Ruffian: The Story of a Jockey

By Beverly Harrison

60 seconds out of the starting gate, Jockey Syd Paul is riding for her life. Blindsided, she's attacked during a race by a fellow jockey and friend. Forced to fight for her life atop a fast and furious thousand pound horse galloping at top speed, Syd struggles, fighting in disbelief, while only inches away, the other jockey falls to his death. Shocked and battered and without a moment to think, she turns from the nightmare behind her toward the finish line just ahead, and wins the race.

Bloodied and beaten into a bruised lump of flesh, Syd finds herself dazed and standing in the winner's circle, flashing back at what just happened. WTF, she thinks, watching the instant replay unfold like bad reality tv. From the video replay, there's no question. Syd looks guilty as the gates burst open just like a hundred times before. Only this time Syd battled another jockey to the death and then went on to win.

Bleeding and head swimming, the single question remains: Why did my friend attack me? She finds a shocking truth: Some unidentified person will go to any length to control the jockeys and the outcome of certain races. One jockey has died and others will follow. Syd is forced to accept help from police detective, Joe McQueen. He's drop dead gorgeous with the tenacity of a pit bull and the sensibility of a good ol' boy.

Unsure of placing her life and her future into the hands of a complete stranger, (McQueen), Syd sets out to find the answers and keep herself safe, knowing she's only one golden ticket away from her dream of riding in the Kentucky Derby, but in the next race, she'll be riding not only for her career, but also, for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682227916

Book preview

Seven

One

Daily Racing Form Headline: SCRAMBLE TO QUALIFY FOR CHURCHILL DOWNS BEGINS

I pulled the protective goggles over my eyes, settling them into position. Leaning forward, I was prepared, ready. My lips moved as I said the same little prayer I recite before every race.

God, please bring us all home safe.

I knew the life of any jockey was filled with danger, but in hindsight, I should’ve prayed a little harder.

The jockey to my left looked over and made an obscene and offensive gesture with his tongue.

Just a typical day at work. Or was it?

In your dreams duckweed, I said. I think people who curse are inarticulate boobs without the intellect to express themselves, so, I try not to. His name was Davis. Never mind the disgusting fact that he’d seen me nearly naked, in the past, which was way too upsetting to even want to remember. He’s one of the good-ol’-boy racetrack misogynists. As a jockey, my job is to turn any situation into a win. I do it by being the best man for the job on the horse I’m assigned. Except, I’m a woman. It wasn’t difficult to be a better man than the jerk next to me, but it was always difficult to hit the finish-line first.

I knew things could be tough for any young jockey, especially the females, but the racing is always especially difficult. Because of jockeys like Davis, I try never to be alone in a dark hallway, or on the walk to my car. Especially after dark. Men hate us females for moving in on their territory. As if they owned the rights to this career.

Davis, in the shoot next door, makes me feel more claustrophobic than the confinement of the hard, metal starting gate around me. I ran my gloved fingers along Piñata’s neck encouraging her to breathe and relax. I tried to do the same. Deep breath in, hold, exhale together.

My friend and fellow Jockey, GG, was a few horses down. I looked over to catch his eye. I smiled as he looked my way, but his look was one of intense anger.

Odd, GG wasn’t usually tense before a race. I turned my thoughts back to the race ahead.

This was only one of many Derby prep race for three-year-old colts, but it was the most important race of the day because it’s right here, right now, and my life is all about winning.

I didn’t know it, but I was about to have the worst week of my life. A bell clanged and the starting-gate doors crashed open.

The announcer said, And away they go. His amplified voice echoed around the three-hundred-twenty-acre park, circling through thousands of ears. My horse and I, along with the others, were catapulted from the gate as if fired from a sling-shot. We flew forward as one, and for a split second time stood still. Then each animal hit the ground running, pounding the dirt with their aluminum racing shoes. The sounds around me overwhelmed my ears with the details of the moment like a jolt of adrenaline.

Piñata was a frontrunner. That-is-to-say, she liked to run in front. She communicated this directly to my mind the moment I was hoisted up on the saddle. Communication with horses was a phenomenon that started when I was a small child, with my first pony. Since that very first day, every horse I’ve ridden has communicated directly to my mind. The very fiber of my DNA is linked to equus on a cellular level. Tele-synchronicity is my reality.

Galloping in the crowd, Piñata and I managed the hustle-bustle of the first few moments, setting our sights on the front. She settled into her giant, distance-consuming stride heading toward the lead. We passed GG. I was shocked by the intensity of his gaze. In a second he was gone from my eyesight and my thoughts as I directed Piñata on a path toward the front. We navigated between two horses and found an opening closer to the front. A quick look backward revealed GG coming along behind us, again with a maniacal expression on his face.

What the hell man?

Next thing, GG was ridding up close on the other side of me. He was definitely angry. I urged Piñata away as fast as possible. She was running with a joie de vivre like few horses I’ve known. It was contagious and I reveled in my own zest for life, enjoying the hell outta my work. There was no place on earth I’d rather have been, than right there. The smell of dirt mixing with sweat was like champagne and roses to my nose. Southern California sunshine refracted through my goggles and cast a momentary sun-flare in my line of sight. Life was indeed good.

Once again, GG thundered up beside me. He grabbed the back of my riding pants and pulled. The strength of his grip nearly yanked me off the back of my horse. Shocked, I overbalanced and nearly fell off. As I struggled to regain my position, he growled over the rumble of running horses.

Pull up!

Pull up? Did he mean my horse was injured?

I took a quick inventory of Piñata. There was no blood and no lameness. She seemed to be running just fine. Then, realization struck me like a high voltage jolt to the head; this was not just another day at the races. Dirt clods kicked up by hooves flew in every direction, pelting Piñata and me. Attacks and overly aggressive riding were exactly the sort of thing that goes on at the bush-league tracks, the county fair tracks and that sort of place, but certainly never at this level of competition. Here, at Santa Anita Racetrack, every move of every race is recorded for scrutiny and analysis.

In spite of the certainty of replay and evaluation, GG forced his horse dangerously close. It was inconceivable. GG was the one male Jockey, who treated me as equal, as compadre. He was my friend.

I glanced over. His face was scrunched into a grimace. I tried not to panic, trying to think fast. Is he somehow trying to protect me? From what?

The mob of horses continued pounding the dirt, vying for a win. They ran as a hurricane of flying dirt clods and rumbling hooves.

Back off, I screeched and raised my whip, taking a swipe in his direction. GG slapped me across the back with his whip. The pain was muffled by my body armor, but still shocking.

G-Geeee! I yowled as Piñata accelerated away from him and the attack.

Piñata galloped for a love of running and we leaped into the lead. I gave her a reassuring stroke with my fingertips. There was no need for her to be troubled by the man riding helter-skelter behind us.

Maybe I needed the reassuring.

My back felt like it was bleeding, but I forced it out of my mind. I had never been attacked this way during a race. My body broke out in a hot sweat from the anger I felt. What was my friend trying to do? Attack me? Stop me? Help me in some way I couldn’t see or understand? Focus on the race.

For a few relatively calm seconds, Piñata and I were alone at the front of the pack. By the quarter pole, I sensed more than felt, the hot breath of the first challenger at my ankle. A quick glance to my right revealed GG.

I could hear others coming along with him, a stampede heading in my direction. Piñata’s reaction was to notch up her speed. It was only a six-furlong race or three-quarters of a mile, and I knew she had plenty of gas, so I didn’t try to control her speed as much as I normally might have. Two others, one with a yellow and green hood and the other, with a white bridle, came up side-by-side with GG. All three were at my stirrup. Four horses flat out running stirred up a storm of dirt-clods that were sure to upset the horses behind. Piñata and I raced just barely ahead of the storm.

We started around the long, sweeping, corner, giving Piñata a little break on the rail. The curve of the turn allowed for the inside horse to travel a shorter trajectory. So she didn’t have to work as hard to stay in the lead. Those on the outside needed to hustle to keep up. The inside position was way more advantageous than the outside position, and it was mine.

The three horses on our heels fanned out backward, each a half-length behind the other. The roar of the crowd grew to a deafening level. GG and his mount, Seriously, moved up until they were neck-and-neck with us. The other two remained slightly behind. They were unable to notch up their pace.

The race became a high-speed match between GG and me, Piñata and Seriously. We left the rest of the field behind as our horses leaped into an all-out sprint, balls-to-the-walls brawl. Never mind that our young horses had never raced at this speed before. They were going much faster than usual, especially for a race this early in the season and with such inexperienced horses.

Piñata was like a machine running with reserve power. A magnificent, talented, awe-inspiring creation. I can’t believe how lucky I was to be the one sitting on her back. There was no rest for GG and Seriously. He was riding like a madman and she was doing her best to accommodate his demands, but compared to Piñata the Porsche, Seriously was only a Chevy.

GG’s whip swung in an arc and smashed into my goggles leaving cracks, like spider-web vision. Pain crashed around my eyes and into my skull. Oddly, the pain cleared my vision and strengthened my resolve to win the race. What the hell was GG doing? I wanted to kill him. My anger erupted, and I swung my arm in his direction and cracked him across the nose. My blow surprised and unsettled him. He over corrected and pitched forward in the saddle, grabbing at his mounts neck in pathetic attempt to keep himself from tumbling off. His face showed terror as he hung around the horse’s neck clutching mane and flesh.

Help me, he shrieked, his eyes darting in my direction, the dirt track churning along beneath him. Pounding hooves were pummeling all potential landing places. A fall now would be fatal. I reached over and grabbed his trousers and pulled him back onto his saddle. I teetered for a split-second, lurching back and forth like a pendulum before regaining my own balance.

Fuck you, I heard him say as he regained his position. His hand snapped over and grabbed my wrist. He pulled, using brute force to bring us even closer together. He leaned in and forced Seriously into Piñata. Eight legs were momentarily way too close together. I tried to pull Piñata away, but it was too late. The horses’ legs made contact. The impact was loud, like a crack of lightning. Both horses struggled to stay upright and to untangle their legs. Noses lurched too close to the ground. GG and I both flailed, desperately trying to stay aboard.

Arrgh! I yelled as Piñata grabbed at the earth and regained her footing. She found her balance and we charged into a new gear and a faster speed, leaving the competition and the attacks, once again, behind us.

My entire body shook. The view of my world was distorted as I struggled to see through my cracked, goggles. My head throbbed, my back ached, and my muscles strained, yet the horse underneath me ran with a zest for life.

As if underwater, I heard my breathing and Piñata’s hooves striking the earth in a muffled and distorted way. In my mind it was like 1973 and the Belmont Stakes with Secretariat and Ron Turcotte racing alone, thirty-one lengths ahead of the next horse, miles ahead of the competition and straight into the history books.

Disjointed and numb, my whole body tingled as we galloped under the wire about ten lengths ahead of the next horse, in ear shattering quiet. We were alone on the track. As Piñata streaked under the wire, I ran my trembling hand along her sweaty neck and sent her happy feelings. She ran a fantastic race in spite of everything. I stood in the stirrups and we began to slow down as the next turn in the racetrack took us around to the far side of the infield. Both my hands were shaking as Fred, the official outrider, galloped over and took hold of Piñata’s rein and with it, control of our deceleration. My exhausted mount seemed happy to begin slowing down. I was glad it was over. Anger and adrenaline caused my mind to spin full speed ahead with questions.

My stressed out body collapsed onto the saddle and I turned my attention to the outrider. Sal Reacher was a small weasel-like man with teeth that looked like implants from an old horse. Not one of God’s better designs. We had a hate-hate relationship. He was always rude to me and I always pointed out how ugly he was.

Shit Bambi, he said, looking at my shaking hands. Are you exhausted from competing with the big boys?

Usually, I would say something rude to Reacher. In return, he would say something rude to me. Sometimes in the opposite order. That’s what we always did.

Huh, I said, instead of something rude.

I guess it did look a little rough out there, Bambi.

I hated it when he called me that. I shot him a fireball of anger with my eyes, which just made him smile, showing off those horse-sized teeth. My leg bumped Reacher’s sweaty horse as he ponied Piñata in a u-turn. We began a fast trot in the opposite direction that would take us back around the turn to the front of the old grandstand.

Hey asshole, it was a freakin’ nightmare. What the hell just happened? I shouted to Reacher as Piñata fast trotted alongside the pony horse. Look at my goggles. I pointed at the cracks running down the middle of my protective eyewear and splintering every which way. I can’t wait to beat GG’s ass.

He observed the cracks in my goggles as he struggled to control his horse and mine. What I saw was a nasty pile up, that’s for sure shit. At the same moment, we both realized that shouting was unnecessary because there was virtually no noise around us.

What’s with the quiet, I said, turning my eyes to the grandstand filled with people quietly standing, looking toward the West end turn of the track. Then I registered Fred’ last words. Pile up? I turned my head and scanned along the track ahead of us looking for the accident.

Piñata and I recovered from that tangle of legs. Did GG? Oh my God!

We trotted toward the winner’s circle with the accident site beyond. I could see it about a quarter mile in the distance. I relived that moment, realizing what GG had done. I heard the crack of horses’ legs and remembered how Piñata stumbled and nearly fell, every muscle strained to keep her feet under her body. I remembered how I began flying toward the dirt, grabbing for mane and saddle to keep myself astride. I had looked at the dirt and pinpointed the place where I was going to land when we crashed. My eyes focused back to the present and on the temporary stand-alone curtains that had been set up between the public and the accident. They blocked my view as well. It didn’t matter; it was too late. Many, if not all, would never forget the sight of horses and riders down on the track. I tried to avert my eyes and not imagine what was going on behind those blinds. It was all I could think about. Again, I heard and saw in my memory the sound of galloping legs striking against flesh and bone. I imagined the numerous horses bumping others and crashing to the earth in slow motion. Feet braking and sliding in the dirt, tendons straining and muscles flexing and galloping horses trying to not fall. Jockeys flying through the air with whips and reins falling from hands, faces, and brightly clad bodies tumbling into the dirt.

Was GG out there? My stomach knotted up, bucking and twisting, with a wave of nausea. I put my hand over my mouth to prevent the mass exodus of my stomach’s contents.

Sure to be an inquiry, Reacher said. He steered us ever slower towards the winner’s circle. As if the officials heard him, the word INQUIRY appeared on the tote board. Someone filed a complaint. I was going to complain about GG. Officially complain, but not yet. I didn’t want to transfer my anger to Piñata for her moment of triumph. We turned left and headed into the winners’ circle in front of the stands and in front of the stunned spectators.

Watch out. There’s sure to be some shit coming your way, Reacher said. He winked before he rode away. I watched him bumping in the saddle like a non-rider. Woody, Piñata’s groom, intercepted my thoughts. He took hold of her bridle and we circled near the photo area, waiting for the official call. Woody nurtured Piñata as a loving parent. He cooed and made soothing sounds for her ears alone as she huffed and panted and sweated. To Woody, I was non-existent; his whole world was that horse.

Dave Bennery, Piñatas’ Owner, the Trainer, B. Frank Lewis and other VIPs gathered and also waited. Eventually, those who stood to profit from our little victory made their way closer and the crowd noise began to pick back up.

I tried to see what was going on at the accident scene. The crash happened near the West end of the grandstand, in front of lots of people. They milled about in shock. I saw the horse ambulance and a white screen, which tried to block everyone’s view of the carnage. My gut pitched. It could have been me out there. Don’t think about it. Think about something else.

After what seemed like an eternity, the race became official. Piñata was the winner. We all smiled and posed for photos. Then, I jumped down from the back of my ride and unbuckled the girth with trembling fingers.

Shit. I pulled the saddle from Piñata’s sweaty back and stepped over to weigh in. Then, I returned for more photos.

B. Frank Lewis, race horse trainer for millionaires and celebrities, leaned close to my ear and whispered, Nice fat lip you’ve got there.

Thanks. I fumed.

You’re damn lucky it wasn’t you out there. He gestured toward the carnage on the track.

You think? Who went down? He didn’t hear me or ignored me. The horse’s owner, Mr. Bennery, grabbed my hand and shook it with gusto.

Way to take the high road. Well done. Well done indeed.

High road? I extracted my hand from his vice-like grip. How about the road through hell?

I smiled weakly. He turned his back on me and it was a wasted effort. The man, although kindly, grey-haired and a person of monumental wealth was of questionable manners. I eyeballed his back, noting the expensive suit, twinkling cuff links and rings on his fingers. He was heir to one of the top racehorse breeding dynasties in this country.

I headed for the locker room. Along the way, a few track workers and other jockeys slapped me on the back with scrunched faces and looks of concern. My knees wobbled and my head began to spin.

Hey Syd, good job out there today, said someone’s valet. I couldn’t tell if I was watching racing or wrestling.

Huh? Was this really happening to me?

I thought you were fighting. Both of you, he said.

Fighting? No! He was fighting. I said. I was defending. What race did this guy watch?

The face scrunched, showing he didn’t understand.

I turned toward a hand on my shoulder.

What the hell happened out there? asked another Jockey.

Did you see it? I massaged my temples, trying to think straight.

We all did, he said. You and GG need to keep it in the bedroom.

I stomped my wobbly boot-clad foot on the ground. He’s only my friend. Friends don’t behave like GG did on the track today unless there’s some other explanation for his behavior. Finally, I came up with a weak argument. Besides, he’s married.

Ok, Syd. Whatever you say. He ducked into the men’s locker room and slammed the door in my face.

I stomped to the women’s locker room and fell onto the closest bench, pulling off my helmet and wiping away the sweat and dirt covering my face. My fingers touched the tender flesh around my eyes. I was overwhelmed by the urge to cry. No crying you little sissy girl. Get tough. No room here for tears.

It was dark in the entry to the locker room and unusually quiet. I swiped away the moisture spilling out of my bruised eyes, not wanting anyone to see my tears. And then, I got a strange feeling of being watched. Straightening up, I found my valet, Maria, standing inches away, smiling. A startled squeak escaped my mouth.

You okay Miss Syd? You look terrible.

I dunno, I said, feeling terrible. Did you see the race?

I’ve no time to watch. She handed me a towel, then bent down and pulled off my boots.

I whispered to her, What happened? What do you know? I had to get up and follow her wide, wiggling bottom back to my locker. Maria is the god of the locker room. She knows everyone and everything. She knows what secrets to keep and what gossip to share with whom. She keeps me and the other female jocks organized, cleaned and pressed. I, in turn, help pay her ridiculous salary. She started right in, the same way she always does, with her thick, Colombian accent making it necessary to pay close attention. Her accent reminded me of Sofia Vergara, the television actress. I was glad for the distraction from my thoughts.

Eh, nobody ever tells me noth-ee-ng, but I can feel it She pointed to her head. There’s been a grande sp-ee-l. Two were killed, right on the track. In front of all those pee-ple.

Killed? A what? What is, I tried to say it as she did, Sp-ee-l?

She said it again, only slower and louder. Sp-ee-l. Then she repeated it in Spanish. accidenté.

Ah, a Crash. An accident. A spill. Yes, but who? My hand jerked up to my mouth as a feeling of nausea swirled in my stomach.

Silly Billy and Trrr-eadstone. She really liked to roll her rs. I think they’ve taken Seriously, in the caballo ambulance.

A heat wave flushed through my body. This news really made me angry. Seriously was a seriously nice horse. She’s a class act and didn’t deserve to be ridden that way.

You’re really red, said Maria. You sick?

I ignored her comment. So GG went down and two horses are dead?

She nodded. Sounds like collarbone on Frrreddy. Again, with those outrageous r’s, Farmer. But, I know nothing beyond this. She handed me the silks for the next race, turned away and began cleaning my boots.

Who was riding Treadstone? I couldn’t remember, or even think straight. I stripped down to t-shirt and jodhpurs before pulling on the next round of race clothing. Whatever GG was doing out there, it was no accident. Did he mean to hurt me? I just can’t believe it. He seemed to want to stop me but stop me from what, I wondered. Or maybe he was trying to protect me. Protect me from what?

Southern California sunshine came blasting through a high window, warming my bare skin and leaving a bright halo around my seriously fit body. I dropped my five foot two frame onto a chair and surveyed the race damage in the mirror. My lip was split and around my eyes was sensitive from the whip pushing the goggles into my face. Otherwise, I was fine. No big bruises or aching ribs. I managed to hold my own against GG’s aggression. Let’s face reality; men are stronger than women, especially in their upper bodies. I am able to compete because I’m unusually strong for a woman and more so for such a small woman. All that muscle means I look pretty good in my clothes. It also allowed me to make it under the wire first in spite of GG’s effort to