Wake up excited. A runner. A rare winter runner. Rupert The Prince to Newcastle for his hurdle debut. 7:15 a.m. post time. French toast, flip, flip on the plate. Cold pizza, a banana and a Lara Bar for lunch, water bottle thrown into Miles’ backpack, sneakers tucked into a brown grocery bag. Out the door in a hurry. Homeroom comes early.
“Have a great day.”
Gather around the computer set onto the ottoman in the den, waiting for the first at Wincanton to come and go. Split screen. Oh no, not the split screen. Then buffering, oh no, not the wheel of death. Then it comes to life. At the start. Lining up toward the outside, dark blue, light blue, red cap. They’re off. A little sloppy at the first, OK at the second, over the third, down the backside…
Uh oh.
Rupert gradually loses ground, sliding back and back and back. The air leaves the room. A disappointing eighth. A disappointing start to the day. A disappointing day, no matter what happens from here. So early to be so deflated. Horse racing.
Deep breath. Cup of tea. Figure it out. Better days ahead.
