I hate horse racing. I really do. I despise it. I'll admit to being one of those kids who adored the idea of it, who relished those books about the horses who just loved to run and the Black Stallion or Wonder or whoever always won the race because they were spunky or they deserved it or their jockeys were nicer than their opponents' jockeys, or whatever fairytale it is that we like to tell the kids about life being fair.* But all that went down the tubes pretty quickly when my family went to Suffolk Downs for the day once and in one of the afternoon races one of the horses broke a leg right before the finish line and was put down behind a screen right in front of us. Reality is not like a children's book, and while it's certainly a small percentage of racehorses that die on the track, it seems like an obscene amount for something so frivolous.

So anyway I stopped following racing, but every now and then someone informs me that it's Derby Day or something and I turn on the tv because what's a minute and a half out of my life, anyway, and I pick a long shot with a cute name and bright silks that I think I'll be able to pick out of the pack, and my pick always loses, and if I'm lucky I don't see anything staggeringly terrifying happen to an animal. And this was one of those years, and of course I didn't pick Barbaro for the Derby, but some pretty grey whose jockey wore pink and blue silks and who wasn't even close to the front at any point. And of course it's just as well that I was on a train during the Preakness, because if I had seen it I probably would have been sick.

But though I've been ignoring horse racing as usual I have been following the Barbaro thing (the "thing" being that he broke three bones in his hind leg barely out of the gate at the Preakness, for anyone who somehow didn't hear) since it happened, because Barbaro has had a chance that most horses in his position never have. Partially because his jockey pulled him up fast enough, partially because he was clever enough to hold up his leg and not thrash about wildly, partially perhaps because people who own horses like Barbaro are unfathomably rich, and very likely because he has more than earned his keep (winnings) and will continue to if he lives (stud fees), because of all that they actually tried to save him. I was shocked. The night after the Preakness a friend of mine told me that he had broke down at the beginning of the race, and I didn't even ask if they put him down. I just assumed.

I've been following the Barbaro thing because I want to know the limits of our veterinary technology. A broken leg is almost always a death sentence, partially because the recovery is so difficult but partially because it is so prohibitively expensive that it is beyond anyone's means to try it, especially since there are no guarantees. But what Barbaro tells us is, if money were not an object, how much can we do for a ruined horse? It doesn't say much that after incredibly complicated but wholly successful leg surgery, they could still only give him a 50% chance.

I lost track of the whole thing for several weeks, only to turn up those recent headlines that say it's bad. Infections. Hardware replacement. And oh sweet god laminitis. A word that will make any horse owner or 4-H kid pale, and make the Cloverbuds cry. (Just looking at the pictures on that page make me want to curl up in a ball.)

They might have to put him down in the next day or so. This was all we could do, given every bit of medical technology and knowledge we have. There is some frighteningly elegant equation that governs a horse's legs, distributes the weight, allows them to go fast like flying, sustain incredible impact, and yet succumb to uneven weight distribution or any number of other truly ridiculous things (check out the "causes of laminitis" on that link--after reading them through it seems amazing that there are any horses left with their hooves still on.) And even in the best of circumstances we can do so little.

You know, I thought I was going to have something to say in this post that was more than just what the sports section articles have already outlined. But I guess not. It just sucks is all. I keep hoping that something will happen that's different from what I've learned, but it is just exactly as bad as all the textbooks said it was after all.

*Although if I recall correctly some of the later books in the Black Stallion series got rather darker. But nothing ever happened to the Black himself. He was, like, immortal or something.

I don't have very much about life figured out yet, but I do know a lot of things about the 66 bus. For instance, I know that they like to travel in pairs. I know that they will inevitably get stuck in traffic on either side of Commonwealth Ave. I know that people will insist on cramming themselves together in the front half of the bus rather than climb those two scary steps to all the seats in the back. I know that the air conditioning only has two settings--on and off--so at the end of a hot day, the bus will be cold enough to store meat for several days. I know that I should bring a sweater for such occasions.

I know, too, that if I put Splashdown's Blueshift on my mp3 player as I step onto the bus, "The Archer" will be playing as I step off in Harvard Square, and if the bus has arrived just before the hour, like it's supposed to, as I am walking to work the bells sounding the hour from a nearby church will meld themselves seamlessly into the end of the song: I do I do I do I do I (ding) I feel so elated (dong) would you would you would you (ding) please bring me joy (dong). And if instead I put on Sufjan Stevens' Come On Feel the Illinoise! at the beginning of my ride, "Chicago" will start to play somewhere on North Harvard St, and one of the choruses will probably begin as we glide onto the Larz Anderson Bridge, and I will think then that the arch of the bridge is the same shape as the song. On some days a passing biker will be pedaling just in time with the music, or some rowers will lower a boat into the river at exactly the right moment, and it will be perfect.

I know that on some days I will feel completely out of sync with everything and everyone around me, as though the very fabric of the universe were trying to trip me up. On those days I won't be able to find any music to suit either mood or motion, and I will want to shove everyone who is in my way for throwing off the silent beat inside my head.

But most importantly--and I try hard to remember this even in the worst of times--I know that on some days I won't even need to use the music on my mp3 player as a template in which to fit the world's rhythms. On those days the arc of the Green Line trains coasting into Coolidge Corner is the shape of a song, the ebb and flow of pedestrians and traffic is a recurring theme. Notes rise and fall with the wind, people zigzag among each other in complex harmonies. On those days I know there is a place for me in this grand symphony, and I find that I can fall in step easily, naturally, blissfully.

earlier -- later