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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?
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