Remembering Barbaro: A Book Excerpt

A jockey recalls the fight to the finish of America's favorite horse.

Built to Run

The first time I ever laid eyes on Barbaro, I finished what seemed like half a mile behind him in the Laurel Futurity, a turf race for two-year-old thoroughbreds at Laurel Park in Maryland. Barbaro had raced just once before. He was still so unknown that the track announcer mispronounced his name as "Bar-BEAR-oh."
But boy, on that November day in 2005, he was already a rocket. He finished so far ahead of my horse and the others that I didn't see much of him, except for his rear getting smaller and smaller in the distance. The other jockeys and I needed binoculars.

A brown bay with a splash of white between his eyes, Barbaro was a towering 17 hands tall -- almost six feet -- and bulged with muscles. Most of the other horses in the race were a foot shorter and noticeably thinner; they were equine teenagers, all legs and painfully gawky. Barbaro was the same age but with sturdy legs, a broad rear and a bodybuilder's physique, naturally built to run hard. The colt, owned by Roy and Gretchen Jackson, wasn't sleek and slender. He was all jock.

I said to his jockey that day, Jose Caraballo, "Wow, Jose, that's a nice horse. A really nice horse." Caraballo smiled. "He did all that by himself. I never touched him."

That night, I called my agent, Bob Frieze. If Barbaro's trainer, Michael Matz, ever wanted to change jockeys, I said, I would love to ride him.

On New Year's Day, 2006, I finally got my chance, at the Tropical Park Derby in Miami. Before the race, I put on my silks and went to the paddock to see Barbaro. He was larger and even more fearsome than I had recalled. I looked him in the eye before I got on him. He gave me a level gaze in return. He seemed to be saying, Come on! Let's do it. Even before we went into the starting gate, I liked him. Horses can sense affection. They read how you look at them, how you hold the reins. I also don't feel I have to be in control of them. I don't think you can ever be in control of a horse. It's a bigger and stronger animal, and if it wants to do something, it does. I respected that. Barbaro relaxed with me.

We won our first race by four lengths. His running style was so smooth that I felt like I was flying. After we crossed the finish line, I reached down and patted his long, muscular flank. I figured I'd just ridden the best turf horse of my career.

Soon after, Michael and the Jacksons decided to switch Barbaro over to dirt. Though his pedigree screamed turf (Barbaro's father, Dynaformer, had set a track record on grass and sired many winning turf horses), dirt racing dominates in the United States. The Triple Crown series of thoroughbred horse racing -- the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness Stakes and the Belmont Stakes -- are all run on dirt.

In early February 2006, Barbaro and I raced together again, in the Holy Bull Stakes at Gulfstream Park, near Miami. He won the race, his fourth straight win, and was barely breathing hard after 11⁄8 miles. I was delighted. I told my agent, "This horse has the potential to be a superstar on dirt."

"You like him that much?"

"I like him that much."

In April we won the Florida Derby together. That's when Gretchen asked me if I wanted to ride Barbaro in the Kentucky Derby. And just one month later, on May 6, 2006, in front of a racetrack audience of about 160,000 people and millions worldwide, I would be riding him in the biggest race in America. Anything was possible.

In Hot Pursuit

Whenever I'm driving on the highway and a Lamborghini shoots by at 90 mph, I wonder, What does it feel like to drive that baby? I've always liked speed, ever since I was a boy growing up in Lima, Peru, the tenth of eleven children.

My father, Jose, took care of horses owned by Peru's wealthy sportsmen. Though his wages were small and we lived in a one-room house without electricity, my father never thought of taking another job. He loved horses so much that if anything went wrong with one of them, he would sleep in its stall at night to make sure it would be okay. Many times, I slept next to him.

From watching him work at the track in Lima, I developed an interest in racing. The horses were so handsome, smart and fast that I yearned to ride them. It didn't hurt that two of my older brothers were jockeys. My mother, Zenaida, was as tough as anyone I've known, but the jockey's life scared her, especially after my brothers came home in ambulances with various broken limbs.

Still, she knew how much I loved racing. To learn the business, I took a job at the track, and by the time I was 17, I was on my way. In 1986, at 18, I moved to Miami to have a shot at a truly great career as a jockey. I would write my mother long letters about my dreams. She would write back. "Keep fighting, son," she'd say.

From early on, I seemed to know which horses needed a tight hold, which needed more freedom -- how each ticked. Today I can spend five minutes with a horse in a post parade (the warm-up before a race) and tell you its strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes. A good jockey listens to a horse breathe, feels him as he moves.

I won my first American race on a horse named Single Love on June 1, 1986, and slowly began to rise through the ranks. I did pause briefly to marry Liliana, my childhood love, in 1989. She and I became American citizens in 1993 and were thrilled when each of our three children was born.

Over the years, I won major races, including the 2002 and 2004 Belmont Stakes. Still, I dreamed of winning America's top race. I had raced in six Kentucky Derbys and had never won.

So on the first Saturday of May 2006 at Churchill Downs, with most of my family looking on, Michael was saying to me, "Let's go out and win our first Kentucky Derby, Edgar."

I got a leg up onto Barbaro, who was rested and ready. I walked him out to the track, patting him, murmuring, "You're a good boy. Are you ready to run? I know you are."

Many horses sweat before a race. Not Barbaro. He was completely comfortable and relaxed. I remembered seeing tapes of Triple Crown winners Secretariat (1973), Seattle Slew (1977) and Affirmed (1978). These champion racehorses held their heads up as they walked. Barbaro did too. He walked and jogged with his head bobbing up and down, looking straight ahead. Less confident horses hung their heads low, like they were about to get beat.

Loading 20 horses into the starting gate took several minutes, testing the animals' patience. Barbaro waited quietly in the No. 8 hole. I kept murmuring, reassuring him we were in this together. We could do it.

Finally, all the horses were in.

There was a brief pause, a moment of silence -- then the gate opened.

Barbaro stumbled taking his first step out. But he quickly regained his balance and took off. I was stunned. This would have fazed a lesser horse. But within three strides, he was in hot pursuit of Sharp Humor, just ahead.

As the field charged through the front stretch and headed for the first turn, Barbaro settled into a rhythm. We were three or four lengths wide of the rail and three or four lengths behind the front-runners, Sinister Minister and Keyed Entry. My goal was to find a place where Barbaro could relax. It happened effortlessly. I guided him to the spot, and Barbaro galloped along nicely, not at all upset to see a few horses ahead of him. As we went around the first turn, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Straightening into the backstretch, the three horses ahead were all to our inside, so there was no dirt hitting Barbaro in the face, as often happened on this surface. He couldn't have been in a better position. The speed in front of us wouldn't last.

As we reached the half-mile mark, I wanted to see if Barbaro was on his game, so I chirped at him. Immediately he ran harder. Amazing! Amid all the excitement of the Derby, he was totally focused, waiting for a signal. But I still wanted to save his best for later.

Just before we reached the far turn, I glanced back and to the inside. I knew Barbaro was ready to go, and I felt like it was time -- but I didn't want to move yet if no one was pressuring us. No one was.

A few moments later, I looked back again. This time, Sweetnorthernsaint and Showing Up were charging from the inside. Sweetnorthernsaint pulled even, and then Showing Up passed us. I didn't panic. I knew Barbaro would accelerate when asked to. Those horses would give him a target to chase.

As we made our way around the far turn, Barbaro lowered his head and took off.

Keyed Entry and Sinister Minister had now ruled the race for a mile. But as Barbaro accelerated, they fell away as if they were walking instead of running. Sweetnorthernsaint also fell away. In just a few strides, near the end of the second turn, Barbaro zoomed from fourth place into the lead.

Sometimes I tell people what happened next, and they don't believe me. But it did. When Barbaro took the lead, his ears shot up like a rabbit's, and he stalled. He was startled. He had been focusing on the horses in front of him, and suddenly they were gone. His reaction was, Whoa, where'd everybody go?

When he paused, I took out my stick, showed it to him and chirped at him. I didn't have to touch him. Barbaro saw that it was truly time to go. His ears came back down and he took off with a whoosh.

The sensation was like being in a car going from zero to 60 mph in a matter of seconds -- my Lamborghini! Barbaro had figured out what to do. Oh, my God, did he run.

At the top of the stretch, he pulled in front by a couple of lengths, and I showed him the stick again, then just let him go. He surged ahead by two lengths, then three.

I looked behind me with an eighth of a mile to go. No one was coming. Nineteen horses were behind us, in various states of exhaustion and depression. They were finished. The question now was, How much would we win by? Barbaro was gobbling up huge amounts of ground with every stride, excited to be going at top speed. He reached farther and farther out with his front legs. The lead grew to four lengths -- five. I showed him the stick once more and then put it away for good. He was ahead by five lengths, six, no challenge in sight, the great crowd roaring. I experienced a moment of pure joy as we surged across the finish line.

When I loosened my hold on the reins, Barbaro looked around, as if to say, That's it? I have to stop?

Triple Crown Contender

As I realized what had just happened, tears flooded my eyes. I thought of my mother, who had succumbed to cancer a few months earlier. I wished terribly that she could have seen me win this. She would have been so proud.

Barbaro came to a standstill, and an NBC broadcaster, Donna Brothers, pulled alongside me on her horse for an interview. "Edgar, congratulations on your first Kentucky Derby win!" she said. "It was so impressive on Barbaro's part. What kind of horse is this?"

I tried to find my voice. "Barbaro is an excellent horse. He's just shown what kind of quality horse he is. He proved he can run. I'm very happy."

Donna asked about this being my seventh attempt to win the Kentucky Derby. "I was very, very confident today. In America, dreams come true," I responded.

I steered Barbaro back toward the finish line and the winner's circle. As we passed the packed grandstand, a huge, roaring ovation greeted us -- thousands of people cheering, calling out Barbaro's name. I pointed to Barbaro. He was the champion and had done all the work. I was only along for the ride.

When a horse is undefeated and wins the Kentucky Derby by six and a half lengths, people start to think big. And that's what happened in the two weeks between the Derby and the Preakness Stakes at Pimlico in Baltimore. Millions of people from all over America liked this great horse's chances of becoming the first Triple Crown winner in 28 years.

Everywhere, people were talking.

On race day, a bright and clear Saturday, I awoke in nearby Woodstock, needing to get to Pimlico early. I had toast and coffee, kissed Liliana goodbye and headed out.

I stopped to see Barbaro on my way to the jockeys' room. He'd been to the track for a morning warm-up, which Michael said was brilliant. Barbaro looked ready to run. His eyes danced.

I stood outside his stall, stroked his neck and said, "It's going to be a good day, big man." His ears went back. He always loved voices.

Before the race, we stood around on the grass for close to ten minutes while the other horses were saddled. It was unusual for Barbaro to be on the grass before a race. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But later, when I tried to make sense of what had happened that day, I remembered the change in his routine.

Before his other dirt races, Barbaro had been saddled on hard floors of concrete in fully or partially enclosed paddocks. Then he had gone out and run on a hard track. Now he was being saddled on the grass and, being a creature of habit, as horses are, may have thought he was about to run on grass, which excited him.

The longer he stood there, the more his muscles tensed and the harder he breathed. By the time I got on him, he was agitated, a little too eager. He even jumped a couple of times, which he'd never done with me before. I chalked it up to the wild scene around us. Rock music was blaring, people were screaming and the announcer was talking nonstop. None of that had bothered Barbaro before, but horses can be unpredictable.

I hoped the change in his behavior was just a minor pre-race glitch. But then we were loaded into the starting gate, and there was a bigger glitch -- a disaster.

Barbaro had gone easily into the No. 6 hole, the back gate clicking shut behind us. He waited calmly while the remaining horses were loaded. The last one to go in was Diabolical. The colt balked, so Pimlico's gate staff used an old trick. They opened his front starting gate to give him a more open space. Then, once he was in, they closed the front gate and then the gate behind him as well.

When Barbaro heard that second click, he suddenly kicked with his forelegs, opening his own front gate. And he began running down the track. The huge crowd gasped.

A false start in horse racing is a freak accident, a rare event. Of the thousands of horses I had ridden in my career, only a few had broken through early like this.

It Doesn't Look Good for Barbaro

As Barbaro galloped down the track alone, everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I pulled hard on the reins. An outrider (a track official on a horse) came toward us, hoping to help me corral Barbaro so he could be reloaded for the race. We had traveled only 30 or 40 yards before Barbaro came to a halt, but it seemed to take forever. My heart hammered.

Horses that break through seldom run well once they're reloaded.

As I turned Barbaro around, I looked down. I was half hoping to see blood dripping from a cut on one of his forelegs, half hoping I would have to scratch him. The racing world would have been furious with me; how could I scratch a horse that looked like he could win the Triple Crown?

But I would have done it without hesitation. Barbaro had so much ahead of him. He could still make history. Why run him on a day when he didn't seem quite right?

I was concerned about his welfare. But after I maneuvered him behind the starting gate and examined him, he seemed fine. There was no blood. He wasn't limping. His eyes were bright and alive.

Dr. David Zipf, the Pimlico veterinarian, carefully examined Barbaro.

"See anything, Doc?" I asked him.

"Nothing, Edgar. He looks fine," Dr. Zipf replied.

There was no time to communicate with Michael or the Jacksons. They were up in the stands -- terribly anxious, I was sure. The other Preakness horses were still in the starting gate, waiting to race.

I spoke to Barbaro. "Okay, boy, let's do it," I said, hoping to soothe him.

When the gate opened and all nine horses took off, Barbaro was right in step with the others. But in each of his other races, he had broken sharply, powerfully, and then quickly found his rhythm. This time, he seemed dull.

I thought maybe he didn't like the track or just needed to settle down. Whatever it was, he was dragging. I was immediately on alert.

When he made it through the first 100 yards, I hoped he would get himself into the race. Suddenly, I felt him weaken. It was as if he'd absorbed a punch and been knocked off balance.

Usually I know when a horse breaks down beneath me. I've experienced it maybe three dozen times in my career. There is a sharp jolt, or the horse veers sharply, or he tumbles. The signs weren't that obvious now.

I thought maybe Barbaro had pulled a muscle. But whatever it was, it was troubling enough to convince me to pull him up. As a jockey, if I have any concerns about my horse during a race, I stop. It's not fair to run a horse if you have doubts about his health.

My heart pounded as I eased Barbaro out of the pack and guided him toward the outer rail. Was this really happening? Would he be okay?

I looked back and down. I saw that Barbaro was running on three legs, favoring his right rear leg. He was so driven and athletic that he still wanted to run, no doubt hating the sight of the other horses pulling away. This great horse wanted to beat them!

But I kept jerking the reins, and finally he stopped near the finish line, in the shadow of the grandstand. The crowd had gone silent after its deafening roar of just moments earlier, when the gates had opened. I glanced over at the first few rows. The fans stared, some with their mouths open.

I jumped off Barbaro and put my hands on him to try to control him. Some injured horses lash out, but Barbaro let me hold him. He seemed to trust me, knew I was trying to help. He was so smart.

I saw him dangling his right hind leg awkwardly over the dirt. I thought, This might be bad. I hoped it wasn't broken. I didn't see blood. Maybe it was a minor injury. Commentators later praised me for acting fast and helping Barbaro survive, but the truth is the horse did it by himself. He remained calm, followed my instructions and let me control him. He kept his injured leg raised, over the dirt.

Veterinarians and track officials arrived in waves. The equine ambulance pulled up, and the track became an accident scene. Michael and assistant trainer Peter Brette raced down from the stands, arriving within seconds, followed by the Jacksons. Everyone hovered around Barbaro.

Seeing them all, I nearly burst into tears. "I'm just so sorry," I said. As the other horses finished the race, people kept asking what had happened. I said Barbaro didn't feel right. Then I just stepped back, put my head in my hands and bent over.

An hour later, back at the barn, local vet Nick Meittinis gave me the bad news. He had just viewed the X-rays of Barbaro's leg. "Edgar, I'm sorry. But it doesn't look good at all."

The look on my face told him my heart was breaking.

The X-rays showed that the bones in Barbaro's right rear leg had shattered into at least two dozen pieces. Putting them all back together would be close to impossible. Thankfully, Barbaro wasn't in the hands of a cold syndicate of businessmen who might consider the bottom line. Instead, his owners were a pair of incredibly generous and kindhearted horse lovers, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, who decided that, in spite of the odds, they wanted to try to save Barbaro. They felt he deserved the chance.

I walked over to where Barbaro stood. The vets and the X-ray techs suddenly left; he and I were alone. He gave me a warm look, and I started crying, bawling, big tears rolling down my cheeks. Barbaro actually rested his head on my shoulder. I'm sure he was in pain, but I just held him, and he relaxed; I think he was glad I was there. We stayed in that position for at least five minutes. We were together in our own private world.

Barbaro's athletic career was over. This great racehorse was reduced to walking around the New Bolton Center, a first-rate veterinary hospital in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, with a cast on his leg courtesy of top veterinary surgeon Dr. Dean Richardson. But Barbaro's brilliance and spirit were as strong as ever.

When I first visited him in the ICU, ten days after the Preakness, I walked over to his stall and said, "Hey, guy! How are you doing?"

He reacted immediately, came to me like an old friend. His ears pricked. He let me hold him and pat him.

He was alert and bright-eyed and was looking around, as if to say, Hey, I'm going to make it. Don't worry.

I kept talking to him and fed him baby carrots, his favorite treat. He put his head on my shoulder, just as he had at Pimlico. I felt encouraged.

For many months, through multiple surgeries and under the steady eye of Dr. Richardson and his team, Barbaro fought to overcome his injury as well as the onset of laminitis, a painful hoof condition in horses that must put extra weight on a leg to compensate for an injury. The doctors and nurses who cared for him kept saying, "What a horse." They were blown away by his strength, his intelligence and his attitude.

But in January 2007, though he'd been healing well, Barbaro suffered a serious case of laminitis in his left rear foot. He also developed an abscess on his right hind foot, which was intensely painful. Dr. Richardson couldn't treat it with the cast on the leg, so he inserted a plate and two steel pins, eliminating all weight-bearing from the foot. It was a risky operation because the front feet could develop laminitis from the shift in weight. But Dr. Richardson saw no alternative.

That night I spoke to Michael, who told me the odds of Barbaro's recovery were getting slimmer by the minute. I barely slept. The next morning, I got the devastating news: Barbaro had been put down. The Jacksons had decided to do what was best for Barbaro and relieve him of his suffering.

My experience with this animal shook me to my soul. A full year after he triumphed in the Kentucky Derby, I was still seeing tears in people's eyes when they approached me. I had continued to ride other horses in other races; it was my career, my life. But I had also continued to receive emotional cards, letters and text messages about Barbaro. It was clear I would remain connected with him.

I had always imagined that my purpose in life, aside from being a good husband and father, was to honor the athletic gifts God had given me and be the best jockey I could be. Maybe I'd also been put on this earth to take Barbaro's journey with him, to share in his highs and lows.

Now and then, I like to watch the Kentucky Derby on tape, to remember how awesome Barbaro was. I'm so glad I knew him. I'm so glad I rode him. I have gone on with my life. But a little piece of me is missing.