Flatter: The therapy of a visit to the Churchill Downs backside

The doctor told me this month my blood pressure had gone up,and so had my blood sugar. Career highs I shall not want. The same goes for mygross tonnage, which zoomed past one-eighth of said ton sometime between theBelmont Stakes and the Breeders’ Cup.

Throw in 10 days sounding like a backfiring jalopy while Imarinated in the bronchitis I caught somewhere between here and California, andthat was how I spent my vacation.

If laughter is the best medicine, horses may be the secondbest. Not betting on them so much as hanging around them and the men and womenwho look after them.

My first day back at work took me to Churchill Downs onWednesday. It probably was my last morning over there before everyone clearsout for the winter. After the horses are gone, the only souls left in theimmediate gaze of the twin spires will be construction workers, theyear-rounders who do maintenance and whatever unseen seasonal gremlins, real orimagined, who are doing their damage to the turf course.

I may not stroll as quickly as I did the first time I hitthe Churchill backside in 2007 or that maiden voyage around the stables in 1986at the old San Joaquin County Fair racetrack in Stockton, Calif. What I lack inspeed has been made up in more mellow appreciation of the animal kingdom’s everpowerful, often placid and most majestic creation.

The therapy a horse can provide by merely being isimmeasurable. If Cody Dorman, God rest his soul, taught us anything, it was hispersonification of that unbreakable bond between humans and horses. Cody andCody’s Wish not only reminded us of that, they underscored it. In their ownquiet way, the message was loud and clear.

That they were able to share their relationship was ablessing for which we can be thankful in this week of thanks, even as wecontinue to mourn the passing of the inspiration for the story that will becelebrated this winter. That is when Cody’s Wish will be named the horse of theyear at the Eclipse Awards. If you want to bet against it, I would love to bookit.

Winter is very much at hand here in Kentucky with frost onthe pumpkin and all that. I made the mistake of wearing old sneakers around thestable area Wednesday morning, only hours after it had rained. I really shoulddig out my old boots. Or get new ones.

The rhythm of the morning walk belies the change in seasons.Whether it is dark or already light, wet or dry, cold or warm, it always ispeppered with exchanges of “good morning” with friendly faces. Whether they aretrainers or riders or grooms or doctors or hot walkers or track bosses, thereare as many known acquaintances as there are folks who are unfamiliar to me. Thereis even the occasional media colleague, the number of whom dwindles with eachpassing season.

It occurred to me that the most friendly hellos come not ateye level but from horseback. No matter what mood the animal may be in, thehuman taking the ride seems to be in a better place that groundlings like me.There is a fortune to be made if someone could figure out how to bottle equinedander and attitude.

The raison d’être of the backside is training. Even thoughit goes on for hours on either side of dawn, it always peaks around 7 or 8 o’clock.At least it seems that way. That may vary by as many as two or three hours withindividual trainers, who would say rightly that the work of the morning peakswhen they and their horses are good and ready.

Good conversation on the backside is always aroundsomewhere, although it often comes after a long wait. Such was the caseWednesday while I cooled my heels until a few trainers got a break from theirhorses.

Dale Romans drew a short straw and got stuck with me for awhile. He had just come down from one of the clocker’s stands to take care ofthe less glamorous paperwork that inevitably acts as an anchor in anyhorseman’s barn office.

Part of our conversation wound up in my podcast this week,the first episode since the Breeders’ Cup that was not recorded far in advanceof my 17-day retreat from good health. But that was only about eight minutes ofthe time we spent spinning yarns.

We talked about horses a little. And we talked about how theClark Stakes still should be a Grade 1. We talked about some other racingissues, and then we went on about families and travel and football and sportsbetting. Oh, yes, we also talked about cigars, too. After I told him my usualpost-Breeders’ Cup smoke was postponed by the bronchitis, Dale kindly hooked meup with a Liga Privada that I plan to enjoy this weekend.

The biggest perk of this job a typical morning at anyracetrack and the attendant camaraderie. I have had the absolute privilege towander through dozens and dozens of stables on six continents. If they everconcoct the McMurdo Station Stakes, I will find my way to Antarctica to coverit and make it all seven.

Afternoons at the track are a whole different animal, figurativelyspeaking. Like so many sports, actual competition may provide the climacticchapters to the stories we gather, but the real meat comes from going topractice. In horse racing, that means morning visits to the backside and the old-fashionedchats with the people who help make this sport what it is. Let that be a lessonto those who think texting is the be-all, end-all.

Oh, back to what started all this. My blood pressure wentback down to a more livable normal this past week. It was 127/80 on Wednesdaymorning. I believe that was no coincidence. I probably should not have observedthe occasion with the very generous breakfast bowl from the track kitchen, onethat was stuffed with sausage and biscuits and eggs and gravy and cheese.

I just checked it again Friday morning. It was back up to156/99. Ouch. I wonder if that had anything to do with my being away fromhorses and back on the laptop to write this column.

Doctor?

Ron Flatter’s column appears Friday mornings at HorseRacing Nation. Comments below are welcomed, and they may be used in thefeedback segment of the Ron Flatter Racing Pod, which also is posted everyFriday.