Never Been on a Horse, But I’m Sure I’d Made a Great Jockey

Riding a horse has been on my list of things to do, but I have never seemed to get around to it. Instead, every Fall I end up standing in the paddock at Santa Anita watching the Thoroughbreds circle, thinking the craziest, wildest thought:

I could be a jockey.

My thoughts go from zero to 100 — from never having ridden a horse to thinking I could do this professionally. It’s the same delusion I had with golf: somehow I would swing at the ball and someone would emerge from behind a tree and scout me to go pro.

I think I’m built for jockeying. I’m athletic. I’m light. There are advantages here. Then I start actually watching them. Their skill. Their balance. Their instincts. There’s no way you just pick up that level of performance in midlife. Maybe curling?

I’ve always had this fantasy that there is a sport out there I was simply born to do, and once I discover it, endorsements and fame will naturally follow. I’ve never been particularly interested in Hollywood celebrities, but put a famous athlete in front of me, even someone who throws darts, and I get it.

When I was a professional stunt performer, I was searching for that sport where I’d be naturally gifted. Instead, I had to work hard at all of them. Nobody ever handed me a sword or a pair of sticks and said, “My God. She was made for this.”

Maybe I got the idea from my martial arts coach who once told me about Leonid Arkayev, the legendary Russian gymnastics coach who supposedly could look at a kid — and their parents — and predict athletic greatness. Naturally, I asked what he would have predicted for me.

Dance, my coach said, because of my alignment. Or rock climbing.

It turns out I wasn’t particularly great at either, mainly because my heart wasn’t in them. Rock climbing was fun, but once I got to the top I thought, Okay, I’m done. Let’s do something else. Dance was worse. I wanted to follow my own beat, not the music. It only ever felt good when I could improvise. That’s how I picture the horse. Galloping full-out, like a gazelle. Not thinking, just doing. 

Everything for the horse is pure instinct. Then the gates open, the horses bolt forward, and one by one they cross the finish line. My entire equestrian résumé consists of standing behind a railing holding a betting slip. I’m a spectator and not even a particularly sophisticated one. Some people arrive at Santa Anita like they’re checking into a country club: sport coats, dresses, fancy hats. They settle into the upper stands.

My husband and I prefer what amounts to a multi-mile interval workout. Every half hour, we’re moving again — from the finish line to the paddock to watch the horses get brushed and watered, then back across the grounds for the next race.

Up close, the horses look like elite outdoor athletes: muscles defined, coats shining. Some buzz with nervous energy. Others are calm and seasoned, as though they’ve done all of this a thousand times and would appreciate it if everyone would stop staring.

I know almost nothing compared with the serious horseplayers around me, but that has never stopped me from developing theories.

That horse looks confident.

That one looks nervous.

Number five and I just made eye contact. Clearly, he wants me to bet on him.

This is not a handicapping system I recommend. I have only managed to leave the track with less money than I’ve come in with. 

Watching them race, though, is exciting, especially when you believe your two-dollar wager could become $2,000. In those few minutes it becomes the most important athletic event on Earth. “COME ON, FIVE! DIG! DIG!” 

The only digging that actually happens is me looking for another couple of dollars, because number five had different plans. The favorite, as it turns out, preferred third place to first.

We start all over again: paddock, betting window, track, race. Not to mention, a new strategy.

At one point, a memory of Medieval Times flashed through my mind, where if you rooted louder than everyone else, your horse and knight won. I tried this. It wasn’t enough either.

Next, I came up with my most ambitious idea yet.

We became racehorse owners. 

Technically, we bought micro-shares, fractions so small (0.01 percent) that calling ourselves owners requires a generous interpretation of the word owner. I don’t get to stroll into the stable and discuss training decisions. I don’t even get to look the horse in the eye and convince him to run faster.

I own roughly the amount of horse equivalent to one of the hairs left in the brush.

Emotionally? That’s our horse.

We get updates, follow his progress, and suddenly a race that wouldn’t have meant anything becomes ours, with Bold Type in the gate instead of number five.

Except that dream is still waiting. Bold Type hasn’t made it to the starting gate yet. For now, we follow his workouts like anxious parents reading report cards. Five furlongs in 1:00. Second out of 27. Before that, seventh out of 54. Four furlongs in :47, third out of 58.

Despite all the dashed hopes and dreams, we still show up every September. Santa Anita is an outdoor athlete’s dream. The San Gabriel Mountains rise behind the track, with clouds stacked over the ridges like a postcard backdrop. You can spend an entire afternoon there without realizing how many miles you’ve logged.

By race nine, I’m exhausted. Somehow, even when we lose, I feel like I’ve gotten my money’s worth. I still hold out hope that one day, perhaps, we’ll actually win and I’ll finally move beyond the railing and ride a horse. Probably not a Thoroughbred. Just a horse somewhere willing to show me what it actually feels like to be up there. Until then, I’ll continue getting a workout from a sport I don’t even play.

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