The Triple Crown- 1973
Secretariat walked out onto the track that day in all his glorious majesty, his bright chestnut coat glistening in the sun. The colt was racing fit, but he was so perfectly conformed, and so beautifully put together that he looked far more mature than the average three-year-old. He was perfection.
The crowd roared as he minced down the track. He shook his head several times before the outrider snapped the shank onto his bit. Secretariat loved his fans and played to the audience every time he stepped onto the track. Today was no exception. This was a special day. It was The Run For The Roses, first leg in Thoroughbred racing's Triple Crown.
He had a very high opinion of himself and it showed. Secretariat looked unbeatable because he was unbeatable; he oozed self-confidence. The bright red colt snaked his head irritably, looking for more rein, and gave a light buck.
His jockey, Ron Turcotte, looked at the outrider and nodded hello. He was feeling good today, confident. His colt was ready, alright, way more than ready. Red was going to eat them alive.
Turcotte looked up into the boxes and raised his whip to his cap, saluting Penny Chenery Tweedy, the proud owner of The Meadow Stud. A tense but smiling Lucien Laurin stood by her side. He'd trained the phenomenal two-year old to Horse of the Year status in 1972, something only two other horses of that age had done in the history of racing. But today was the big one. The first of three. The elusive Triple Crown! This was what it was all about!
Secretariat was still the odds-on favorite that day, going at 3 to 2. There was a lot of talk at the back gate about the humiliating defeat he'd recently suffered in the Wood Memorial at the hands of Angle Light, who won the race, and Sham, his nemesis. He had placed third in that race, and they were running against him today. Could it happen again?
Secretariat didn't know about the back gate talk. Defeat was the last thing on his mind. He was chomping at the bit. As they made the turn back to the starting gate, Secretariat saw Sham ahead of him. The huge colt lunged forward, anxious to close even that small, meaningless distance.
The roar of the crowd, which had been steady and sustained since he came onto the track, increased in volume.
They entered the starting gate, poised, waiting, with every muscle ready. The doors crashed open and tons of horseflesh surged onto the track, legs pounding, getting into position. Secretariat broke from the back of the pack, but that was no accident. He preferred it that way. He slid into his gigantic, ground-covering stride and began passing horses at the first turn. Secretariat lengthened even more, seeing the remaining horse in front of him. Sham! The huge stallion stretched out even more, closing the distance so quickly he was just a blur.
Secretariat was still a blur as he caught Sham at the top of the stretch, matching him stride for stride. Then lowering his great head, he started pulling away. First by a neck, then by half a length, then a full length.
And still he came on, winning going away by 2-1/2 lengths, in a record-setting time of 1:59-2/5, for the 1-1/4 mile race.
It would prove to be the only Derby ever run in under two minutes.
Secretariat stood in the Winner's Circle as they draped the blanket of roses across his withers. He posed for the photographers, hamming it up, the ultimate showman playing to his audience.
...
The Preakness was next on the menu. The six-horse field was small, but select. Sham again.
It was the shortest of the Triple Crown races, at 1-3/16. The crowd cheered wildly as they saw the favorite step out onto the track. They held their breath as they saw the power of his stride and they thought, could he, would he? They were ready to see history be made.
Secretariat stood out from the pack like a show horse among a group of mustangs; his deep red coat glowed in the sunlight, muscular neck arched. He swung his great head around as he spotted his nemesis, and whinnied shrilly in challenge. Sham! Again!
The roar of the crowd escalated as the six-horse field entered the starting gate. The jockey's could feel the huge muscles coiled like springs; bunched, ready. Then, they're off!
Secretariat took off almost at once. Going right to the front of the pack, he flew by the field, strides lengthening; only one horse in front of him now. Sham! He lowered his head more and passed Sham without a moments hesitation, going away.
As the crowd saw the widening gap between Secretariat and Sham, they went ballistic. He was pulling away, more, more. They headed for the home stretch, and the distance widened even more. Secretariat whizzed under the wire, winning by 2-1/2 lengths over Sham in another record-breaking time of 1:53-2/5!
The pandemonium in the stands was deafening as Secretariat cantered back to the winner's circle. One question was on everyone's lips. Could he do it? Were we about to see him become the first Triple Crown winner in twenty-five years?
...
The Belmont is run at 1-1/2 miles! The Belmont is the spoiler, a heartbreaker. Many horses win the Derby and the Preakness, only to fail over the long distance. Would that happen again, today?
When Secretariat came out onto the track that afternoon, the thunderous applause was all for him, and he knew it. He pranced down the track beside his lead pony, shaking his head, bursting with pent-up energy. They picked up the canter, stretching out, warming up muscles that he would soon put to the supreme test.
The five-horse field quickly entered the starting gate, anxious to be off. Secretariat had drawn the inside position. That could be good; or not. It's the shortest way around, but if you get boxed in, you could be in big trouble. It depended on the break.
The gates crashed open, and they surged onto the track as one. Secretariat and Sham immediately went to the front. Neck and neck, they began to pull away from the field. They were racing as though this was a sprint race, ticking off quarter-mile fractions in incredible times that were record-breaking in themselves. Would they have anything left at the end? The crowd was slowly going insane.
Sham would race his heart out that day, injuring himself in the process and bringing his racing career to an end. He would finish last; both his body and his spirit broken.
The speed seemed to energize Secretariat and as he started to pull away from the field, he went even faster. People watched the timer and the horse simultaneously, unable to believe what they were seeing. He was no longer racing other horses. He wasn't even racing the clock. Now he was racing himself. His fractions increased as he galloped alone. Secretariat was running his own race, and he was going faster and faster as the gap between him and the field widened. He had another record to break; his personal best.
Ron Tercotte just sat there, chilly, letting the colt run. He was always a quiet rider, keeping his physical movements to a minimum. But today, he was absolutely motionless. He was just the passenger.
The only move he did make was a slight turn of his head as he read numbers on the infield teletimer. He blinked once, checked again and smiled slightly.
As they rounded the sweeping Belmont far turn, the longest of any track in North America, he pulled ahead by twenty lengths. By the mid-stretch, he was ahead by twenty-eight lengths and still he was pulling away; faster, ever faster. As he swept under the wire, his lead over the second place horse was thirty-one lengths. Stunning! Unbelievable!
Secretariat set another record that day, winning in the time of 2:24 flat. The newest Triple Crown winner had set track and race records in all three races. A feat that has not been matched to date.
Secretariat walked out onto the track that day in all his glorious majesty, his bright chestnut coat glistening in the sun. The colt was racing fit, but he was so perfectly conformed, and so beautifully put together that he looked far more mature than the average three-year-old. He was perfection.
The crowd roared as he minced down the track. He shook his head several times before the outrider snapped the shank onto his bit. Secretariat loved his fans and played to the audience every time he stepped onto the track. Today was no exception. This was a special day. It was The Run For The Roses, first leg in Thoroughbred racing's Triple Crown.
He had a very high opinion of himself and it showed. Secretariat looked unbeatable because he was unbeatable; he oozed self-confidence. The bright red colt snaked his head irritably, looking for more rein, and gave a light buck.
His jockey, Ron Turcotte, looked at the outrider and nodded hello. He was feeling good today, confident. His colt was ready, alright, way more than ready. Red was going to eat them alive.
Turcotte looked up into the boxes and raised his whip to his cap, saluting Penny Chenery Tweedy, the proud owner of The Meadow Stud. A tense but smiling Lucien Laurin stood by her side. He'd trained the phenomenal two-year old to Horse of the Year status in 1972, something only two other horses of that age had done in the history of racing. But today was the big one. The first of three. The elusive Triple Crown! This was what it was all about!
Secretariat was still the odds-on favorite that day, going at 3 to 2. There was a lot of talk at the back gate about the humiliating defeat he'd recently suffered in the Wood Memorial at the hands of Angle Light, who won the race, and Sham, his nemesis. He had placed third in that race, and they were running against him today. Could it happen again?
Secretariat didn't know about the back gate talk. Defeat was the last thing on his mind. He was chomping at the bit. As they made the turn back to the starting gate, Secretariat saw Sham ahead of him. The huge colt lunged forward, anxious to close even that small, meaningless distance.
The roar of the crowd, which had been steady and sustained since he came onto the track, increased in volume.
They entered the starting gate, poised, waiting, with every muscle ready. The doors crashed open and tons of horseflesh surged onto the track, legs pounding, getting into position. Secretariat broke from the back of the pack, but that was no accident. He preferred it that way. He slid into his gigantic, ground-covering stride and began passing horses at the first turn. Secretariat lengthened even more, seeing the remaining horse in front of him. Sham! The huge stallion stretched out even more, closing the distance so quickly he was just a blur.
Secretariat was still a blur as he caught Sham at the top of the stretch, matching him stride for stride. Then lowering his great head, he started pulling away. First by a neck, then by half a length, then a full length.
And still he came on, winning going away by 2-1/2 lengths, in a record-setting time of 1:59-2/5, for the 1-1/4 mile race.
It would prove to be the only Derby ever run in under two minutes.
Secretariat stood in the Winner's Circle as they draped the blanket of roses across his withers. He posed for the photographers, hamming it up, the ultimate showman playing to his audience.
...
The Preakness was next on the menu. The six-horse field was small, but select. Sham again.
It was the shortest of the Triple Crown races, at 1-3/16. The crowd cheered wildly as they saw the favorite step out onto the track. They held their breath as they saw the power of his stride and they thought, could he, would he? They were ready to see history be made.
Secretariat stood out from the pack like a show horse among a group of mustangs; his deep red coat glowed in the sunlight, muscular neck arched. He swung his great head around as he spotted his nemesis, and whinnied shrilly in challenge. Sham! Again!
The roar of the crowd escalated as the six-horse field entered the starting gate. The jockey's could feel the huge muscles coiled like springs; bunched, ready. Then, they're off!
Secretariat took off almost at once. Going right to the front of the pack, he flew by the field, strides lengthening; only one horse in front of him now. Sham! He lowered his head more and passed Sham without a moments hesitation, going away.
As the crowd saw the widening gap between Secretariat and Sham, they went ballistic. He was pulling away, more, more. They headed for the home stretch, and the distance widened even more. Secretariat whizzed under the wire, winning by 2-1/2 lengths over Sham in another record-breaking time of 1:53-2/5!
The pandemonium in the stands was deafening as Secretariat cantered back to the winner's circle. One question was on everyone's lips. Could he do it? Were we about to see him become the first Triple Crown winner in twenty-five years?
...
The Belmont is run at 1-1/2 miles! The Belmont is the spoiler, a heartbreaker. Many horses win the Derby and the Preakness, only to fail over the long distance. Would that happen again, today?
When Secretariat came out onto the track that afternoon, the thunderous applause was all for him, and he knew it. He pranced down the track beside his lead pony, shaking his head, bursting with pent-up energy. They picked up the canter, stretching out, warming up muscles that he would soon put to the supreme test.
The five-horse field quickly entered the starting gate, anxious to be off. Secretariat had drawn the inside position. That could be good; or not. It's the shortest way around, but if you get boxed in, you could be in big trouble. It depended on the break.
The gates crashed open, and they surged onto the track as one. Secretariat and Sham immediately went to the front. Neck and neck, they began to pull away from the field. They were racing as though this was a sprint race, ticking off quarter-mile fractions in incredible times that were record-breaking in themselves. Would they have anything left at the end? The crowd was slowly going insane.
Sham would race his heart out that day, injuring himself in the process and bringing his racing career to an end. He would finish last; both his body and his spirit broken.
The speed seemed to energize Secretariat and as he started to pull away from the field, he went even faster. People watched the timer and the horse simultaneously, unable to believe what they were seeing. He was no longer racing other horses. He wasn't even racing the clock. Now he was racing himself. His fractions increased as he galloped alone. Secretariat was running his own race, and he was going faster and faster as the gap between him and the field widened. He had another record to break; his personal best.
Ron Tercotte just sat there, chilly, letting the colt run. He was always a quiet rider, keeping his physical movements to a minimum. But today, he was absolutely motionless. He was just the passenger.
The only move he did make was a slight turn of his head as he read numbers on the infield teletimer. He blinked once, checked again and smiled slightly.
As they rounded the sweeping Belmont far turn, the longest of any track in North America, he pulled ahead by twenty lengths. By the mid-stretch, he was ahead by twenty-eight lengths and still he was pulling away; faster, ever faster. As he swept under the wire, his lead over the second place horse was thirty-one lengths. Stunning! Unbelievable!
Secretariat set another record that day, winning in the time of 2:24 flat. The newest Triple Crown winner had set track and race records in all three races. A feat that has not been matched to date.
The Story of Secretariat
By Gayle Farmer
Toss Of A Coin
The study was dimly lit as the two old friends sat talking after dinner. Oil paintings of famous race horses covered the walls. Treasured memorabilia, gathered over a lifetime of successfully breeding Thoroughbred race horses, covered the tables and the large wall unit behind the mahogany desk.
They were about to decide who would get the next foal by Bold Ruler, out of Somethingroyal. The stud's owner fished around in his pocket, extracting a quarter. He flipped it in the air, snatching it on the descent.
"Make the call," said Phipps, the coin covered by his huge hand.
"Heads," replied Chenery, the mare's owner.
He uncovered the coin. "Tails."
And so, the decision was made. The next colt out of Somethingroyal would go to Mr. Phipps; the following year's colt would go to Mr.Chenery.
....
The Meadow Stud, Doswell, VA March 30, 1970
The staff of the foaling barn stood quietly outside the stall of Somethingroyal, waiting for her to get down to business. She was restless; a light sheen of sweat covered her neck and flanks. It was almost time.
She'd been up and down several times over the last hour, pawing the straw into little hills and valleys, making her nest. Every once in a while, she'd look at her bulging mid-section. She walked aimlessly around the stall again, nosing the heavy canvas pads that covered the walls. Then, with a long sigh, she went down in the deep straw. She stretched out, stiffened her front legs and moaned lightly.
She raised her elegant head from the straw, looking again at her flanks. Another strong contraction came, another slight groan, and two tiny hooves presented themselves, one slightly behind the other. The next contraction produced the minuscule muzzle, covered with a mat of fine, tiny whiskers. Another strong contraction, and the shoulders were free. The final push expelled the colt out onto the waiting bed of straw.
They lay there quietly together. The mare reaches for her baby, licking him vigorously, encouraging him to take those first, life-giving breaths. The colt chuckles lightly in his throat, making little chewing motions with his mouth as he sees his mother for the first time.
Before long, the mare stands, breaking the umbilical cord in the natural way. She swings her muzzle around to the colt, pushing gently on his flanks, prodding him, encouraging him to stand up.
The colt stiffens his forelegs and makes a lunge forward, falling on his nose. He settles back into the straw, unsure, unsteady.
The mare pushes him again, and nickers lightly. He tries again, lurching forward, right onto his knees. But wait! Here go the hind legs, another lurch, and he's standing. He takes two tentative steps towards his dam, and pitches forward again for another roll in the hay.
His movements cause his great heart to pump blood throughout his body. The lungs fill with oxygen from his exertion. With another, easier effort, he stands again, unsteady legs growing stronger by the moment.
Slowly, the mare moves to him, her head reaches down to lick him again. She moves forward again until his nose is just inches from her full udder. She nudges his haunches with her nose, helping him get into position.
Test two! A warm little nose seeks and finds the life-giving nourishment; he locks onto the udder. Breakfast is served! He instinctively butts the warm bag, stimulating the production of milk and the colostrum he needs to survive. He drinks his fill, and sinks softly into the straw, ready for a nap.
The groom enters the stall quietly, a small bottle of iodine in his hand. He calls to the mare softly, soothingly. He doesn't want to startle the new mama or her baby. Making his way slowly over to the foal, he kneels down in the straw, opens the iodine bottle, and saturates the small umbilical stump.
The baby just looks at him with wide brown eyes. He is unafraid. His mother stands behind him, continuing her grooming, while the man goes gently over her foal's body.
"It's a colt, Joe, an' he's perfect. Looka' the legs on this'n. Gonna be a big'en." He gently runs his hands down the colt's legs. "Hey, Buddy. Looks like ya' lost yer' front sock! What a good lookin' colt, Joe, three stockin's sho' is flashy! Cute little star on his forehead. An' look'y here. Gonna have a little stripe too! Hey, hand me the bucket, would'ya?"
He gathers the placenta together, careful not to damage the sack. The vet would be here any minute, and he would inspect the placenta for tears or other abnormalities in structure that could indicate a portion had been retained within the mare.
He caps the iodine bottle and slips it back into his pocket. He strokes the mare's face, which is only inches from his.
"Good job, lil lady. Y'all's the bes' mama in town! Dis'here sho' be one lucky fella. Yeah, good girl."
He strokes her again, then, standing quietly, he leaves the stall. It's time for mama and baby to rest.
By Gayle Farmer
Toss Of A Coin
The study was dimly lit as the two old friends sat talking after dinner. Oil paintings of famous race horses covered the walls. Treasured memorabilia, gathered over a lifetime of successfully breeding Thoroughbred race horses, covered the tables and the large wall unit behind the mahogany desk.
They were about to decide who would get the next foal by Bold Ruler, out of Somethingroyal. The stud's owner fished around in his pocket, extracting a quarter. He flipped it in the air, snatching it on the descent.
"Make the call," said Phipps, the coin covered by his huge hand.
"Heads," replied Chenery, the mare's owner.
He uncovered the coin. "Tails."
And so, the decision was made. The next colt out of Somethingroyal would go to Mr. Phipps; the following year's colt would go to Mr.Chenery.
....
The Meadow Stud, Doswell, VA March 30, 1970
The staff of the foaling barn stood quietly outside the stall of Somethingroyal, waiting for her to get down to business. She was restless; a light sheen of sweat covered her neck and flanks. It was almost time.
She'd been up and down several times over the last hour, pawing the straw into little hills and valleys, making her nest. Every once in a while, she'd look at her bulging mid-section. She walked aimlessly around the stall again, nosing the heavy canvas pads that covered the walls. Then, with a long sigh, she went down in the deep straw. She stretched out, stiffened her front legs and moaned lightly.
She raised her elegant head from the straw, looking again at her flanks. Another strong contraction came, another slight groan, and two tiny hooves presented themselves, one slightly behind the other. The next contraction produced the minuscule muzzle, covered with a mat of fine, tiny whiskers. Another strong contraction, and the shoulders were free. The final push expelled the colt out onto the waiting bed of straw.
They lay there quietly together. The mare reaches for her baby, licking him vigorously, encouraging him to take those first, life-giving breaths. The colt chuckles lightly in his throat, making little chewing motions with his mouth as he sees his mother for the first time.
Before long, the mare stands, breaking the umbilical cord in the natural way. She swings her muzzle around to the colt, pushing gently on his flanks, prodding him, encouraging him to stand up.
The colt stiffens his forelegs and makes a lunge forward, falling on his nose. He settles back into the straw, unsure, unsteady.
The mare pushes him again, and nickers lightly. He tries again, lurching forward, right onto his knees. But wait! Here go the hind legs, another lurch, and he's standing. He takes two tentative steps towards his dam, and pitches forward again for another roll in the hay.
His movements cause his great heart to pump blood throughout his body. The lungs fill with oxygen from his exertion. With another, easier effort, he stands again, unsteady legs growing stronger by the moment.
Slowly, the mare moves to him, her head reaches down to lick him again. She moves forward again until his nose is just inches from her full udder. She nudges his haunches with her nose, helping him get into position.
Test two! A warm little nose seeks and finds the life-giving nourishment; he locks onto the udder. Breakfast is served! He instinctively butts the warm bag, stimulating the production of milk and the colostrum he needs to survive. He drinks his fill, and sinks softly into the straw, ready for a nap.
The groom enters the stall quietly, a small bottle of iodine in his hand. He calls to the mare softly, soothingly. He doesn't want to startle the new mama or her baby. Making his way slowly over to the foal, he kneels down in the straw, opens the iodine bottle, and saturates the small umbilical stump.
The baby just looks at him with wide brown eyes. He is unafraid. His mother stands behind him, continuing her grooming, while the man goes gently over her foal's body.
"It's a colt, Joe, an' he's perfect. Looka' the legs on this'n. Gonna be a big'en." He gently runs his hands down the colt's legs. "Hey, Buddy. Looks like ya' lost yer' front sock! What a good lookin' colt, Joe, three stockin's sho' is flashy! Cute little star on his forehead. An' look'y here. Gonna have a little stripe too! Hey, hand me the bucket, would'ya?"
He gathers the placenta together, careful not to damage the sack. The vet would be here any minute, and he would inspect the placenta for tears or other abnormalities in structure that could indicate a portion had been retained within the mare.
He caps the iodine bottle and slips it back into his pocket. He strokes the mare's face, which is only inches from his.
"Good job, lil lady. Y'all's the bes' mama in town! Dis'here sho' be one lucky fella. Yeah, good girl."
He strokes her again, then, standing quietly, he leaves the stall. It's time for mama and baby to rest.
