The Race Mare

Horses, horses, horses – I’ll never get enough of them whether riding or reading about them. Just finished enjoying a great article on horse racing by one of HubPages’ premiere authors known as Pamela Kinnaird W. The article brought back some long forgotten memories concerning what’s known (at least back then) as “match racing.”

Match racing, back in the day, was legal as long as there were no bets placed or money involved as to who would win the race – chuckle, chuckle! My at-that-time father-in-law Luke was one of the big time gamblers in our part of Texas and as far as he was concerned if one couldn’t bet on a race there was no use running it.

He’d raised and trained everything from high-powered Quarter Horses to mules since his cradle broke the bough and he fell out of it and he lived and breathed horses. He particularly loved horses he could show off – or show off on. Luke was long past his racing days (as far as riding) when I married his son and became part of his family. It didn’t take him long to realize I could fill in a big gap that had existed in his life for quite a while. I was light enough to ride a race horse.

When Bill and I married (we were just kids) I was 5’10” tall and weighed a bit over 110 pounds – give or take a pound or two either way. Oh, yeah, I was skinny although I ate like a horse, worked like a man and was healthy as an ox. I think the only thing Luke really liked about me was we shared an interest in horses and I’d make an attempt to ride anything he brought to the barn. He was big on “courage,” and more than once I had to bite my lip and get on a horse I had more than a little “respect” for because of Luke. Did I mention I was hard-headed?

The day he appeared at the barn with “Race Mare” I was a bit more than apprehensive. Just unloading her out of the trailer was a chore as loading and unloading (I came to understand) was not one of her “strong suits.” Trailers and riding in one was the ultimate bain of her existence. She was, however, one of the best looking mares I’d ever seen – a filly actually, as she’d had no colts. Luke said he thought she was probably three or four years old.

She was a bright, high-red sorrel with four white stockings to the knees and a stunning blaze face. Her head looked more Arabian than anything else but her bloodlines were up for conjecture as there were no papers on her – she was considered a “grade” horse and Luke had taken her in on a horse trading deal he’d just completed. Once she was out of the trailer he handed the lead rope to me and announced “Well, Boots, here’s you a new project!” Thereafter he announced the mare could run like a haint and I – not he or we – was going to race her.

The mare certainly didn’t look like a race horse but that’s what Luke had in mind for both of us. Race Mare was not a squatty, low-to-the-ground type mare but she didn’t have that long, tall, rangey look of a race horse either. Her body was perfectly proportioned and she had strong hindquarters and deep heart but didn’t even come near 15 hands tall. My first query was “Is she broke to ride, Luke?” He laughed and replied “Yeah, she’s been ridden but ain’t real keen on it!” Dear hearts, if you’re an experienced rider of horses; what Luke said tells you the whole story. The mare was probably – and at best – green broke, rider shy and possibly had a few outlaw tendencies or she wouldn’t have been the pawn in a horse trading deal.

The next week would prove me right – which made no difference at all as Luke wouldn’t be having anything else to do with the horse until he saw me on her back. The mare’s ears went back and she humped up big time the first time I threw a saddle on her. She then reached around and tried to bite me. Well, okay, thought I; I’d just take the rope hackamore off and put the bridle on and start there. Nope, she wasn’t amenable to that either and clenched her teeth shut like a vise. I could have won that one but decided against it. She definitely had some ingrained problems and a lot of attitude we’d have to get past.

I led her around a bit, put her in my corral with the hackamore on and lead rope dragging and left her alone for a while. I went back that evening, fed her well and left again. Inside of three days she’d meet me at the corral gate and follow me anywhere I went. Score one for me. It didn’t take long to decide she was bit shy so I let her score one and put a riding hackamore on her and let her wear that a few days. It was time to try the saddle thingy again. She bucked it off before I could even begin to tighten the girth and tried to bite me again. She was rapidly outscoring me.

Two weeks had passed since I’d first become the mare’s trainer and we were getting nowhere fast although I had discovered a few things. If I had spurs on (mine made a bit of noise when I walked) she wouldn’t come near me much less let me near her. If I had anything in my hand other than a feed bucket it was the same thing. She was absolutely terrified of anyone wearing a hat whether western type or gimme cap. Upon close examination of her body I found she had scars, most now covered with hair, all over her body. Somebody had mistreated her, including whipping and beating, to the max.

One day I was in the corral and had on soft moccasins. In a moment of ultimate bravery (or stupidity) I gathered up the dragging lead rope and swung up on the mare’s back. Her body tensed up like she was gonna rodeo big time, she quivered all over and then just stood there like a statue. I talked to her, petted her and after a few minutes got off. By the end of that week she no longer panicked when I swung up on her back and would even walk around the corral a bit. I left the hackamore headstall on her, added reins and found out she was a reining dude and could spin like a top – hackamore only – no bits.

It was about that time that Luke came to the lot and saw me riding her. “Y’all ready to race yet?” he inquired. “Not hardly,” I replied, “we’ve never even been out of this horse lot!” With that he opened the gate, I rode her out, barely touched her with my heels and she took off. The poor, frightened soul ran until she couldn’t run anymore and I just hung on until she stopped. I got off, sat on a log and rested. When she finally got her breath back she came and nuzzled my neck, covered me with horse goop, sweat and horse love – yeah, they can do that! We bonded that day and life was never ever the same for either of us.

Luke did enter us in the match races (probably 25+) – and I always rode bareback and barefooted – and we never lost a race. Racey (which I eventually named her for obvious reasons) loved to run and I think her big heart would have broken if she’d ever been outrun. She was close to six years old when we retired her (or Luke retired her) from racing. I raced her twice when I was pregnant with my son and only child. There was a bond between Racey and I – never another included – and I rejoiced when she was bred and allowed to rest. No one else ever rode her (she wouldn’t allow it) and she wouldn’t load into or unload out of a trailer except for me.

My son was born and I was just back to working horseback when I went to our river lease to find Racey and bring her home as it was near time for her to foal. I hunted her for more than half a day before I found her -- dead. She’d been shot twice in her upper back, close to her spine, by hunters that I choose to believe mistook her for a deer. You know, it’s amazing what marvels the mind can work when necessary. It’s over 50 years later and I still cling to the hope that’s the way she died along with her near full term Appaloosa baby that never experienced sunlight on it's little face.

When reality overtakes me, and I have to get real, then I must admit I know – there are no red deer with blaze faces in Texas.