I watch the headlights scan across the front field, then the taillights snake around the sharp curve and fade away in the distance. Brent Harris is going home.
A racetrack lifer, Brent stops to see us each winter as part of his world tour. A ski trip to western Canada, another one to Switzerland, the Matterhorn and places I’ve only seen in alpine ski races and adventure shows. A round or 10 of golf in Florida. A run along the beach. The best sushi you can find. A trip home to see his parents in Barbados. I have been there, a fish fry on Baxter Road, body surfing at Crane Beach, casting a net off the front of a skiff to catch Ballyhoo. Those were good days. Free and easy. A winter escape. Back when I had winter escapes.
We used to worry about Brent. Well, I used to worry about Brent when he lived free and light, and I planned and accumulated. Now, we wonder if he had it all figured out long before any of us. He works as hard as anyone, harder, as an assistant trainer to Mike Doyle for most of the year. Woodbine plays it old school with an off-season for horses and horsemen. The weather demands a break, forces a respite. Brent takes advantage of the hiatus; skiing, surfing, golfing, eating, hiking, talking and reconnecting. He spends more quality time in a shorter amount of time than anyone I know. Mike and Stacie…Kawana and Holly…Bryan and Tracy…Slade and Kelly…Annie and Miles.
Everyone likes Brent. Everyone.
This year, we were the last stop. Brent has come through here in the winter for a decade or so, he’s never felt a spring breeze or picked a blade of Virginia green grass. Cold and gray, not that he cares. We cooked and laughed at home, clinked bottles of Alexander Keith’s, hit Dirt Farm Brewery, hiked 4 miles on their wooded path, ventured to Reston to see A Complete Unknown and watched Canada and the U.S.A. play the final game in the 4 Nations Face-Off (the only thing we differed on) last night. Annie lovingly called him Sidekick. It might stick. An early riser, he was stirring at 5 this morning, his headlights pointing toward Buffalo and a trip across the border and then back to Toronto. And back to work. Woodbine opens soon.
Our friendship spans 30 years, way back to Saratoga in 1994. Matt McCarron, Chip Miller, Brent and I shared an attic apartment on Circular Street. We traipsed through Penny Chenery’s kitchen on the third floor each morning and night. Matt cajoled and rolled with a barn full of pullers for Vinnie Blengs. Chip did his own thing for Gary Sciacca. Brent breezed Fairy Garden, Plenty Of Sugar, St. Elias, L’Carriere, Alywow and Adoryphar for Roger Attfield. They won the Schuylerville with Changing Ways. I freelanced for Mike Hushion, John Hertler, P.G Johnson and Red Terrill. I won three races that season. And made a friend for life.
