<sub>Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,
Engines pumping and thumping in time.
The green light flashes, the flags go up.
Churning and burning, they yearn for the cup.
They deftly maneuver and muscle
for rank,
Fuel burning fast on an empty tank.
Reckless and wild, they pour through the turns.
Their prowess is potent and secretly stearn.
As they speed through the finish, the flags go down.
The fans get up and they get out of town.
The arena is empty except for one man,
Still driving and striving as fast as he can.
The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
And long ago somebody left with the cup.
But hes driving and striving and hugging the turns.
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.

Hes going the distance.
Hes going for speed.
Shes all alone
In her time of need.
Because hes racing and pacing and plotting the course,
Hes fighting and biting and riding on his horse,
Hes going the distance.</sub>

--==--
Sweat stained the coat of the dark cremello stallion, he was loaded into the shoots. He swung his heavy head, nares flared and whinnied impatiently, as his jockey patted his sweaty neck reassuringly. “Just a few more moments, Spence-”. As other horses were loaded as well, the stallion pawed at the ground, not able to keep his body still- it was if he were told to stand in an ant mound, and all the little critters were begging to creep up his long sturdy cannons. For what seemed like an eternity, all racers were ready to go- the jockeys sturdied themselves on their steed, as the green flag was given and the shoots flew open. Number 16 leapt forward, wanting to get to the front of the pack, but his jockey knew better- she held him back, telling him to pace himself as other horses sped in front of him. Spencer argued with his bit, the only thing he wanted to do was go go go! It was in his blood, it was all that was on his stubborn thoroughbred’s mind. As he was held back at the back stretch, he began to turn into the second turn, hooves pounding the ground as he hugged the rail- coming out of the last turn, his jockey loosened his reins, gave him a reassuring whip to the rump, letting him give it his all his mighty body could possibly let him- and with the power of an engine, the colt steamed full ahead! For those last few moments, he felt no jockie, no saddle- he felt no bride, no bit- only the tunneling wind in his mane, and the power behind his hooves.

Horse For My Whiskey with his Jockey KJ Black, taken at the back stretch.


--===--
Few, took me forever, especially since I redid his pose like 5 times- tried for something more interesting, but they didn't come out right, so they all got scrapped and I settled for my more comfortable yet boring profile pose and that jockey looks like a joke I know, but I tired my best- not used to humans.
'Twas fun, Spence just loves the game of speed! And I know there should be a guardrail blocking them- photo taken on inside of rink- but I couldn't do it, I felt it would ruin it.

Not much more to say, hand is killing me (cat bite), so that's all for now.

Horse, jockey, and art belong to me
Rosedale track and Devil cup race (c) evjullilin:
click to see tackless -> [link]