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. 

Zenyatta and Me; A Freak and a Geek

A few years back there was a phenomenal race mare named Zenyatta. She is my hero.

Zenyatta is what the racing world calls a freak. In racing that’s a good thing. Of 20 starts, she won 19 in a 

row. I saw them all—including her maiden victory on Thanksgiving.

Zenyatta immediately appealed to a special group of fans—women.  That’s uncommon- most racing aficionados are men.  But when the Queen, as she was dubbed raced, women turned out in loud droves. They carried homemade signs and banners and often had friends and little girls in tow.  A Zenyatta race guaranteed a huge uptick in track attendance in a sport that badly needed it.

It was also a hoot. Her fans turned it into an occasion. Some dressed in her racing colors (a not particularly flattering combination of turquoise and pink), others wore hats with giant ‘Z’s on them.  I quickly discovered that these were my people. Nobody cared about age or gender.

Actually that’s not true. Zenyatta became a folk hero precisely because of her age and gender. She didn’t start racing until she was four—quite old for a Thoroughbred. That she was a mare made her even more special. The racing world reveres it’s stallions for the money they bring in the breeding shed when they are finished at the track.

From the moment she entered the walking ring before the race Zenyatta was on. While the other mares paced quietly, Zenyatta danced. She paraded around the ring, dragging her groom behind her.

When she came on track her rider, Hall of Fame jockey Mike Smith, would take her to the eighth pole and let her just stop and gaze at the crowd. The fans went wild every time. 

When Zenyatta ran, she was a tease. She was a closer, so she’d always be far behind the pack –sometimes as much as 11 strides- as they came into the final turn. Then she’d just lengthen her step, and demolish the other horses. She didn’t like to win by a lot, just enough to rub her competition’s faces in the loss. Every race was dramatic.

When she was five, about halfway through her career, I decided to write a book about her. I knew there was a market—at the time Zenyatta had more than 75,000 Facebook friends. Queen Z had her own blog which her fans read and quoted it voraciously.

Also, everyone involved with the horse was interesting. Her connections, the owner, trainer and jockey, became rock stars to the fans. Zenyatta’s owner Jerome Moss, is the ‘M’ in A&M records and was used to dealing with real rock stars. Zenyatta is named for the Police album Zenyatta Mondatta.

John Sherriffs, the trainer, is understated but highly respected. He’d won the Kentucky Derby for the Mosses the year Zenyatta started her career. Mike Smith, the jockey, had his ups (a wonderkind, he set all sorts of records for stakes wins in New York) and downs (devastating falls that left him with a broken back among other things).

I spent the next year and a half interviewing people for the book. Meanwhile Zenyatta continued her assault on the best horses in the game. That included a breathtaking win in the Breeder’s Cup Classic, which was run against the best male horses in the world.

I acquired an agent who worried me when he asked me where he should submit the book. (Wasn’t that his job?) But I didn’t care where it went; I just wanted it published.  The fans wanted it out. Everyone but the Mosses, who were said to be doing something of their own, wanted it out.

Zenyatta’s last race was a big one—it was another shot at the Breeder’s Cup Classic. All of the outlets I had talked to—and who had refused to do a story on women and racing—suddenly were covering her. But not her fans.  Among  them was a Vogue shoot, a 60 Minutes feature and a piece on NPR. She may have been the Queen, but she had become the people’s horse.

I went to Kentucky to watch the Queen’s final race and was greeted by a banner across a street in downtown Louisville welcoming her. There are two days of Breeder’s Cup races but the Classic was the only one that people were talking about. A lot of Zenyatta fans had made the trip- about 30 had had gathered  for drinks and  gossip on Friday night before the race. Churchill Downs was sold-out and the crowd was pumped.

And then she lost. Only by a neck- if the race had been two strides longer she’d have caught the winner. You could literally hear a pin drop in the stands. The wind was sucked out of the place.

I was devastated. I felt like my best friend had just been defeated. And after two years of living with her daily, I guess she had been.

Zenyatta won Horse of the Year that year, an honor she’d been denied the previous one. She was bred to a fantastic stallion, and gave birth to a colt- CoZmic One, who at two has now begun his training.

As for my book? The few publishers who saw it, passed—most told me that it was because she didn’t win her last race. Really?  I think it’s because her fans --she now has about 100,000 Facebook followers- are faceless. And women.

But I’m as stubborn a competitor as Zenyatta.  I’m updating the book with CoZmic One, and will try again with a different agent and hopeful a small publisher

Horse Racing Saved My Life

This is an older piece; never published and not terribly funny but painfully true. The recent PETA revelations made me dig it out. 

Horse racing saved my life. Sadly, I didn’t hit the Pick Six when it was $3 million; the most I’ve ever won is about $38. Horse racing however, did give me a new career, new friends and associates and a sense of purpose.

Roll back to 2001. Even before 9/11 it was easily the worst year of my life. My dog and cat died within two months of each other. Then my uncle lost his fight with Leukemia.  While I was in Connecticut sitting shiva with my family, my new boss at the record company (remember record companies?) ordered me back to LA. To fire me.

I bumbled through for the next year or so trying to find work. Most of my old business associates were chilly. I wasn’t surprised: in the music business once you lose your gig, you might as well have Ebola. Particularly if you are over 40. And female. In what seemed like moments, I went from booking rock stars on TV shows to selling calendars in a mall kiosk.

Weeks into my redundancy, my show horse had to be retired.  For the first time in 30 years, I had nothing to do in the morning. Instead of being at the barn at 6:30 to ride before work—I had no work and nowhere to go. Getting out of bed became challenging.

Then William Shoemaker died. Though I hadn’t been to the track regularly since college, I considered myself a racing fan. On a whim I went the memorial service at Santa Anita. It was sad, but the people were warm even to an obvious outsider

I started going to the track in the afternoons just for fun—Lord knows I didn’t have enough money to gamble. That led to watching the horses work in the mornings.

It was better than Disneyland. And free. At any given moment there were dozens of stunning horses galloping down the track.

                

The best time was as the enormous tractors dragging the dirt finished. There would be 20 or 30 horses impatiently milling around. They were like little kids waiting for recess: some stood quietly while others were kicking, bucking and generally throwing hissy fits. As soon as the all clear was given, they got down to business. Running.

                

I was fascinated by the outriders. They were often my age or older, since in racing -unlike the music business -being over 40 isn’t a dismissible offence. They didn’t always look pretty, but damn could they ride! Occasionally a horse would lose its rider and the track buzzers and sirens would go off warning of the loose horse. The outriders would kick into gear. They’d charge down to the loose horse and cut it off and grab it in one smooth move.  They usually had the horse back to the gate long before the rider unceremoniously limped home.

                

There was a feeling of camaraderie around Clocker’s Corner where I started hanging out. Trainers, owners, riders and visitors all gathered around the coffee stand to chat and gossip. After a few weeks Rosie knew I just wanted coffee, and handed it to me with warm greeting. So did everyone else. If I missed a day, people noticed. Racing is a roller coaster world: the trainer or jockey who hadn’t won a race in a month just might hit a streak. Careers are rarely over—just on a downswing.

               

  Before my music biz career, I was a freelance music journalist. I began pitching features to the Blood-Horse, and was lucky enough to find an editor willing forgive the fact that I was (and remain) a rank amateur in the horse racing world and let me write a little.

                

Getting ideas was easy in the mornings. A man was wearing a tee-shirt with a fire department logo and a horse that read LAR. I talked to him and discovered he was a fireman who had taken one of the country’s few Large Animal Rescue training courses. I was taking to a jockey one morning and he told me about breeding homing pigeons as a child. I convinced the Los Angeles Times to let me do a piece on the huge –albeit almost invisible-- sport of long distance racing pigeons. My horse show background led to a piece for Blood-Horse on Michael Matz long before Barbaro broke his leg and the nation’s heart. I was privileged to spend an afternoon with Merv Griffin at his horse ranch not long before his death. The racetrack is filled with interesting characters, and I became one of them.

                

I met trainers, vets, owners, grooms and track personnel and discovered that most racetrackers share a few characteristics. They work horrible hours—weekends and holidays included-- and are on call 24/7. And they hate when their horses are injured or ill. The worst part of their job is when a horse dies.

                

When a horse goes down—whether it’s Eight Belles or George Washington in a graded stakes, a gelding in a cheap claimer or in the morning works—the backside mourns. They are a close knit group and for most the horses are not just their livelihoods, but their family. When a horse dies, it’s never just another day. There is a pall over the backside.

                

Racing is a brutal life for the horses and the humans, but it’s a part of me—and hundreds of thousands of others, that we could never give up. In the past my dream was to work the next monster tour and chart topping artist. My new goal? Getting my pony license.  And I dare you to tell me it’s not as rewarding.