I spent September 5th at the grand old Saratoga racetrack.  Though I watched almost every race on the card that, I had gone with one sole purpose:  to see the great racing filly Rachel Alexandra in the Woodward Stakes.  Driving through Saratoga, a banner proclaimed, "Rachel Alexandra runs like a girl!"

Though I am hardly a die-hard racing fan, Thoroughbred horse racing has been a part of my life for decades, though in a relatively inconsistent way.  At age 11, I was furious to be forced to attend the Girl Scout picnic on Kentucky Derby day!!! Determined to not miss the race, I took my transistor radio with me to the dreaded troop event.  At the appropriate time (all afternoon I'd made many requests of adults all around, "What time is it, please?") I listened to the race. The winner was Arts and Letters.  To this day, when I hear his name, I am 11 years old, sitting on the grass in the afternoon sun, nothing mattering more to me than the imagined horses racing for the finish line. (note: a KY reader pointed out correctly that Arts & Letters did not win the Derby but ran second to Majestic Prince.  However, Arts & Letters did win the 1969 Belmont, which my memory somehow translated to the Kentucky Derby.  Explains my confusion when searching my memory banks -- why would we have a picnic in early May in NJ? too cold!  Early June is when the Belmont is run, lovely weather. Makes sense now! But at least my aging memory served clear on the winning horse.)

When Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths, I was suppose to standing there watching him do it.  But my boyfriend at the time had forgotten to ask for the day off, so I was stuck at home, watching the big red horse run faster and faster and farther till all other horses that day were nearly 1/4 mile behind him as he powered across the line, racing against only himself, running for the glory of moving like the racing machine he was.  I cried with nearly every stride that horse took with Turcotte tucked on his shoulders, the famous blue & white silks a glorious windwhipped flag above the stallion's immense strides.  I am a long way from that afternoon of watching Secretariat win, but the thrill of his performance has never left me.  If I need to explain his feat to anyone, or even when I see the famous photo where he looms superhorse size with the far more mortal horses tiny in the background, I am often choked with the emotions born so many years ago.  

I've been privileged to see a few truly great horses in my time.  Including the mighty Forego, a freight train of a horse with the heart of a locomotive and the presence of a king. Watched these famous horses put in performances that decades later are recalled in detail with awe and tears for the beauty of it all, for the power, the guts, the utmost laid down without hesitation.  Rachel Alexander is one of those horses.

Although it required standing there for more than 2.5 hours to secure the spot, my friend Ginny and I made sure we were on the rail. Our planning paid off - nothing but the rail fence stood between us and Rachel Alexandra when she walked by for the post parade, though the crowd was 6 or 8 or 10 deep against our backs.  Seeing her distinctive face come into view was electrifying.  She gleamed, she pranced, she pricked her ears, and the crowd roared its blessing as she trotted by.  For a moment, it was all too much for her, and she unseated jockey Calvin Borel, who landed like a feather, holding her lightly.  She looked at him with that expression horses get when humans are unexpectedly unhorsed -- and even as murmurs of "Oh, that's not good, that's gonna cost her" went rippling around us, I saw her apologize to Calvin for being momentarily unsettled.  She calmed quickly, Calvin was thrown back up, and without a break in their connection, they went on, together, a love story in motion.  Time for the warm up gallop.

In a little while, Rachel Alexandra went by again, Calvin sitting on her as if at the end of a long relaxing trail ride, his legs stretched free, his face soft and smiling as she had told him a most wonderful story. Perhaps that is simply the face of a man who knows without doubt that he is sitting on the best horse he will ever ride.  In the photo I have of that moment, there is a comfortable balance between them.  He does not look like a man sitting on one of the world's most powerful racehorses.  He looks like a horseman riding his most beloved horse friend.  Rachel does not look intense or tightly wound, simply ready and able but wasting no effort until called upon.  I love this photo.  I have seen some of the world's finest jockeys ride, but there's something compelling about Calvin and Rachel and their shared relaxation and assurance at the moment just steps away from the gate.

To a non-horse lover, it is probably not possible to explain how fast our hearts were beating as Rachel and the others were loaded into the starting gate.  Impossible to explain the soaring hope and the thread of fear woven through it all as the bell rang.  (Ruffian remembered, Eight Belles all too recent, and so a prayer again for Rachel, one of so many that day for her.)  With pounding hearts, we watched her sail - out in front and holding on right through the backstretch though world class boys - Da 'Tara, Past the Point, Asiatic Boy - were on her heels.

As the horses disappeared, we kept an eye on the big screen showing the action that we could not see.  The fractions ticked by (dear God, so fast, too fast to maintain?) and Rachel Alexandra never yielded the lead.  As the horses went around the far turn and then into the clubhouse turn, I noted with astonishment that Macho Again who had been galloping last had suddenly switched gears and was making a charge at the top of the home stretch.  Always a fan of the come from behind horses like Forego, I knew better than to discount what a truly great horse could do even from the back of the pack.  Macho Again found a hole, came roaring through, and then, dear God, he kept coming like the wind. 

And ahead of them all, Calvin riding feather light on her as she ate the track with clean, powerful strides, came Rachel Alexandra, running hard and fast and beautiful as something can be only when it is aligned precisely with its destiny, its purpose.  Pressed hard, Rachel would not yield. Calvin asked, his body an urgent request against her spectacular body, his whip seeming to be a human need to ask in some other way what she was already answering with all of her being.

As they passed us, it was clear that Macho Again's heartbreakingly astounding run from dead last to Rachel's shoulder might actually break the magic spell this lovely filly had woven with her power and talent.  The crowd's screams of "GO! GO! Run like a girl!" gave to dismayed groans of "NO! NO!" as it looked as if he had caught her at the very last.  And yet even as my heart was fearing that she had lost, I could not help the tears of admiration for Macho - he ran a harder race, and he was something far past impressive - he was simply impossibly good.

Then the agony of a photo finish. The crowd murmured in dismay "He caught her" and in hope "She did it" but no one was certain.  The track camera stayed on Calvin and Rachel while the judges reviewed the photos, so we watched the big screen, wondering, hoping, saying foolish racetrack prayers, waiting..  And just before the official results flashed on the board, the outrider must have told Calvin because he leaned down and gave Rachel a thumping of delight and pumped his fist in the air.  Which is how we knew, before the numbers went up, that she had somehow done it, somehow held off Macho Again's fierce effort, somehow gone wire to wire without a speck of dirt on her exquisite face.  And what Rachel Alexandra had done was more than simply be the first filly to win the Woodward.  She had proven herself - again - to be one of the rare company, the greats, the unforgettables.

Rachel Alexandra won by just a 1/2 head.  Macho came calling, and asked very hard what she had left.  She had more than enough.  Calvin asked her to dig in and go, and dig in she did.  Simply amazing, her particular blend of beauty, power, skill and heart.  I later read that when asked if he had been afraid that Macho again might take the lead, Borel replied that he hadn't been worried at all.  Rachel simply wasn't willing to let Macho pass her.  

I took not quite 500 photos that day.  I got some lovely ones of Rachel.  One of my favorites was taken after the race, after the acclamation and glory shots of the winner's circle. It shows her walking back to the barn, gleaming wet from the post-race hosing.  Her lovely feminine head is level with her withers, her ears relaxed, her nostrils still flared with the effort of the race.  Her intelligent dark eyes are steady, clear, calm -- and tired.  As I snapped the shots of her and her entourage walking down the track, I wished there was some way to thank her for being all that she is. But  I could only stand there helpless with admiration and gratitude, watching her disappear into the golden light of a glorious summer evening.  Rachel walked down the track with the graceful beauty of the athlete who has given it all, and all was still within the realm of what a body can bear and not break apart.

Sometimes, you get to see history made.  Sometimes, greatness strolls past, looks you in the eye as it heads off to work.  Sometimes, what you see is burned into your memory and your heart. Rachel Alexander will stay with me for the rest of my days.

On September 5th, 2009, "runs like a girl" became a very great compliment indeed.

(with gratitude to Calvin Borel, Steve Asmussen and his team, and Jess Jackson & partners who all made it possible for a horse named Rachel Alexander to be her very best)