Raja, Story of a Racehorse Read Online Free

were sent to the doctor with injuries from his well-aimed hooves. I suppose every riding horse has to go through it, but I’m not saying it was fun. Almost everything was just plain uncomfortable: learning to wear tack — heavy, tickly saddles and bridles with heavy cold metal bits in our mouths; having our hooves trimmed by the farrier; and walking up a ramp into a stall on wheels, the horse van.
    We tolerated most things now that we were almost two, living in the barn and being “broken in,” but it was all slightly trying, especially for Max, who definitely didn’t like being told what to do.
    â€œYou gotta outwait ’em,” Bob told Chris, his new young assistant, who was learning about training. “Sooner or later they come around if they understand what you want them to do. Reward them when they get it right. They’re smart; they know.”
    A familiar, calm smile starting with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes met any high spirits, as Bob waited patiently — no words, just a look that seemed to say, “You really want to make an issue out of this little thing?”
    Usually we just ended up doing what he wanted because we were tired of being asked again and again and again. And, of course, there were carrots involved.
    Carrots help a lot.

    â€œVet’s comin’ tomorrow to tattoo their upper lips. The inside, see here.” Bob put his hand on the upper lip of a horse down the shed row from me and rolled it up to show Chris. “See that letter? It’s the year he was born. The number after is the last five digits of his Jockey Club registration number. That’s the way Thoroughbreds are identified. They have to be registered and tattooed before they race — that’s why they all have unique names.”
    Chris grimaced. “Ouch, sounds painful.”
    â€œDon’t worry, they only feel a prick.”

    Soon all of us two-year-olds were training on the dirt track, galloping side by side, four sets of nostrils breathing in stride or bucking and egging each other on.
    Starting-gate lessons were the best. We walked into the narrow metal stalls, hearts pounding, muscles taut and ready to go, feeling more alive than I thought possible, knowing it would soon be time to gallop! Watching the gate person intently, filling our lungs with a deep breath. And when you couldn’t bear to wait any longer, exploding onto the track, fighting to get out and away first, bodies bumping and hot wet sand flying in our faces.
    Max and I galloped head to head. Toward the end, I would look him in the eye.
    I dare you to try to beat me.
    He always fought fiercely and I always played with him for a while — like the barn cats with a mouse they were about to kill. Then I turned on what Bob called “the afterburners” and blew by him — to keep him in his place.

    â€œComo estas, Raja, how are you today? Are you going to win the Derby?”
    Every day, Pedro, my regular exercise rider, greeted me with a grin that took over his weather-beaten face and made everyone in its beam feel as if they were the best thing to happen to him. A mischievous gleam in his eye invited you to share the joke while he innocently rubbed the back of his nearly bald head.
    â€œOnly forty years old and I’ve broken 20 bones — my collarbone four times.” He winked at Chris. “I don’ think I have any more left to break. I love working with all of the Sheikh’s babies. It’s so much easier when you start with class. These boys are the top, I’m tellin’ ya. You couldn’t teach a horse what they’ve had bred into them — power, boldness, heart. One of these boys could be the next Secretariat or Man o’ War.”
    We had a routine. Pedro usually brought me an apple or a sweet pastry. I greeted him and rubbed my head on his shoulder, trying to find the treat.
    â€œHey buddy, you look like a big, tough racehorse, but