would have to say about that.
~*~
Limlasker was slated to run in the third heat, Celia Lilac in the eighth, both good draws in that they were early. The thing with unseeded heats is that they’re totally random, and obviously this can go either way. As it turned out, Lim was drawn against five novices – three pups in their first year of competition, and two three-year-olds, a dog and a bitch, both owned by out-of-town syndicates and running in the Delawarr Triple for the first time.
Lim galloped home, more than two full seconds ahead of the second-placer, the parti-coloured three-year-old bitch Trudi-Delaney.
“He was confused, I reckon,” Tash said when I went down to the kennels to see them after their heat. “He wondered where the hell the rest of them had got to.” She smiled, her long, slightly crooked teeth flashing in her dark face. The gear she was wearing could have been her training togs – black leather shorts and Adidas plimsolls, an ancient pair of gants in deep burgundy that Del told me had been a gift from her grandmother but she looked powerful as a raincloud and taut with energy. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a gold bandeau. She was spectacular. I began to feel excited, to relax even. There was still a long way to go but the omens seemed good.
Of the two, Celia Lilac’s heat turned out to be the tough one. Only two complete novices, and of the other three in the heat the dog, Melrose, was a former silver medallist. He was a stunning beast, pure black, still very leggy, and two hands taller at least than Celia Lilac. Even I could tell that Tommy was bricking it. It was a fast heat, one of the fastest of the morning, a three-way race between Melrose, Celia Lilac and a four-year-old bitch named Rachel Slim-Rachel. Melrose won the heat, but Celia Lilac finished second, just half a nose in front of Rachel Slim-Rachel.
Tommy was ecstatic and showing it. Del was not pleased.
“Cool it, will you, Tommy? You’re going to wear the dog out. Calm down.”
Celia Lilac was back in her pen by then, but Tommy was so high on adrenalin even I could feel it, all that loose energy pouring off him like sweat off a racehorse. Celia would be feeling that tenfold, perhaps more. Tommy might as well inject her with raw amphetamine.
Watching the heat made my heart race, but afterwards I felt more subdued. I wasn’t thinking about Celia or Tommy but about Melrose, the one-time silver-medallist with the coat like black satin. He’d taken his heat with the same ease as Limlasker and with half a second in hand. I knew it was pointless to compare times between heats – a good dog will always come out faster in a fast heat, it stands to reason – but it was still a worry. Melrose’s runner, the veteran Kris Kruger, looked cool as November. Melrose hadn’t won big for a while but he was looking superb.
~*~
The remaining heats seemed to flash by. I’d more or less forgotten about Angela Kiwit until I saw her, coming out of the tunnel and taking her place at the trackside with the other runners from her heat, the twenty-sixth, which would have been a tough call for anyone.
Lowell Baker was the favourite in that one, with Lamborghini, but Kiwit seemed relaxed and I could tell by the way Baker kept glancing at her that he considered her his main rival.
As I’d predicted, she was wearing my gloves. Teamed with patent black knee-high lace-up Doctor Martens and a skin-tight black body stocking they looked incredible, and as Kiwit raised her right hand to the crowd I felt a shiver of pure pride slide down between my shoulder blades like melting ice cubes. As they released the dogs from the traps I suddenly knew that Tou-le-Mar was going to win the heat, that she would beat Baker’s Lamborghini by a mile, and that’s what happened. The crowd went insane. Lamborghini came in second, so he was through to the quarters, but it wasn’t Lamborghini people were cheering for. He was an old dog now, after all, and
~*~
Limlasker was slated to run in the third heat, Celia Lilac in the eighth, both good draws in that they were early. The thing with unseeded heats is that they’re totally random, and obviously this can go either way. As it turned out, Lim was drawn against five novices – three pups in their first year of competition, and two three-year-olds, a dog and a bitch, both owned by out-of-town syndicates and running in the Delawarr Triple for the first time.
Lim galloped home, more than two full seconds ahead of the second-placer, the parti-coloured three-year-old bitch Trudi-Delaney.
“He was confused, I reckon,” Tash said when I went down to the kennels to see them after their heat. “He wondered where the hell the rest of them had got to.” She smiled, her long, slightly crooked teeth flashing in her dark face. The gear she was wearing could have been her training togs – black leather shorts and Adidas plimsolls, an ancient pair of gants in deep burgundy that Del told me had been a gift from her grandmother but she looked powerful as a raincloud and taut with energy. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a gold bandeau. She was spectacular. I began to feel excited, to relax even. There was still a long way to go but the omens seemed good.
Of the two, Celia Lilac’s heat turned out to be the tough one. Only two complete novices, and of the other three in the heat the dog, Melrose, was a former silver medallist. He was a stunning beast, pure black, still very leggy, and two hands taller at least than Celia Lilac. Even I could tell that Tommy was bricking it. It was a fast heat, one of the fastest of the morning, a three-way race between Melrose, Celia Lilac and a four-year-old bitch named Rachel Slim-Rachel. Melrose won the heat, but Celia Lilac finished second, just half a nose in front of Rachel Slim-Rachel.
Tommy was ecstatic and showing it. Del was not pleased.
“Cool it, will you, Tommy? You’re going to wear the dog out. Calm down.”
Celia Lilac was back in her pen by then, but Tommy was so high on adrenalin even I could feel it, all that loose energy pouring off him like sweat off a racehorse. Celia would be feeling that tenfold, perhaps more. Tommy might as well inject her with raw amphetamine.
Watching the heat made my heart race, but afterwards I felt more subdued. I wasn’t thinking about Celia or Tommy but about Melrose, the one-time silver-medallist with the coat like black satin. He’d taken his heat with the same ease as Limlasker and with half a second in hand. I knew it was pointless to compare times between heats – a good dog will always come out faster in a fast heat, it stands to reason – but it was still a worry. Melrose’s runner, the veteran Kris Kruger, looked cool as November. Melrose hadn’t won big for a while but he was looking superb.
~*~
The remaining heats seemed to flash by. I’d more or less forgotten about Angela Kiwit until I saw her, coming out of the tunnel and taking her place at the trackside with the other runners from her heat, the twenty-sixth, which would have been a tough call for anyone.
Lowell Baker was the favourite in that one, with Lamborghini, but Kiwit seemed relaxed and I could tell by the way Baker kept glancing at her that he considered her his main rival.
As I’d predicted, she was wearing my gloves. Teamed with patent black knee-high lace-up Doctor Martens and a skin-tight black body stocking they looked incredible, and as Kiwit raised her right hand to the crowd I felt a shiver of pure pride slide down between my shoulder blades like melting ice cubes. As they released the dogs from the traps I suddenly knew that Tou-le-Mar was going to win the heat, that she would beat Baker’s Lamborghini by a mile, and that’s what happened. The crowd went insane. Lamborghini came in second, so he was through to the quarters, but it wasn’t Lamborghini people were cheering for. He was an old dog now, after all, and
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