Showing posts with label racing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label racing. Show all posts

January 29, 2019

Get Your Tissues - You're Warned

From a record number of words about adulting yesterday, to a small amount of words about a crying little girl today:

PC: Zoe Metz Photo via Paulick Report
"This Zoe Metz photo of trainer Michael McCarthy and [seven-year-old] daughter Stella saying goodbye to City of Light hits us right in the feels. The Pegasus World Cup winner is off to begin his stud career at Lanes End Farm in Kentucky."

Anyone who's spent time in or around the racing industry knows they leave your life as fast as they come into it - whether they're claimed, sold, moved to another trainer, retired to a second career, or retired to the breeding shed - but that doesn't mean you don't get attached.

“He's the horse of a lifetime. I don't know what else I can say..."
McCarthy acknowledged it will be tough going back to his Santa Anita barn with City of Light not being there.
“So we'll kind of hit the ground running and try to replace him,” he said. “I don't know that we ever can, but we'll try to find something.”

Stella, I hope your dad takes you on lots of trips to Kentucky to visit your buddy!

Full article: City of Light's Pegasus Win Just 'Icing on the Cake' for McCarthy

May 4, 2017

In Which My Job Takes Me to Churchill Downs

My job...is really hard.  That doesn't mean I don't like it, it's my dream job, but I've had to learn to be okay with a baseline level of stress in order to cope with it.  And occasional stress spikes.

A face that says "I might have just lost a million dollars in hardware and an entire virtual infrastructure and I wish I was someone else right now..."
But, that means when my job is awesome, I savor it and tuck it in my brain for later.  When my job is awesome, I take a few deep breaths and think "Damn, the tech industry is awesome," sip a glass of whatever alcoholic beverage is in my hand at the moment (because if there's one thing the tech industry does often and well, it's drink) and remind myself why I stay here.


Especially when 'here' is Churchill Downs during Derby week.  And a glass of Woodford on the rocks is in my hand, because, duh, Kentucky.

Every year my company rents out a big suite at Churchill and holds a massive event, where we invite our customers and our vendors.  The food is free, the booze is free, the swag and giveaways are plentiful, and everyone gets a voucher to get their feet wet with betting.  The entire city of Louisville basically never stops the party during Derby week, whether they care about racing or not, so it's very festive.

We also sponsor a race!
Our event was held yesterday, and it was the first time I've been invited, and oh man, it was awesome.  Beautiful weather, tons of socializing (some of it even productive work socializing that should end in $$), and ponies, so close to me!

Especially for the turf races.
This being Churchill during Derby week, the dress code was strictly enforced, depending on what part of the grandstand you were in.  For us, jeans, tennis shoes and athletic wear would get you turned away.  Dresses, blazers, sport coats, collared shirts, ties or bow ties, and nice shoes were highly recommended (though they noted you are allowed to wear comfy shoes to get to the suite, and then you have to change into nice shoes)  Many, but not all, women wore hats.


At the end of the day, after watching the entire card, we had to walk back to the parking lot because the shuttle wasn't running.  As I came out of the tunnel that goes under the track, My Old Kentucky Home started playing over the loudspeaker.  I immediately got chills and thought of my mom, for whom Churchill is like Mecca.  We've both been there separately now, we need to go together sometime!


Our suite was almost that entire green tent you can see behind Practical Joke in this Kentucky.com photo.


A pretty good day of work, all things considered!

February 2, 2015

Foaling Story #1: Thoroughbred Baby

Back in high school, I worked on a 128 acre Thoroughbred breeding/training/racing farm for two truly wonderful family friends.  (For more on them, see here.)

They had a training barn and a breeding barn on the property, the breeding barn is in the background of this photo.

My mom had always wanted to see a foal born, and one spring morning my freshman or sophomore year of high school, we got "the call" from Kevin.  A mare was about to foal. We raced over there around 6:30 am on a school day.  When we got there, Kevin was not smiling.  Things weren't going well.  I don't remember the details of what happened, but I remember them trying to keep the mare calm as she frantically circled the foaling box with the foal hanging half out of her, scraping the baby's head on the wall at times.  It was pretty clear early on that the foal was not alive, so everything they did was with the intention of saving the mare.

Same farm, different baby.  A happy, healthy future racehorse.

The reason this otherwise sad story is worth retelling is what happened after.  When the mare was stable, my mom decided it was time for me to get to school, and since I was late, she walked me into the main office.  The intimidating assistant principal asked why I was nearly an hour late to school, and my mom loudly announced to the office full of mothers and secretaries that "We were watching a horse give birth, and the baby didn't make it."


A hushed chorus of "Aww"'s and "Oh my gosh!"'s echoed through the office, and the assistant principal was no longer arrogant but cowed.  I would have preferred that the baby make it even if it meant getting written up, but as it was, there was no way he could get after me for being late after that scene without losing face with the mothers and secretaries.  "Just get to class," he said and handed me a note to give to my teacher with no explanation on it.

Luckily the next foaling I attended was a much happier affair, but that's a story for another day.

March 12, 2014

Blog Hop: What's in Your Name?

I think L. Williams blog hop is now a Thing with a capital T, since this is the second one!  Both have been great topics so far, keep them coming - no pressure, of course.

What's in Cob Jockey's name?  This blog started as the decidedly less cool "Equine Chameleon" for a brief period before anything interesting ever happened to my horse life.  I knew I liked horses, but I didn't know what I liked doing with them, or where I fit in.  I felt like I could adapt to fit whatever equine situation I found myself in at the time, but I didn't feel passionately about anything yet, breed or sport - I was a chameleon.

Cob Jockey is a nod to two things: my love of the Welsh Cob, and the sport in which I got my start.


I was never a jockey myself, but I did gallop one once or twice in the mornings.  I helped break babies, trail riding them in a western saddle and then teaching them to move back and forth on the track.  I learned a lot about conditioning and structuring a workout program and what "he needs a race" means.  







I guess this is where I first started loving classic red and white wood barns that are rough around the edges, just like my current barn.

I got to be a decent groom, too, running out of the stall I was cleaning to catch blowing racehorses as they came off the track, then bathing them, then putting them on the hot walker - usually a death-defying experience for my 5'0 105lb self.  I had the size to be a jockey, but not the skill or the cojones.

Catching one post-gallop


I also learned how to teach them to pee on command, thanks, detention barn!

Racing is what I share with my mom, where I learned to wrap legs, and where I learned to handle frisky kites on the end of my lead rope.  The first time I ever cantered was on a lead pony on the track.  The trainers I worked with are some of the kindest people and horsepeople I know.


Texas Best, racehorse, literally running circles around the patient lead pony.

Circles...

Circles...

I love that everyone got turnout, sometimes for extended periods of time when they needed it.  They let them be horses as well as racehorses.

By now you all know what the 'Cob' part of my blog title is about, and while the 'Jockey' part is partially a funny joke (can you imagine a Welsh Cob race?  I can't without laughing!), it's mostly a nod to the only part of the horse world in which I felt at home for most of my life.



My trainer in the paddock pre-race.