The Amazing Race
January 9th, 2005by Jude T. Feld
Afleet Alex and Scrappy T. Collide
Rick Samuels Photo
By a conservative estimate, I have watched over 70,000 Thoroughbred horseraces. I have seen Secretariat “moving like a tremendous machine.” I have seen Forego, ace bandages caked with mud and Shoemaker’s saddle pad weighed down in lead, get up in the last jump, over a horrific Belmont track. I have seen Personal Ensign refuse to lose.
What I saw Saturday was the reason my life is intertwined with Thoroughbred racing. A race so spectacular, it had to be seen to be believed. I don’t care what the Beyer figure was. It makes no difference. No speed rating could encompass the power, valor, determination and jubilation of the 130th Preakness.
As usual, the pundits got it wrong. This isn’t the weakest crop of three-year-olds since Gato del Sol won the Derby. Pedigree is not an absolute indication of distance ability. Taking a horse out of his stall twice a day is not folly.
Hundreds of horses were nominated to the Triple Crown and only 15 were around for the Preakness. When the maximum field of 14 was loaded into the Pimlico starting gate, nobody could have anticipated what they were about to witness.
As usual, the race was not run the way it set up on paper. Jerry Bailey opted to take High Fly back off the pace instead of utilizing his golden inside draw and Jeremy Rose, with a first-turn trip that Moses would envy, was able to get to the fence from the 12-hole. At that point, you could just throw your Daily Racing Form out the window.
Much of the race from the six-furlong marker to the three-eighths pole is now a blur in my mind, faded by all that would happen next.
I remember Scrappy T. making the lead around the 5/16 and thinking, “Wouldn’t it be great for Robby Bailes to win the Preakness?” Simultaneously, I saw Afleet Alex moving with an Arazi-like charge and I whispered to myself, “Wow!”
Then, it happened.
The ordinarily cool Ramon Dominguez sensed Scrappy T. gearing down when they made the lead and rose out of the saddle to hit his mount on the flank, attempting to keep his mind on business. Scrappy T., who has had focus problems in the past, ducked out sharply from Dominguez’s whip, causing the fast-closing Afleet Alex to crash into him, falling to his knees, his legs at unnatural angles.
The crowd gasped in horror.
They knew all too well these type of incidents are often catastrophic for horse and rider.
Dominguez glanced back, shocked, surprised, embarrassed.
Jeremy Rose was admittedly scared, but not petrified. Afleet Alex was not injured, but insulted. The jockey managed to stay on and by then, the horse was pissed off.
Slowly gathering themselves, the dynamic duo soldiered on. Reins and elbows flying, ears pinned, drawing away from Scrappy T. with each and every stride, not man nor beast would keep them from their appointment with the Woodlawn Vase.
It was an amazing race. “One for ages,” as they say. If the Preakness was run in Ireland, some bard would have given birth to a new pub song Saturday night. Not a tragedy like “Dawn Run” or Smarty Jones’ ballad “Runnin’ Like a River” but more like “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
“Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!”
This year’s Preakness was really “reality TV” at its finest.
Talk about survivor.
Boston Rob’s got nothin’ on Afleet Alex.
The Donald would love to have a guy with the guts of Jeremy Rose on his team.
Trainer Tim Ritchey, with his two-a-days, could even make me a contender.
What kind words would Simon Cowell have for Ramon Dominguez?
And with poor Going Wild, the last to arrive at the Preakness finish line, it would be a pleasure to hear Jeff Probst say, “Wayne Lukas, bring me your torch.”
This scribe has spoken.
