His heart beating a tattoo against his rib cage, Edward Manning gripped the mane of his dark, stately mount and swung himself up into the saddle. He glanced out at the masses of onlookers that filled the stands and box seats that were set along one side of the racetrack.
There were so many people! To a new jockey, it was relatively unnerving.
Edward’s mount, a two-year-old Thoroughbred colt named 24 Karat Gold, snorted impatiently and shifted his weight, glancing back at his rider with anticipation. This would be their first race, both of them, and the thought of all the pressure they were both under was staggering.
For Karat, as Edward called him, it was because he was an unraced colt from an obscure pedigree. His owner, Matthew Walker, was more of a hobbyist than anything, and so no one expected much out of him.
Edward’s setback was fear. Just a year before, his best friend and mentor, Jose Rodriguez, had been involved in a terrible accident during a race. The track had been sloppy and his horse had lost its footing. He had jumped from the saddle, only to get his foot caught in the stirrup and be crushed under the weight of the seventeen-hand-high gelding he had been riding. This had been followed by a glancing blow to the head by the hooves of a passing horse. It was a miracle that he had survived, but he was now paralyzed from the waist down.
Now here was Edward, preparing to begin his jockeying career at the same track where his friend’s career had ended.
“Time to line up,” came a deep voice from beside him.
Edward glanced over to see Mr. Walker. Unlike most racehorse owners, Mr. Walker acted as the trainer as well.
Now there he was, astride a placid bay pony. He would be leading Edward and Karat around the track before the race. Edward gulped, then nodded. It was now or never. With that he urged his mount forward, lining up behind the other six racers who would be accompanying him on the track.
“You can do it, Eddie,” came a familiar voice by the railing.
The young man shot a wondering glance in the direction of the voice, and his eyes opened wide in surprise when he saw the face of none other than Jose, seated in his wheelchair and clad in the same silks he had worn on the day of his accident. A bright smile lit up his bronzed face, and he lifted one hand in salutation.
But now they had swung around the track, the ex-jockey blending in with the other specks that made up the crowd of onlookers.
Soon the racers had been loaded into the starting gate, and Edward bent low over Karat’s neck in preparation for the race. He could still see the spot in which Jose’s horse had fallen, now nicely smoothed down for a new year and a new race.
There came the bell! The gates flew open and the horses bounded out like streaks of lightning.
"Great," Edward thought to himself as he watched the other horses speed ahead, "There’s no way we can win this race."
Seven furlongs, six furlongs, five furlongs to go now, and still Karat seemed to be content to run at the back of the pack.
"So much for this," Edward sighed inwardly as the wind whipped about his face.
Just then Jose’s words flashed through his mind.
"You can do it, Eddie."
Was it possible?
Just then, as the three furlong mark whizzed past them, Edward saw an opening. It was now or never. He had to try.
With that he flicked the reins. Instantly he felt Karat tense, and he himself tightened his muscles as the horse shot forward into the midst of the pack.
Specks of dirt sang past the young jockey’s face, ricocheting off his cheeks. The thunder of horse hooves rumbled in his ears and the tang of horse sweat filled his nostrils. He could hardly even hear the roar of the cheering crowd.
Just then the two furlong mark flashed by.
“Go, Karat, go!” he urged, more for his own sake than for the horse’s.
Karat seemed to know this was the end, however. As Edward waved the whip next to his face, urging him on, the colt seemed to throw himself into a whole new realm of speed.
To Edward, it was as though he were no longer riding a horse but was, instead, sitting astride a missile that shot along the surface of the earth. Faster, faster, the colt went, his neck outstretched, nostrils flaring, ears plastered against his head. Already he was riding abreast of the lead horse.
Then there! That was the one furlong mark. For a moment everything seemed to go still. There were the shouting onlookers. There was the finish line. And there was Jose, cheering from his wheelchair, his eyes fixed upon Edward and 24 Karat Gold.
"Yes! We’re almost there!" Edward thought to himself.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the horse running beside him, every muscle in its body flexing beneath its dust-laden coat. Could they really beat this horse?
With one last burst of power Karat surged ahead of the lead runner, crossing the finish line ahead of the other horse by just the length of his nose.
Edward could hardly believe it as they gradually slowed their pace. They had won!
Momentarily he glanced back at the onlookers, and his heart swelled with pride and astonishment when, at the same moment he glanced back, he saw Jose take hold of the railing and hoist himself up, out of the wheelchair, still waving one fist in the air and cheering wildly.
“I guess,” Edward whispered to himself as he and Karat were led into the winner’s circle, “anything’s possible.”