Vice Versa
by Windcall
(Missouri)
Hi! My name is Olivia, nicknamed Via, but I go by Windcall on this site. Just so you know, this story is fictional. Hope you like it!
The big day.
Those words would change my life. Those words had just been spoken by the trainer of my racing mount for the Santa Anita Derby. Swift Serene. How could her owners have named her that? My mount was anything but serene. The filly was fast, but as uncooperative as a water hose on freezing winter’s day. She simply did not work!
Swift Serene had set records in her workouts, and won all of her ten races so far. Yet how her previous jockeys had completed such a horrendous task was a secret remaining unrevealed.
Still sulking, I dressed in the silks of navy and dark purple and pulled on my black jockey boots. Before I left the jockey room, I remembered to grab my whip, for which I had little use. I have no idea why we jockeys are expected to lug around these leather straps and slap our high-strung Thoroughbreds with them, but strict orders are…well, strict orders.
I trotted down the stairs quickly, breaking away from the line of jockeys to find my group. There she stood, as proudly as the queen of Sheba. Grey head erect, dark ears relaxed. Perhaps her calm colors fooled one about her attitude.
The bugle notes shivered through the warm air, seeming to summon a biting breeze that sent chills down my spine. Serene looked over her dark muzzle at me, her eyes saying all she wanted about her high position and my own low one. I think it’s a pity horses cannot talk like we humans, for I often wonder what they have to say.
I mounted without a word, and the trainer nodded at me. I knew what to do, and he knew that. Methodically pulling on the reins, I turned the filly toward the track. Her ears pricked, and she chomped on the bit excitedly, begging for more rein allowance. No way was I going to let her get out of my control!
The parade to post was short, and it seemed a few seconds since I had left the jockey room when I steadied Swift Serene in the starting gate. A horse further down the line reared, throwing off his jockey and breaking his gate. That feisty colt was solemnly led off the track before a silent crowd, and the poor jockey with a newly broken arm was helped off the track close behind.
The seconds ticked like hours, and the starting gate seemed stuck. Finally it flew open, and all horses leapt out.
Somehow, my filly had managed to fall behind the first position, and was boxed in by the third and fourth positions. Peering down, I checked her blackish legs. They were flashing smoothly, keeping in perfect rhythm. Without warning, the third position stumbled and fell behind without injury, and Serene made her move without my consent.
The home stretch was still an eighth mile off, but my filly did not want to take any chances. I tightened my hold on the reins and tried my best to hold her back. Serene curved her head back, grabbed a mouthful of reins, and pulled them out of my hands! I held on to her cropped mane, hazily wishing it was longer, for dear life.
My filly overtook the tiring first position, and flashed into the home stretch like a pro. The wire was twenty—ten—five strides ahead—we were under! I peeked under my arm to observe the dusty, flagging crowd of horses stuck in the back.
The ceremonies flew past as quickly as a downhill stream, and I was soon back in the jockeys’ room. After I had changed into some casual clothes, I strolled over to the stables to say “goodnight” to Swift Serene. She wasn’t even dozing! Stroking her neck, I stared into her black eyes. Was that a twinkle? I would never know.
But I would never forget that race, when the filly controlled the jockey. I still can’t figure out how she got it that way….
