Churchill Downs — May 3, 2008 — Kentucky Derby: I was standing level with the track, leaning my arms against a fence inches from the rail. The sun was baking my shoulders, giving me a sunburn to remember far after my fancy dress would be peeled from my sweat-lathered body. We were still several races away from the main event, and I had already become tired. Enduring the Kentucky Derby is a badge of honor. I was wearing high-heels, something completely foreign to my bony feet, and I had earned a slight hitch in my gait from the demands of the long day. I was at the point where I decided I would become a lazy photographer and stay in one place for a while, in my cozy front-row seat.
And then, I heard something over the loud speaker. At first, it was a broken message — I heard the words “red carpet… paddock,” and a name —“Curlin.” Like a dog responds to the word of “food,” I jerked to attention. Whoa, wait, did I just hear that right?
My eyes flashed to the gigantic teleprompter hovering in front of the infield. There, on the screen, was the answer to my question. It was like I was seeing a vision. After that, I remember the announcer’s voice repeating “the red carpet has been rolled out for the 2007 Horse of the Year…” The rest is a blur. I was gone in seconds flat. High-heels be damned.
The next thing I knew, I was flying. I saw a flurry of surprised faces, flashes of enormous hats, wealthy men in business suits shooting me reproachful glances as I whizzed between them like a weasel in a minefield. My feet didn’t understand how I could be doing this to them. Nevermind.
When I reached the paddock, a crowd as thick as pigeons in Central Park was clustered against the overlooking rail. Normally, I am a very polite person when it comes to stepping in front of people. First come, first serve, after all.
I think I left my sense of sociability back at the track. I was parting the seas, a woman on a mission, my camera clutched tightly to my chest, squeezing between people who had worked hard to find their spots, ducking past wall-wide men serenely surveying the scene. I had become possessed by the notion that this may be my once in a lifetime chance to see a Great One, and there was gonna be hell to pay if one individual tried to stand in my way.
I must’ve indeed looked the part of a mad lady, because squeezing to the front was uncannily easy. It helps to be serpentine some days. I lodged myself between a nice Australian lady and a guy in sunglasses who obviously thought he was of some importance, because he wouldn’t let me go a step further. But I could see all I needed to from my spot at the railing, overlooking that famed paddock. Because at that moment I saw him coming in my direction. My camera shaking, I began to snap my shutter with the repetition of machine gun fire. I couldn’t believe he was here, in person.
Or, rather, horseflesh.
He was dressed in a white robe that billowed with every step, calling forth visions of a king entering court. His mane was tied up in bobs, exposing an arched neck that rippled with authority. And his color… I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen anything like it. He was what the old romancers of the track used to call “gilded in living gold.” The sheen of it was blinding as he passed us; he looked too beautiful to be real.
He loped around the paddock circle with collected ease, nothing more than a show horse on this day. It was as if he was overseeing his subordinates, examining their statures as they were saddled, approving their forms before they went off to race. Throngs of trainers and owners gawked and turned to watch him walk by when they should’ve been overseeing their own horses.
“Just out for a stroll, don’t mind me.”
Thus was my first live introduction to Curlin.