Siri and the Lost Girls; A Trip to Three Chimneys Farm

Most people I know are currently on vacation. One friend and her partner are currently on a dream trip through Britain and France. Another just returned from my bucketlist vacation: a two week jaunt to the Galapagos. Others are planning get-a-ways to Hawaii and Las Vegas.  

Not me. The only times I’ve been away in the last five years as been to visit mom in Massachusetts.  Which isn’t exactly a holiday.

I’m not complaining. Too much, Instead of vacations, I have horses. There are three retired geezers in the backyard, a yearling growing up at a breeding farm and yet another is in training at a show barn. 

Between them they cost the equivalent of several first class trips a year. That’s before I add in vet bills.

I love them all and I think they are fond of me. Occasionally, though, I’d like to get away from quadrupeds. I rarely do.  These days even my vacations are horse related.

My last real holiday was six years ago. I went with five of my closest gal pals to Louisville, Kentucky to see the Breeder’s Cup.  It was like herding cats. Someone was always going the wrong way.

We had lots of side trips scheduled (herding cats again) but our primary purpose was to watch Zenyatta win the Breeder’s Cup Classic for the second time, and lock in Horse of the Year for 2016. Nothing went quite as planned.

We arrived in Kentucky on Wednesday morning giddy and tired from taking the red eye from Los Angeles. The plan was to pick up our rental car and zip down to Lexington and zip over to Three Chimineys, which was having an open house until 1pm.  Smarty Jones was still standing there and I was a big fan.

It seemed simple enough.  We picked up the rental car, plugged in our GPS, and after a quick stop at the Waffle House, we were on our way.

Easy, right? Not so much. I have a bad habit of getting lost. A lot. I have been known to go off course on a hunter course, and that takes a talent.

Kathy had her iPhone and we were following Siri’s directions to the letter, but I have to say it: Siri’s an idiot.  After an hour and a half of driving up and down the 64 we were getting a little testy.

Eventually we had what I thought was a genius idea: we went to The Lexington Horse Park and asked directions. Even Siri could find The Horse Park. The cheerful lady at the kiosk assured us that Three Chimneys was “just a skip” from where we stood.  She even took out a map and helpfully drew a wiggly line marking the route.

We piled back into the car, chuckling at what dopes we were. Then we proceeded to drive around in circles for another hour.  We did see some of the most beautiful horse country in the world: white fences surrounding lush pastures filled with herds of broodmares.

The third time we drove past Claiborne Farms tempers started to flair. It was getting late and we were beyond tired. Some people wanted to give up, relegating Three Chimneys to other mythical realms like Atlantis and Narnia.

Not me. The later it got, and the more lost we became, the more I dug my heels in. We were going to see Smarty Jones, damn it! And I was driving.

Just after one o’clock we finally pulled into the farm. It was gorgeous and practically empty. We stopped in front of the office, and I ran inside. There was a lady with a huge bow in her hair, and a wary look in her eyes.

“The farm is closed,” she said.

I smiled, and pleaded, “I know we’re late, but we flew in from LA this morning just to come here. We got really lost and… I swear, we won’t get in the way.”

“The stallions are tired. You have to leave.”

“But…”

“They need to rest.”

“But.”

“I’m sorry.”  She pointed to the door.

Outside I gazed at the stallion barns. They were close enough to sneak into, and I considered it. But the lady had come out of the office and was watching me. Closely.

We got back into the car and glumly headed back to Louisville. No one but Siri said a word. She was perky as she directed us straight into Indiana.

We were staying in Louisville.

We turned around and returned to Kentucky.

The rest of the trip was spectacular. (Except for Zenyatta losing, that was awful.). We went to Lane’s End and I got to meet A.P. Indy and Curlin. At Old Friends I fed Little Silver Charm and we visited the Lousiville Slugger factory. I got a teeny mini bat.

We even snuck in to see the horses work on Friday before the races. It was supposed to be closed to the public, but the head of security took pity on our carload of middle aged women from Los Angeles and let us in. I think he was a little afraid of us.

It was a great vacation. Next year we’re talking about going to Royal Ascot for the races. I think we’ll get a guide. It seems like the smart thing to do.

My Future Ex-Husband, Mike E. Smith

My future ex-husband, jockey Mike Smith, rides Songbird, the top three-year filly, and probably the top three-year old in the country. Wait, you didn’t know I had a future ex-husband? Don’t feel bad, he doesn’t know either.

Mr. Smith, Mikey to some of his fans (but not me), is the innocent punchline to a long running joke with my friends. He’s my celebrity crush. The likelihood of Mike even remembering my name, much less becoming my husband (and later ex) and next to nill. None of that matters.

In the past most of my celebrity crushes have been really stupid.  In my defense, celebrity crushes are by definition, dumb.

But mine are particularly dumb since my crushes are usually barely celebrities. Calling a guitar player for an indie band a celebrities pushes the boundaries of the term. My list of past crushes is littered with non-recovering addict/guitarists, or even worse, bass players.  I do draw the line at drummers. I have some standards, after all. Just kidding. I don't.

My first crush was on Peter Tork from The Monkees. So there you are. Never met him, and don’t need to.  Anymore.

I first heard about Mike Smith back in 2002, when I was just getting back into racing and was edging out of the music business.  (Even way back then, MTV had nothing really to do with music.)

Mike is a killer rider and was inducted into the Racing Hall of Fame in 2002 while he was riding a remarkable filly named Azari. She was the Horse of the Year in 2002 and Champion Older Mare from 2002- 2004 and won 17 out of 24 starts.  She was, in short,  a superstar. 

If that didn’t get my attention, Mike Smith later became the regular rider for Zenyatta.

Anyone who knows me, knows Zenyatta.  Owned by Jerry Moss (he of A&M Records fame and money), Zenyatta won 19 of her 20 starts, including the Breeder’s Cup Classic against males. She was Horse of the Year in 2010 and Champion Older Mare three times.  I saw every race she ran except for one. I am such a fangirl that I wrote a book about her.

True story:  I was more nervous meeting her trainer John Sheriffs, than I was when I met Keith Richards.  And I worship Keith Richards.

I had met Mike a few times over the years when friends hired him to ride their racehorses. I'm using the word ‘met’ loosely. It means he shook my hand and said hello in the walking ring before his races. 

But if I was writing a book on Zenyatta, I needed to do a sit down interview. I didn’t think he’d want to waste his time on me, so I begged my friend Kristin, who is a trainer, to call Mike’s agent and set it up.

I'm wary of meeting my heroes, and usually I am right. Nick Cave was star in my eyes. A genius even. Until I worked with him for a summer on Lollapalooza. I realize he was a strung-out mess then, but he was also a first class douche. I still can’t even look at a photo of him without wanting to hit something.

It took a decade after meeting Bob Dylan for me to listen to his music again, and that’s because, well, he’s Bob Dylan.

So when it was time to sit down with Mr. Smith, I was a wreck. I should have relaxed.

Mike Smith is considered one of the nicest people in racing. In addition to tons of riding titles, he’s also received the Big Sport of Turfdom (twice) and Santa Anita’s prestigious George Woolf Award. The former is given to people who enhance the sport of Thoroughbred racing; the latter is voted on by jockeys and given annually to the most decent active rider in the business.

Plus he’s got a really nice smile.

We met in the jock's room at Del Mar. On his birthday. Mike is known as a wine aficionado so I brought him a good bottle of red. For which he thanked me profusely.

We talked for quite a while. He admitted he had a way with mares. Well d'uh!

He also blamed himself for Zenyatta’s only loss and it haunted him. Mind you, this was two years after the fact. 

We chatted until he excused himself because he had to ride a race. Which he won.

We exchanged phone numbers in case I needed to follow up with more questions. That afternoon he sent me a text thanking me for the wine.  I practically swooned.

Seriously, this was a first. I’m used to folks in the music business who aren’t exactly known for their manners. Or humility.

From then on, whenever Mike won a big race, I sent him a text congratulating him. There have been a lot of them. Including more than two dozen Breeder’s Cup races.  Every single time he texted me back to thank me.

Mike talks to about a million people a year, so I’m pretty sure that he has no idea who I am, but he’s just a really nice man.

Still, a gal can dream.

So Mike,  if this somehow reaches you, call me, maybe? Or maybe not.