On track – by Caroline Lenette
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I walk to the stables for my 4.30am shift. It’s pitch black. The Royal Randwick enclave belongs to the people who run the show behind fancy race days; owners, trainers, riders and a crew of stable hands are synchronised in a routine of activities behind tree-lined fences. A float roars through the gated precinct to deliver the next thoroughbred champion. The echo of horseshoes meeting the ground and a couple of neighs accompany the unmistakable, earthy smell of horse poo.
When I turn 15, I get a work experience gig at the racetrack as a stable hand. Mum whinges while driving me through empty streets at 4am every Monday. She knows this is my dream job, to be around horses – some worth millions – and care for them, while I get to see riders hop on their backs and head to the racetrack. My tasks are physical, repetitive: shovel shit, replenish hay, top up water. Stables are a rough environment where there is no room for error. I’m worn out by the end of these shifts but feel lucky to learn about horses in such an iconic place. Many people are surprised by my commitment, but not Mum. She knows a thing or two about my tenacity. Nothing (or no one) can stop me when I’m determined. I’m my mother’s daughter.
I’ve always known I would work with animals. I grew up around dogs, collected bugs from the backyard, and handled snakes at kids’ events. When we moved to an apartment with amazing views of the racecourse, I could not believe my luck: front row seats to daily training routines, with the sunrise as background.
At the stables, I enjoy guiding horses around the equine pool, especially when it’s Cameron’s turn. Once I fetch him from the stalls, I swap the lead rope for a longer one, adjust the bit, and walk him into the water. Standing on a platform with my eyes on him, I wait a few seconds for Cameron to adjust. Then I start jogging ahead on a small bridge, anticlockwise, to let him know it’s time to start swimming. I can tell he’s found his rhythm once I hear him breathe out loud, nostrils flared. I catch a glimpse of his hooves coming up close to the surface and down again, left, right, left, right. His eyes are wide open, teeth baring, ears twitching. After a couple of laps and heavy exhales, Cameron emerges from the pool, majestic, water dripping off his muscular body. I clip the short lead back on before scraping his flanks. By the time I return him to his stall, the sun is rising and illuminating the racecourse. I take a couple of shots for the socials.
I know the ins and outs of the horses’ daily habits from staff members who’ve worked there for a while. They find time to chat with me in between tasks. I meet several vets, physios and farriers, each of them teaching me something new about horse care. Riders share tips on how they trained for this job.
Figuring out the horses’ personalities is fun. I get along with some of them from day dot – I even have a couple of favourites. The gentle ones rest their muzzles on my shoulder while I clean their stalls, requesting a tickle. Ebony likes to grab my jacket zipper with her teeth and pull it up and down until I cackle. There are a few unpredictable ones I’d rather avoid, like Houdini, who tried to bite me when I first met him. Nothing tops sitting next to a horse lying down on the hay, ears softened as it rests. I listen to its regular breath, watch the ribcage rise and fall. My own breath slows down as I stroke its forehead. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
A few days into my work placement, Arion shows signs of colic. I didn’t know it could be fatal. All our attention turns to her. My job is to keep Arion in a standing position and walk her around the yard. She might get injured if she rolls on her tummy. Sweat foams up on her neck and chest. She paws the grass with her front hooves and curls her upper lip. I’m also getting stressed. Everyone is worried and barking instructions at me. ‘Keep her up! Up!’ Despite my best efforts, Arion cannot stop herself from lying down to relieve her discomfort. She is contorted with pain. I baulk as I notice raw scratches on her knees, so I pull hard on the lead to prop her back up on her legs. The other horses look on with their ears forward. I’ve never seen them like this before. The vet is on the phone, explaining what to do while he drives to the stables to deliver an injection for Arion. I try to stay calm, but my heart is pounding. I think she might die. I text Mum because I don’t know what else to do. I ask her to pick me up. As soon as I put my seatbelt on, she gives me the usual spiel: ‘It’s a learning experience, darling.’ I wonder if I ever want to see a horse in pain again.
After the placement, they put me on the roster as a casual. Mum gives me a crash course on taxes and superannuation – boring. Then comes my chance to strap a horse on race day. I’m chuffed to be asked. Mum is reticent at first but agrees to take me on a scouting mission the week before so I can see what’s involved in strapping. We watch the final stretch of a race and feel the drumming of hooves pounding towards the finishing line. We hear jockeys calling but can’t figure out what they say. I’m worried Mum will bring up whipping again (when I was six, she made me watch an ABC documentary on how painful it can be for horses), but she agrees to keep negative thoughts to herself while we’re there.
Strappers are busy getting racers ready on time. The main task is to keep an eye on them so they don’t become too agitated or copy the bad behaviours of competitors in neighbouring stalls. I make a mental note of everything. It feels weird to stand in the viewing area among owners, trainers and punters who assess each thoroughbred. Which one will make them rich? Around the racetrack, a voice babbles on the speaker, a constant chatter. We avoid mingling with loud spectators who, drinks in hand and fascinators pointing to the sky, bet on horses based on their names: Arapaho, So Dazzling, River of Stars, Francesco Guardi.
The excitement leading up to strapping day eclipses everything else. I worry all week about how I will know what to do when it’s my turn. The horse, Empire, will probably be hyped up after the race. I start hoping she doesn’t win so I can take her right back to the stalls afterwards, rather than figure out what to do when we celebrate or take official photos.
On the day, I’m super organised with my clothes, hair, make-up. I rock up at Royal Randwick way too early. I do my best to bond with Empire while I tack her up, then it’s time to lead her out to the mounting yard before the race. Deep breaths. I slip on a bib marked with the number 6, find my spot in the file, walk around looking straight ahead as instructed, and follow the clip-clop rhythm on the asphalt. I pretend I’ve done this many times and ignore my profile on the giant screen above the viewing area. It feels like all eyes are on me, but those leaning against the rails before placing their bets focus on animals rather than humans. I’m proud to be there. I catch a glimpse of Mum in the viewing area, phone up. I said she was allowed to film but not wave.
When the jockey – an 18-year-old Brit in green silks – hops on the saddle, he smiles and says, ‘You’re doing great!’ He adjusts his goggles and gloves. I unclip Empire.
The trainer invites me to watch the race in the owners’ section. I try to enjoy the moment but I’m already rehearsing the next steps in my mind: clip the lead back on, wait for the jockey to dismount and remove his saddle, exit right. Everything goes according to plan, and I manage to avoid any cringeworthy moment. When I rinse Empire afterwards, I can sense she is more relaxed. A final walk around the stalls to cool down, then it’s time to return her home.
I hang on to the excitement of the day and want to have another go as soon as I can. I loved every minute. A couple of people recognised me on TV and text me short film clips. I think about what to post online – what song best captures the day’s vibe? SZA and Kendrick Lamar’s All the stars, 100%.
At dinner time, Mum points out everything that’s wrong with horseracing. I don’t know how to navigate all of this when she keeps yapping on about the same things. But she also wants to know every detail. She listens without interrupting while I jump from one story to another. She does a bad job at hiding her pride.▼
Image: David Geneugelijk - Unsplash
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