The Horse That Could Be 'too Damn Fast'

When Honest Pleasure gets back to the barn, however, nobody would ever know it. He is now a lamb. He stands perfectly still while getting a bath to wash the sweat off him. Afterward he walks calmly behind a young hot-walker, who cannot weigh more than 90 pounds, not even one-twelfth his own powerful weight.

After he has walked long enough to cool out from his efforts, Honest Pleasure goes back to his stall, a little enclosure about 12 feet square where he spends most of his life. His groom goes in with him to minister to those fragile thoroughbred legs.

The groom is Jack Jackson, another veteran of many years and many horses. He brushes off his horse. Even in the shadows of the stall that dark bay coat begins to glisten. In this light Honest Pleasure looks more brown than bay—indeed pure mahogany, waxed and buffed. Beautiful.

Now Jackson crawls around under his horse getting his equipment ready—a bucket of wet clay, a roll of Saran Wrap, an armful of thick bandages. Paying him no mind, Honest Pleasure starts to nibble at the rack of hay hanging from the doorway. He has admirable table manners. He manages to extract a single strand of hay, pulls it away, munches it slowly and deliberately, like a gourmet savoring an oyster. He has the appetite of a growing boy—which in a sense he still is—but he eats as he does everything else. With class.

The clay is what horsemen call a poultice. It is cool and it will stay cool. If the morning work has produced any irritation in those fragile ankles and tendons, the clay will take away the sting, like an ice pack applied to a swollen eye.

Jackson shapes the clay around Honest Pleasure's left ankle, like a sculptor, then covers it with the Saran Wrap to hold it in place. Over the Saran goes a thick slab of cotton, and finally a carefully wound roll of bandage anchored with big safety pins. When the job is done, the leg looks as if it is in a cast, four times its normal size. Honest Pleasure looks like a casualty at a ski resort.

On to the right leg. Honest Pleasure pays no attention. He chews daintily on another strand of hay. He shakes his big head to dislodge a fly, then rubs against the hay rack, scratching the spot where the fly annoyed him. He notices Jackson's brush, lying bristles up in the doorway of the stall, nibbles at it, decides it is inedible and pulls away.

Jackson is taking his time; he wants his bandages to be a work of art worthy of his horse; the job goes on for a full 30 minutes. But Honest Pleasure is patient. He stands motionless except for his head. "He never gives me any trouble at all," Jackson says. "He's a real kind horse. A gentleman."

At last all four legs are in the bulky protective sheaths Honest Pleasure wears in his stall. Jackson gives his horse a final swipe with a towel, though the coat already is shimmering, and takes off the halter. Honest Pleasure knows the day's work is over. He moves for the first time, turning his broad rump to the doorway and the world, and amuses himself by rearranging the thick carpet of straw at the back of the stall.

Pinky Hurley, scrubbing his tack in front of the barn, tries to be philosophical about the morning's events. "That horse is a real tough tomato," he says, and he means it as a tribute. "He can take off on you anytime. He fought me all through the first half today, and he's a lot stronger than I am. He's stronger than three men. The only thing I can do is try to outfox him, and that's not easy. If he tries to run off with his head down, that's all right; you can control him. But if he gets his head up and you take too much hold, he's liable to go off stride and hit himself. Of course, if he ever manages to get his head sideways, that's the end of it. That way you have no control at all with the reins; he'll run right away with you."