Runaways while driving

[from a private discussion list, 16 March 1998]

Oh yes indeed, I have had a runaway while driving. Amazingly enough, no one was the worse for wear when it was over. What makes this amazing is that the entirety of my (tiny) driving ability is restricted to fine harness horses, race horses and horse-drawn farm equipment. I live in awe of all you carriage driving people. Just so everyone here knows what kind of an idiot I am, this is what happened...

Some years ago I had a friend with a talented Ladies Fine Harness gelding who really didn't like being put to a show cart, and would get really strong with her at shows. (Good argument for getting out the four-wheeler at home more often, to my mind.) The upshot of this was during shows I would jog Chubs Commando (AKA the Bay Bomb) in the morning for Julie. One morning at Del Mar I was up at horrible A. M. getting Mr. This-Thing-Is-Going-To-Eat-Me sorted out. At this time, the backfield of the Del Mar race track opened directly unto the warm up area for the show barns. Hopping back in the cart after popping the check with a thought towards a leisurely cool-down stroll in the direction of breakfast, Chubs sticks his nose and tail in the air and takes off like a shot. Lovely, one of those mornings. Taking a feel on the lines gives back the reading "tied to an iron post." The good news was we were pointed down field, and the better news was the backfield gate on to the track was open, and it was a pretty straight shot. So I figure why not -- let's treat this right, and we go roaring out on the track as though the hounds of hell were running under the axles. While we're blasting out of the far turn, some early morning (TB folks are crazy- why else would they breeze horses at 5am?) workout people headed back to the barn catch sight of this nonsense and come hotfooting up to the rail... to watch.

Checking to see if I was still tied to the iron post, (affirmative), my mind is divided into many parts, foremost of which is working on setting up the last turn into the homestretch in a fashion that will avoid miring a wheel where the track is a bit cut up... another is thinking too bad this sucker isn't trotting because this boy is fast... finding the presence of mind to nod to the nice man who waved as we went flying by... trying to see if we still had four shoes on up front, and lastly the perpetual grump is mentally measuring the sofa for a bay slip cover in case the cinnamon rolls are gone by the time this bit o' fun is over... all while womanfully working to ignore thoughts of what it is going to be like if Speed Demon up there flips this rattletrap over with me wearing not a whole heck of a lot more than a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, dock shoes and a pair of Ray-Bans.

While trying not to obsess about all the things mothers tell their daughters about appropriate intimate attire for engagements at the emergency room, we get through the turn, no thanks to me. A lift of the inside hand gets a glimmer of eye, but no decrease in velocity. Good thing Del Mar has a big endfield, because we did a really wide, two-wheeler that brought all of that maternal advice back to the forefront of my mind. A few lengths out of the turn, Mr. Happy decides on a breather and drops to a big ol' trot. Doing a quick check to be sure he is not blown, lame or missing a shoe (negative on all counts- pretty darn perky, in fact) and that there is indeed a rate-able horse between those shafts (finally!) I do the necessary thing and give a swat and move him off again. Nothing loathe, Chubs picks up the pace, although with somewhat less speed and a great deal more control. This time the nice man nods, and I wave.

By the time we were in sight of where we started, it has once again been established that the human is the part of the team who sets the pace -- always, no matter what, no exceptions -- all without recourse to thoughts of injury, ambulances or underwear. Returning to the backfield, I noticed the warmup areas have gotten pretty busy. Chubs, seeing all the people , decides somewhere in the depths of his murky little horse brain "oh, it's show time!" and worked the last bit of the track in what was probably the best trot of his entire existance, the idiot. Who says show horses have no endurance?

Clopping up to the barn, Julie, (who is usually not sentient until after a pot of coffee or the gate opens on her first class, whichever comes first,) gives us a really fuzzy look and asks "Good workout?" The plate of cinnamon rolls she was holding out was the *only* thing that saved her.

Moral to this story? Not only is it possible to survive what looks like sure disaster, but anyone who thinks Saddlebreds are dull obviously hasn't been to shows with me.