But there's something to be said for just running. There's nothing as free, nothing to make a person feel fast and strong and lovely, as running well. Not fast, not far, but smoothly. I switched the torch from hand to hand, trying to balance it as I ran. Along backroads and highways. Past the farm where my own star was turned out for a while. I paused briefly to scratch his broad, crooked blaze and the itchy spot under his mane before heading onward. He watched for a heartbeat or two, then tossed his head and leaped into a gallop, easily beating me to the far fence. There's also something to be said for watching a horse run - quite possibly, there's nothing as beautiful. My colt ran more easily than he walked; for him, it was play. I stopped again, just for a moment, to watch.

It was raining now, a light, breezy drizzle that made me glad I'd come east for the event. I thought about the races as I ran, about the brave, honest horses who would compete for the glory of their home states. About the other horses, just as courageous and trying every bit at hard, who would run elsewhere, in stakes and allowances and $5,000 claiming races, and those who would not run at all. About my colt, playing in the pasture, and about the babies on farms all about the country, playing in just the same way. About everyone who had pinned their hopes and dreams on these fifteen races. To the victor goes the spoils; I think someone used that line already in one of these diaries. But to the victor and also to those who finish second or third or twelfth, and to those who don't even start, goes much more. There was an undefinable something about this Equinics that no one could quite put their finger on yet, but it was there. Everyone connected to the event, however loosely, would walk away the better for it.

So I ran, falling into a loping stride designed to cover great stretches of ground with a minimum of effort. Through the parking lot and the gates. To the stabling area, past trainers lost in thought about the chances of their stock or the legality of slipping their own Irish brew into their entry's water or the best way to chase off the Swedish mob. Past one whistling the Village People's greatest hits and another taking bets on who would turn up in Mike's cake. I dropped a few dollars on Zippy Chippy and went on my way. Onto and across the track, towards the great Equinic Flame. And just ran.