Jockey Victor Espinoza rode American Pharoah to a Triple Crown victory on June 6, 2015. The world had been waiting 37 years for a new Triple Crown winner. I watched the race with optimism and hoped, ever so intently, he would win. In 1978, Affirmed was the last horse to win with Steve Cauthen as his jockey, until a Saturday in June almost one month ago. However, with the mention of these two Triple Crown winners, I cannot fail to mention the legend Secretariat, who Ron Turcotte rode to victory in 1973 by 31 lengths at the Belmont Stakes. My connection to Turcotte and Secretariat started when I was a child.

My mother took us to visit our grandfather in Drummond, New Brunswick. As we were nearing his house, she sometimes pointed to a red house and an adjacent fenced pasture with horses on her left and said, “That’s where Ron Turcotte lives. He’s the jockey who rode Secretariat to win the Triple Crown.” Hearing about the legendary jockey and the majestic horse served to further inflame my horse fascination.

We owned a few horses, and captivated by their beauty, power and grace, I thought about them every minute of the day, especially the black Arabian gelding named Baby. I recall riding him on a trail across the road with my cousin Stephanie, who rode Buster, a reddish-brown quarter horse gelding. It was mid-August, when a sea of fragrant grass and flowers rubbed against the horses’ sweaty bellies.

“Let’s race once we cross this brook. There’s a large clearing over there,” she said.

“What are the rules?” I asked.

“I’ll count off and say go, and we’ll race to the far end just before the barley field starts,” she replied.

Baby didn’t like crossing the water and decided to jump it instead. There were different size rocks and pebbles, and the light glistened and danced upon the water as he easily jumped two feet to clear it.

We rode a little further where a stand of poplar trees thinned out leading us into the open field.

“Let’s run from here. One – two – three – go!”

I squeezed my heels into Baby’s side and Stephanie and Buster were beside us for a few seconds before we sped past at an easy gallop.

As he ran, I became stunned when he had another sudden burst of speed. In complete awe, I took in his smooth, fluid motion. The scenery around me blurred to hues of greens and I felt like I was in a different zone, a time and space separate from the past, present and future. This feeling overwhelmed me, as it seemed to be a mystical, spiritual experience. I’ve never forgotten the experience of being temporarily separated from time and space and just being with a great force propelling me.

And then, Baby and I reached the finish. I pulled back on the reins, slowed him down to a trot and turned the reins to face toward Stephanie and Buster. I leaned down and whispered to Baby, “That’s the way to do it, pretty boy.” His heavy breathing and then the sound of Buster’s thundering hooves filled the air as he pulled alongside.

“You win. I didn’t think I had much of a chance against the Arabian anyway. I’ve seen the way he runs with his tail waving high in the air,” Stephanie said.

She pushed back the curly chestnut tendrils that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ears. The blazing sun had turned her face red, accentuating her big, perfect white smile.

We had the horses walk back to my parent’s barn, where we continued to cool them down while walking beside them. Sometimes, we didn’t talk much, but being together I didn’t feel the need to fill the air with idle talk. She’s my cousin, and there was a certain elemental understanding our common blood dictated to us. Besides, I found horses to be a means of communication in themselves, from me to the horse, from me to Stephanie and from us to the fields and forests in our midst.

***

And so, the legend of Secretariat and Ron Turcotte and gnawing horse nostalgia are never very far away. All it takes is one thought and one heart beat, and my mind takes me back to vivid memories of the soft feel of a horse’s muzzle, of their warm breath on the back of my neck, of the heady scent of their sweat and of the sweet smell of newly bailed hay in the hayloft above the horse stalls. Time stands still once again, if only for a little while.