Strong golden light and dark shapes were to my right and the brilliant colors of horseflesh and jockey silks were in sharp detail to my left. My ears thundered with falling hooves and the roar of the crowd.
I balanced upon my horse, my thighs strong and tight, my hands hard around the reins but ready to loosen them as soon as the gap opening up before us was clear. My horse's mane flew in my face, her flat ears bobbed up and down with her head.
The gap cleared. I let my horse go.
Then suddenly, all was quiet. Time slowed. The urge to look to my right overcame me and I did.
And there she was.
She passed me, passed us, moving slowly yet much faster than the rest of us. Her long, long legs stretched out on and on as her strides let her fly over the track, her head and ears high in pure sheer joy, the sun breaking around her like a halo. She was all dappled dark bay hide, all lean muscle and flying tail. Her jockey clung to her back like a turquoise gem, his arms moving with her neck, body and whip tucked away tight. She was so long that she seemed to pass us forever, her stride hanging just-so, her hooves perfectly poised long enough for us all to see her.
And then she was gone and the roar of the crowd and the thunder of the hooves and my horse's strength within my hands and arms returned. My horse was as strong as ever, my horse flew through the gap and ahead of the field, but a part of her faltered at the sight of Zenyatta flying before us, pulling further and further away.