On With The Show .... One Beautiful Thing....

She didn’t catch my eye the first time I saw her, or the second or even the third. Between you and me, I had walked past her stall any number of times without noticing the bay Standardbred filly with the odd white blaze. After all, my own horses were much more exciting. No, they weren’t Thoroughbreds like some of the others in the training stable. They weren’t going to be on national TV running in the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness or the Belmont. But, whenever my Arabians ran at Delaware Park, I was there for them.

I liked Standardbreds. Growing up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania’s Amish country, I saw plenty of them. The first horse I ever had was a Standardbred and I learned to ride on her. But, to me, they were horses of a world very different from my own. Yes, I had seen the great Hanover Shoe Farm. I had bought shoes in their stores and had seen their horses at many auctions. But, I didn’t "identify" with the horses they, and the mail-order fashion maven Lana Lobell had made famous. It was Arabian racing and the challenge of building its industry here in the United States that interested me. After all, I had written a novel about it. I had raised them for many years and my stallion was 21 years old now. I must be loyal to Arabian racehorses … mustn’t I?

And so it was, that I spoke with trainer Neal Ehrhart, of harness racing fame, about some of my Arabians. "I like the bodies of your Standardbreds," I told him. "Very correct. Very well muscled. And I’ve been listening to you fellows, and I’ve been reading some of the books by Tom Ivers." The truth is, I had every one of his books in my library, videos of his lectures, had been following his principles of interval training for years and had spoken with him about adapting those principles to the training of Greyhounds for racing as well. Ivers, a former swimming coach turned Standardbred trainer, had championed his training methods with any number of racing breeds (Yes, there are more than most people can name) and he made no secret that the Standardbred industry was more advanced than any other when it came to producing successful equine athletes.

Always looking for a competitive edge, I asked: "Could you get my Arabians ready to race by driving them?" Always looking for some fun, Neal took on the challenge: "Sure."

Did I mention that Neal Ehrhart is a man of few words?

He may be a man of few words, but he is also a man who takes his work seriously. Three of our horses were enrolled in his training program and, every day, they were right there with the Standardbreds, pulling Neal and his drivers around the track.

Before too long, my horses could go miles without showing any signs of stress. By the time they were ready to go to Delaware Park, you could bounce a quarter off any part of their bodies and they had become proud athletes.

It was about that time that a couple of Neal’s owners decided to move their horses closer to home and suddenly there was an empty stall where the filly I hadn’t noticed had once been. "Where’d she go?" I asked somebody. But, all I got was a shrug of the shoulders. Probably because my Spanish isn’t so great. Oh, well. I brushed Nahgua and Briggin and Lillie and Annie and thought nothing more of it. I had stakes races to think about. The winner’s circle to make plans for (Who would I ask to be in the pictures with me?) You know: important stuff. The fate of a Standardbred meant nothing to me … until a few months later.

That’s when Neal said, "Ron, I think there’s a little something you ought to look into." Now, I know this trainer well enough to know that it’s never "a little something" when it comes to Neal Ehrhart. Experience told me this little something was going to weigh somewhere around a thousand pounds!

And so it was that negotiations began for my first official trotter: a three-year old by the innocent name of "Pebbles." Yes, the very one I hadn’t given a second thought for all those many months when she lived in the stall across from the pride of my life, my 21 year old stallion Nahgua. Maybe "I" hadn’t noticed her. But, from the moment she returned to the stable to pick up her career where she had left off, Pebbles and Nahgua became an item instantly and it was adamantly clear that "he" certainly had.

Did I tell you Pebbles is crazy? Or did I forget to mention that little bit of information. Oh. You’d rather call her high-strung, would you? Excuse me. I forgot we’re living in the age of whitewashing any words that smack of emotion. Very well then. Call her high-strung if it makes you happy. And let me tell you just how high-strung Miss Pebbles is.

She doesn’t know the meaning of standing still, she can rip a driver’s arms right out of his shoulder sockets and her mouth was never soft from the time she was a yearling. She can do all these things and laugh while she’s doing them. But, she can also win races. When she doesn’t, she gives her all trying. And, without trying, that young mare that everybody tells me is insane manages to gives me something to look forward to.

So, Neal called me. "Set your alarm, Ron, I’m pickin’ you up at 5 in the morning." Did he say five o’clock in the morning? I’m not sure my alarm clock knows that time. "I’ll be there at 5, sharp." And he was. We were headed for qualifiers in Freehold, New Jersey, and Pebbles was wide-awake.

At the paddock, she stood calm and collected. Was this the Pebbles we all knew and loved? My breathing was coming easier, my posture relaxed. "Gee, Neal. She seems almost kind," I said, as he hitched her up and we walked her to the track for a warm-up. Neal wasn’t saying much, I noticed. He was a man ready for anything.

Around she went once …. Around she went twice …. Three times …. Four! I lost count how many times she went around that track, but she kept her footing and never broke stride. That’s what we had been working on, and as we walked her back to the paddock to wait for the race, we were all smiles. That’s when it started. Pebbles felt great now. She was big! She was strong! She was powerful! Don’t ask me how we did it, but somehow we kept her still long enough for the driver to take the reins and back we went to the track.

I went upstairs, found a seat and suddenly there wasn’t anything else in the room but me and the bay mare out there. From a horse I hardly noticed, she commanded all my attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The sun was brighter, the sky was bluer, and she was greater to me than any other horse on the track. I whispered a prayer of luck to her, believing she could hear it, even though I knew she was wearing earplugs. "Don’t break your stride, Pebbles. Whatever you do, show the world you can go the whole race without breaking your stride."

The white car with the starting gate appeared, the horses picked up speed and lined up, the car pulled away and off they went. I held my breath. Time stood still. Pebbles heard my prayer and, as she trotted like the most inspiring creature on Earth, I knew what that stallion of mine saw in her that I never could: She might be crazy (Excuse me. I mean high-strung), but, out there on the track in all her trotting glory, a little mare called Pebbles rose from obscurity and made me forget everything but her.

Never again, would I worry quite so much about the price of gasoline, how we got into wars that I don’t understand, or what really happened to the many heroes in my life who have come and gone. For now – for a brief moment in time – I was racing with all the joy of a high-stepping trotter, catapulting forward with untold force as the wind blew through my hair. I was brave. I was free. I was alive. And I knew that in my life there was at least one beautiful thing.

Ron Hevener
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