According to Laura Hillenbrand’s terrific book,
"Seabiscuit: An American Legend,"
the nation became transfixed upon a racehorse
during the late 1930s partly due to hard times.
The long shadow of the Depression and war clouds
gathering over Europe and the Pacific,
Hillenbrand thinks, made people hungry for a
diversion—particularly one they could place a
legal bet on. Seabiscuit’s cleverly crafted image
as a classic American overachiever (he was,
in fact, a descendant of Man O’ War) also helped.
His 1938 match race against War Admiral got more
ink in American newspapers that year
than Hitler and Mussolini. Nothing like that
appears likely to happen to this year’s Triple Crown
contender, Smarty Jones, although heaven knows
we could all use a diversion. Things are lousy
on the political front, and polls show Americans
feeling apprehensive and uneasy. But there’s
far too much competition for attention in today’s
diffuse and omnipresent news media, and these
days you can place a bet on almost anything.
Even so, millions of Americans who don’t have a
dime on the race will cheer themselves hoarse
watching Smarty Jones make his stretch run at
the Belmont on June 5 and, win or lose, an awful
lot of them will have tears in their eyes.
I’m sure I will. I’m not a big racing fan in that
I rarely go to the track, but Smarty Jones’
perfectly timed, heedless charge around the final
turn and into the lead at the Preakness got me
up and yelling so loudly that Buffy, the office
spaniel, got all charged up and ran around barking.
Even Beverly, the basset hound, was roused from
her afternoon power nap.
Mine was not unusual behavior. During ESPN’s program
about the great Secretariat, the only
non-human in its "100 Greatest Athletes of the
20 th Century" series, the horse’s biographer,
William Nack, described thousands weeping openly
while watching his astonishing 31-length
victory in the 1973 Belmont Stakes.
Exactly why people react so emotionally to racehorses
is hard to say. From an animal lover’s
perspective, there’s plenty to criticize about
the thoroughbred industry. But even if you’ve never
ridden or touched a horse, there’s just something
about them that captures the human imagination.
Prehistoric cave paintings in France demonstrate
an early fascination with their power and beauty.
Whatever Stone Age genius first accomplished it,
domesticating horses was one of the great
moments in human history, as crucial in its way
as the discovery of fire. Horses provided food,
fertilizer, the ability to travel enormously
farther and faster, to transport goods and to wage war.
In some ways, taming horses only made them more
mysterious. Surely they must be gifts from
the gods. Thoroughbreds, for example, stand roughly
7 feet tall, weigh upwards of 1,200 pounds,
can accelerate to between 35 and 40 mph, hurdle
fences we’d have trouble climbing, yet many
are gentle enough to be controlled by children.
Even so, they retain an aloofness, an essential
horseness, for want of a better word, that gives
them a dignity not shared by most domestic
animals, along with an oddly endearing blend
of timidity and courage.
Horses are herd animals who love other horses.
Period. In their wordless way, a bit like the
18th century equine philosophers in Swift’s "Gulliver’s
Travels," they appear to regard themselves
as the apex of creation—even Lucky, the sillier
of my two geldings, who has been known to
spook at the sight of a particular species of
yellow butterfly. "You can love him all you want,"
the woman who taught me to ride said early on,
"but he’s not going to love you back."
I came to horses relatively late in life. Riding
turns out to be the perfect thing for an animal lover
and second-rate ex-jock, a virile, manly pastime
I share with a million 12-year-old girls.
But don’t get me wrong. I’d no more think of climbing
on a young stallion like Smarty Jones
than I’d take up professional motorcycle racing.
And one of Smarty’s great gifts along with
superb athleticism—horses vary as much as humans—appears
to be his calm, intelligent
disposition. He wastes no energy during the post
parade posturing and daring other stallions
to fight. Nobody has to abuse racehorses to make
them want to win. Three-year-old
thoroughbred stallions are more naturally competitive
than human beings can easily imagine.
You think Michael Jordan’s a gamer? Smarty Jones
makes him look phlegmatic, and so does
every other horse entered in the Belmont. It’s
partly about survival, partly about breeding.
See, it’s no use trying to persuade horses that
no predator exists in North America that can
catch or kill them. Even on a racetrack, they’re
literally running for their lives, yet with a joyous,
headlong whole-heartedness that makes us weep
to see.
• Free-lance columnist Gene Lyons is a Little Rock author and recipient of the National Magazine Award.