The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [94]
All of the fences at Piping Rock were white: white standards, white poles. The jump crew dressed in white from top to toe. Against the green turf field, on a sunny day, the effect could be blinding. The morning started with hunter classes. Harry kept busy around the stables, mucking and cleaning tack. There was always work to be done.
Finally, it was time to tack up. Even though Snowman was spotless, Harry went through the entire ritual: he picked the horse’s feet, pinching the tendon gently, and cleaning out the underside of the hoof. He started with the left front foot, then circling around to the left rear, right rear, and right front. There was a right way to do everything around horses, and that was how Harry did things, those habits so long ingrained that he performed them without thinking. He ran the curry comb over the horse, though there was no dirt or dander to collect, then clapped the hard rubber comb against the barn wall. Next came the soft body brush, which drew up the skin’s oils to bring out the coat’s natural shine.
Even now, Harry could not work over this horse without remembering what he had looked like just a couple of years earlier. Judging him by his appearance, one would not think he was the same horse. But Harry knew that the new look did not change him. Every person and every horse was a combination of what you could see on the outside and what he carried with him on the inside.
Harry still did not have a fluffy sheepskin saddle pad and Piping Rock was far too fancy for the army-navy blanket, so he settled his saddle right on the horse’s satiny back. Harry was like a proud father. Johanna always made sure that the children looked perfect; Harry wanted Snowman to look his best, too.
Harry slipped a finger into the horse’s mouth and slid the soft rubber snaffle into place, then folded down each ear in succession, settling the bridle’s crownpiece into a comfortable position. The carefully oiled leather felt buttery and familiar under his callused fingers. He fastened the throat latch and gave his horse a pat on the neck.
“We’re fighting the Germans today,” Harry whispered as he led the horse out of the stall. He handed the reins to Chef while he took off his coveralls. Underneath, his riding breeches were spotless. He straightened his tie, slipped on his jacket, and slicked back his hair to ready it for his black velvet cap. One of the grooms came over with a cloth to shine the last of the dust off Harry’s boots.
No doubt, many spectators would discount the pair: the gelding was so clearly a grade horse; the rider lacked both the perfectly tailored custom-made clothes and the studied air of upper-class ease affected by most of the other riders.
But nobody who had been following the circuit all summer was quite so ready to write them off. Maybe at ringside they looked like a couple of country bumpkins, but in the ring, magic happened: the horse seemed almost to turn into a different animal and the rider was magnetic to watch, holding the crowds spellbound.
There were two main series of classes during this show. In the Fédération Equestre Internationale (FEI) fault-and-out classes, horses would be judged on speed and touching the fence would not count—only a knocked-down pole or a refused fence incurred a penalty. The fences were high and a rider was rewarded for keeping the horse tightly leashed and making turns in the air and short approaches to fences. At Piping Rock, the bigger challenge was the second group of classes, the Blitz Memorial Series. In these, even the lightest brush of hoof to railing would be penalized. Miss Sears’s Ksar d’Esprit would compete in the FEI series, and the big German horse, Diamant, would go for the Blitz trophy. Neither horse would be overly taxed.
Harry had entered Snowman in both series. The big gray would not have the opportunity