In a lifetime around horses, many were treasured family and teachers of an uncommon kind. Usually the best of them had something that made them “undesirable” and a hard sell for their previous owners. The “hard sells” were always ambrosia to me.
A leggy, bay thoroughbred mare named Ressa Beaux was one such ”undesirable”. She was Kentucky bred from a long line of hard knocks, hard running horses that ran in low level claiming races. She was the sort who was often in the money, picking up checks by running her eyeballs out. Ress always did her job.
“Ress”
We bought Ress for meat price at a “hole in the wall” auction in South Jersey. She’d been bred but unable to produce a live foal so she was being sold. She was in poor condition, parasite ridden, on the thin side with rain rot over her back. She had a festering uterine infection, abscesses in her hind feet and her cheek teeth were sharply jagged, in serious need of work leaving her unable to chew correctly. Her ragged teeth had lacerated her tongue and gums.
To look at Ress, one could see hopelessness in her eyes. She had no attachments to any human. In a claiming stable, like the ones she’d occupied for years, there can be no attachments. For horses that run hard like she did, being claimed and changing stables is a constant. Ress had never gotten to know anyone. She knew only her job and hanging on each day.
When we took over her care, she accepted us stoically. There was no love lost or found. She seemed to be numb to her environment and anyone around her. She obviously had so many disappointments, for all she knew we might be more of the same. She’d built a wall around herself. Her only focus was on survival.
A year after Ress came to us, we moved to Long Island. I needed a job and somewhere to stable Ress. My work was, as always, around horses—racebreds in the previous three years. And as luck would have it, walking through the parking lot of a convenience store I caught sight of a car with a bumper sticker from Beulah Park Racetrack. The car belonged to an old running quarter horse trainer. He was easy to spot in the store. He was in jeans, a western cut shirt, cowboy boots and a ball cap. He stood out amongst the customers waiting in line at the cash register. This was a possibility!
I struck up a coversation with him. His name was George Launay and yes, he did need a groom. In exchange for grooming his stable of racebred quarter horses, at least once a week for each one, and I could have a stall for Ress.
Great! We found a shipper and Ress would soon be stabled in George’s barn. He was wintering at at Parr Meadows, a defunct racetrack on Long Island.
There, Ress had the stall, but no turnout. All that we could do was handwalk her. The walking was enough to prevent a colic, but not enough to appease a horse with a running pedigree like hers. She needed to move. I saw that George’s horses showed much of the same pent up energy. A lot of them bounced off of the walls, spooking at any little surprise. As long as they didn’t colic, he ignored it. I couldn’t. Seeing how worked up Ress had become, I had to find a way for her to cut loose.
(flickr/JohnDonges)
I really didn’t want to ride Ress. Mounted work had been avoided since the condition of her legs made this questionable. This mare had run hard in her career. She had heavily pin fired legs, fused ankles with dense osselets, a chipped knee, one ankle was dropped and she had a mechanically foundered foot. No, riding her was not my first choice, but there at the bygone Parr Meadows backstretch, it was the only way to get her some real movement outside of the barn. She was really getting squirrely. It was time to get her some reasonable exercise, just enough to get the edge off.
The backstretch of this mostly abandoned facility was barren and rocky. Only the track got any attention. Trainers who were working their charges saw to dragging the surface daily. The loam was well groomed and very smooth with a decent cushion.
I was stupid. I have no problem admitting that. I rode Ress up onto the track with only my bareback pad. I had put a pair of irons on leathers attached to the Dees. As a bridle, I used a Kelly hackamore. I thought we’d just walk and jog a few times around the track and then head back to the barn. Yeah, good luck! We’re talking about a race mare with 58 starts, 13 wins, 2 seconds and 10 thirds in her long traveled career. She knew all about what racetracks were for. What made me think that she would not respond with what she knew to stepping on a dirt oval with an inner rail, a customary grandstand and a club house turn where most sprinters like her made their winning move? Boy, was I dumb!
Going through the gap, Ress pranced along the backside of the track, then she became excited. She pulled herself into a tight frame, galloping sideways as I tried to contain her. At the clubhouse turn, she began diving for the sky. Rearing straight up over and over, she was demanding release. All that I could think of as I leaned forward on her, trying not to fall off or God forbid crash in a flip, was “Oh hell, you want to run?” I loosened the reins and she took off.
Of all the pleasure and show horses I’d ever ridden, none displayed the explosive speed that carried me that day. She was like a raging forest fire searing the ground with every stride. The term “blowing out” couldn’t quite describe it.
Every muscle in my body was taut and I felt a quaking tremor as I stood in the irons with a grip on her mane, hoping that I didn’t end up eating some track surface.
The sheer speed pounded a thundering wind in my ears. My eyes were stinging, causing tears to race down my face and blow right off of my cheeks. Every muscle in my body was taut and I felt a quaking tremor as I stood in the irons with a grip on her mane, hoping that I didn’t end up eating some track surface. That ride on her was like a drive in a Formula One race car when you only knew how to handle a Volkswagon. It would have been a good ride for an adrenaline junkie…not me.
Ress knew where the wire was. She pulled herself up without my input on the reins and then she pranced toward the gap with an arched neck as though she’d won another race.
That was my first ride on a racetrack—completely out of control. George saw my harrowing ride from where he stood at a spot in the empty grandstand. He smiled at me on my return to the barn. “Want to get on a few of mine?” No, I did not.
I had a lot to learn and like every other horse that I’d known, Ress was the school mistress. She taught me to question myself and what I thought that I knew (“You know nothing, Cindy Ginart!”). Of all the horses over the years since youth, none were as hot, competent, professional, capable of handling people and herd issues as Ressa Beaux was. She taught me how to be open to observation and analyses of horses, their moods, their movement and what they truly needed. What I learned from her came out in so many ways and fused to the rest of my world.
I rode Ress on trail rides years later. She danced on each new trail. She loved new scenery and the challenges over unknown terrain. As an ex-racehorse, it was her way to lead the trail group and run the show. I could always trust her to pick the pace with a completely loose rein. Ress never attempted to run off on the trails. I could use my seat bones to indicate direction; she was always very accommodating. Out on the trail she was in her glory. She was happy to be out walking the brow of a hill as softly and safely as an old cat, or up to her chest in river water and she was completely reliable and competent anywhere that we crossed roads or negotiated traffic.
I really believe Ress adored the challenge, even with her problems. She knew that if anything bothered her I’d chuck the ride and walk her home…which was quite often, even though she was usually fine. It just felt like a better way to finish a fine day. She knew that.
Ress was always somewhat aloof. It was either a protection mechanism or just her way of being the professional that she knew how to be. She was never affectionate or in any way goofy. But after quite a few years she showed me that she felt we were a pair by her attentiveness to my presence when other horses were close by. She drove them off with flattened ears and the stare that I called the “snake face”, making it clear that they were not welcome at the moment. She was our first race-bred horse and the start of an adventure.
Thank you Ress! Like all of the other horses that graced me with their noble presence, I miss you still and when I cross that bridge to join you all, I go to meet one fine herd.
About the Author
From showing English and Western, working at the racetrack and even carriage driving in New York City, C.A. Ginart has done it all. She is the author of the book, In the Absence of Fear: All Things Are Possible.