I am a regular reader of the “Louw Flyer” and wanted to share with you the Midlife Crisis I am currently experiencing, for which my husband holds Ms Louw fully responsible.
I grew up on a farm, owned by my uncle, who was a racing enthusiast. My earliest memories are of watching racing on television, and the July was always a big day in our house. I vividly remember my first July win, when I held in my hands the money I had earned, after picking “my” horse for the race. I always wanted to ride, but couldn’t afford to do so until I was an adult, and I have, for the past 15 years, dabbled in show jumping, dressage, and eventing, and am now enjoying watching my husband compete on the horses I produce for him. Horses are a large part of our life.
In the most secret part of my heart, I have harboured a desire to own my own racehorse one day. It’s not a secret I felt I could share with anyone, however, because I am well aware of the insanity of owning a horse at which I would no doubt throw great dollops of cash, and receive very little by way of dividends. Ms Louw has expressed, in her columns, that which my soul knows, even if my head disagrees : owning a racehorse is not about being sensible. It’s not about balancing the check book. It’s all about heart, and nothing about head.
And so, in April, I shall be going to the stud farm to pick my horse. I shall stand in a field full of weanlings, look them over, disregard completely my research into their pedigrees, and how much bold type might be in them, and pick the horse that speaks to my heart. I shall say “I want that one”, and ignore the eyerolls from my husband and friends. I shall bring the foal home, raise it, nurture it, and love it, while I spend long hours into the night researching every horse in its pedigree, scouring the internet for photographs, race histories, and snippets of information. When it is old enough, I shall back it, and start it slowly and then, when it is ready, I shall weep into my handkerchief while it climbs on the truck to go to the trainer to start its racing career.
I shall then spend mornings in gumboots and rain slicker, watching it do track work, and bombarding the trainer with questions. When the day comes when I get the phone call to tell me that My Midlife Crisis (for I have already decided that that will be its name) has been entered for its first race, I shall go out and buy a floppy hat, and a polka dot dress. I shall sit in Owners and Trainers, with my race card in one hand, a glass of bubbly in the other, and cheer madly as I watch MY horse cross the finish line – no matter where it comes.
For I shall be an Owner!
And when, one day, my horse comes out of training, I shall bring it home, and lay my head against its shoulder, and thank it for the memories, and start its new career as a sports horse.
And who knows? Perhaps I shall buy another…..
Kind Regards,
Tracey Nixon
