Leading racing historian Michael Tanner remembers the day he visited Secretariat during the legendary racehorse’s latter days at stud at Claiborne Farm in Kentucky
“A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” That’s some deal Shakespeare put into the mouth of a defenceless King Richard III at Bosworth Field. What might that stricken monarch have given for Secretariat?
Some racehorses demand reverence. The chance to stand hand on nose with the supreme Flat-racer of my racing lifetime seemed a pipe dream. That is until November 3, 1988, at Claiborne Farm in Kentucky. After a journey of 4,000 miles I was to breathe the same air as Secretariat.
Secretariat was the Muhammad Ali of the racetrack. Combining the power of King Richard’s charger with the speed of Pegasus, Secretariat’s presence was reflected by a 75-inch girth housing a heart later assessed to be twice the size of the ordinary Thoroughbred.
Chestnut colossus
If any horse oozed charisma it was this 533 kilo chestnut colossus dubbed ‘Big Red’.
The film of him winning the final leg of his Triple Crown by a scarcely credible 31 lengths in record time still brings me out in goose bumps the size of golf balls. “Secretariat is moving like a tremendous machine!” intoned race caller Chic Anderson matter-of-factly. Now I was to see this ‘tremendous machine’ in the flesh.
My blood worked overtime waiting for the top-of-the-bill attraction to make his entrance at the conclusion of Claiborne’s stallion parade. I cast an eye down the path toward the stallion shed. Was that his imperious chestnut head with its distinctive harpoon-shaped blaze peeking over the shoulder of a yellow-jacketed groom?
I slipped away to find out. And there he was, standing patiently, with handler Bobby Anderson at his side. Secretariat eyed me quizzically.
An observation that his charge was “looking grand” drew an instant “You bet!” from Anderson as Secretariat jig-jogged through the spotlight of buttery winter sunshine, his lead chain rattling with each dip of his head, his teeth scrunching. I followed them up the path and rejoined the pilgrims come to worship.
Big Red posed like an old hand. Cameras clicked voraciously; the noise failed to ruffle him. He was more than just an old hand; he was an old ham. His exploits were recited for all to hear. Unnecessary: we all knew them.
Our audience was over seemingly before it had begun. Yes, I’d finally got to see Secretariat – but now I wanted to meet him some more. As fellow visitors tracked our host in one direction, I walked in the other.
Bobby Anderson was heading for the white-railed paddocks where the stallions routinely took their exercise. I asked if it was okay to tag along and take some more pictures. “Sure,” he said.
Request for a keepsake
A request for some of Big Red’s hair for a keepsake was met likewise. My camera clicked. Anderson produced a palmful of mane. “You can pat him if you want,” he said. “He won’t mind.”
Could this be real? Hand went to neck. The coat beneath its fingers felt as smooth and warm as a toasted marshmallow. Then that regal head turned slowly and a damp muzzle bunted rather than swatted the intrusion away. “Whoa, fella!”
Secretariat knew where he was and his equine hornpipe threatened to break into something quicker in his eagerness to run free.
“It’s a pity he can’t run in the Breeders’ Cup on Saturday,” I ventured off the back of a gormless smile.
Anderson greeted the equally gormless aside with an audible intake of Kentucky air.
“Red may be 18 years old, but he’d show those young punks his tail given the chance! Just you stand back.”
Anderson slipped the bolt. Secretariat snorted. I watched the biceps femoris twitch in his quarters. The gate flipped open. Anderson let go of his head collar. And in a finger-click Secretariat was gone like a quarrel from a crossbow, galloping across his grassy domain squealing, fly-jumping and kicking out with mustang zest, his tail hoisted like a flag from a schooner’s stern. Someone had measured his stride at 27 feet and I sensed that was no lie.
“‘D’ya see what I mean? My fella can still run!” laughed Anderson. A nod reflected a mixture of acceptance and awe.
I’d come to see Secretariat. And I did. I’d also come to meet Secretariat. And I did. But in addition I’d enjoyed the rare privilege of watching Big Red once more moving ‘like a tremendous machine’.
Casting an eye toward the framed strands of Secretariat hair while writing those words causes the bumps to resurface. For once there was a horse called Secretariat. But, as the saying goes, just the once.
• Children of Secretariat: click here for links to all the articles in Patricia McQueen’s hugely popular series
Ruffian goes home: NYRA relocates great filly’s remains to Claiborne Farm
Not just an iconic racehorse: Secretariat’s impact on the Triple Crown as a sire
View the latest TRC Global Rankings for horses / jockeys / trainers / sires