Secretariat's Meadow

Excerpts

From Chapter One - The Paragon NEW EXCERPT

 

The buzz at  Saratoga Race Course on that sticky Saturday, August 16, 1972, was not about Jane Fonda visiting Hanoi, the enemy capital of North Vietnam,nor about the ongoing Watergate cover-up. Track insiders didn’t even glance at the latest times of the Kentucky Derby winner,Riva Ridge.

 

No, the hot topic of the day concerned who would win the Sanford Stakes, a contest for two-year-olds worth only $25,000. Seasoned horse fans hoped for clues to Saratoga’s favorite parlor game: who will win the next Kentucky Derby? In particular, folks wondered if the unbeaten favorite,Linda’s Chief,could hold off a newcomer, a big, handsome chestnut who,in just three races, had shown promise. His name was Secretariat.

 

His owner, my mother, Penny Chenery (at the time,Tweedy),viewed the Sanford with a wait-and-see attitude. True, her good-looking red colt had just posted a blistering workout, but as horsemen say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” He had not yet displayed real talent. That, she thought, resided in Riva Ridge, her ugly duckling with speed, a three-year-old who almost set a record in his Kentucky Derby win three months earlier.  Besides, who can expect to win back-to-back Derbies?

 

Though relatively new to the sport,Mom had charge of a stable with a distinguished history—Meadow Stud, in Doswell, Virginia. Technically it belonged to my grandfather, Chris Chenery.  He had grown up shoeless in rural Virginia, horse-crazy and hungry for economic security. A driven man, he made millions as a New York financier, but success came at a steep  price, a heart attack in 1936 at age 50. That year he returned to reclaim the old family farm, The Meadow. To satisfy his passion for horses, he restored the dilapidated house and created a first-class Thoroughbred breeding and racing farm. By 1962, The Meadow had fielded four national champions. For thirty years, it represented Granddaddy’s passion, his redemption, and his glory.

 

 Yet the prize he coveted most, the Kentucky Derby,always eluded him. Soon his health began to flag and with it the stable’s bottom line. Meanwhile Mom’s role of dutiful wife in suburban Denver had begun to pall as well. So in 1968, when her ailing father had to retire, Mom grabbed the stable’s reins with gusto. Faced with lukewarm support from her siblings and a bloated budget, Mom struggled to keep the stable, and her father’s dreams, alive.  Then, in May of 1972, she struck gold.  Home-bred Riva Ridge trounced his Kentucky Derby rivals, drawing tears of joy from her bedridden father. Riva not only achieved her father’s highest goals, but his earnings stopped Mom’s siblings from pushing for dispersal of the stable. Even people who don’t like racing love trophies and the winner’s circle. 

 

Riva’s Derby win thrilled me too, but as a Colorado girl of the 1960s, I viewed my family’s success in the blueblood “Sport of Kings” as a bit surreal. Still, when Mom invited me to Saratoga, I willingly shed my bellbottoms, scrounged up a nice dress and some pantyhose,and joined her at the historic spa.

 

 On that muggy Saturday afternoon we toured the backstretch where the horses were stabled before the race. As a Derby winner, Riva had gotten accustomed to visitors. Calm and magnanimous, he allowed me to stroke his black nose. But his younger stablemate didn’t want company and wheeled away from my outstretched hand, flashing glimpses of gleaming copper as he danced in his stall. I had last seen Secretariat as a yearling at The Meadow, a stunner even then. Now his intensity, his extra-large girth, the muscles that rippled under his shining coat all conveyed images of power. His presence was electric.

 

In the saddling paddock Mom explained his record. The first time out, he’d gotten bumped and struggled to find his stride. When he finally did, he rushed to the leaders, managing to finish fourth. In his next two races, he also broke last, but came from behind to win easily. As she reminded me, two-year-olds are still learning to race, and what looks like lightning might just be momentary fireworks. In the Sanford, Secretariat would face proven quality for the first time.

 

In the starting gate Secretariat waited beside Linda’s Chief. The starter’s bell clanged. “They’re off!” shouted the announcer. The horses leapt forward, found their legs, and raced into the straightaway, their hooves rhythmically pounding the turf. The first four moved together like a phalanx while the red horse trailed as usual. His legs struck the dirt with heavy strides, as if he couldn’t get into his gear. The others flew along the backstretch,ripping a speedy first quarter mile as Secretariat still lagged. Slowly his movements began to synchronize, becoming smoother. His legs pumped faster, more powerfully.  By the far turn, Secretariat had caught up to the crowd. They had run a sizzling half-mile.

 

Around the turn, two horses battled for the lead on the rail, with Linda’s Chief at their heels on the outside.Sailing now, Secretariat held the spot on the rail right behind the leaders with Sailor Go Home beside him on the outside. As one, the leaders raced along the rail leaving Secretariat no room to go around or through them. Entering the homestretch, Linda’s Chief gained on the leaders and now edged past them, while Sailor Go Home still had pinned Secretariat to the rail. The race clearly belonged to Linda’s Chief. 

 

Then everything changed.

 

 In one astonishing second,the leaders on the rail parted and Secretariat seized the moment. He shot through the gap like an arrow. The crowd gasped.In no time he gained a length and a half on his blockers and eclipsed Linda’s Chief.He crossed the finish line the winner by three lengths in the blazing time of 1:10 for three-quarters of a mile.

 

 “Wow!” was all I,or anyone,could say. The speed and daring of Secretariat’s move electrified the crowd. Most two-year-olds are just getting used to hurtling around tracks in a straight line and avoid contact with other horses. This juvenile not only summoned a powerful burst of speed but sliced between horses like a butter knife. It showed brains, brawn and bravura. Secretariat gave jaded turf writers thrills they had not felt in years. A few picked their Derby candidate right then.

 

That day I realized that Secretariat was not just another horse. Beautiful, yes, and fast, no question, but qualitatively superior in heart and soul. It was my first inkling that Mom’s rollercoaster ride in racing might not end with Riva. But the dawning realization of his potential did little to prepare any of us for what Secretariat would become to racing and to the world.

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