By Clayton Davis

This is a work of fiction bearing no resemblance to any horse living or dead. It was penned to examine the goals and motives of horses that try to win every race.

Why do they do it? Why do they run so fast? What's in it for them?

Tom the Barber called a client of his named Sam and said, "Sam, I'm going to the track today. It's my day off. Tell me a horse to back."

Sam was a bookie in his forties with a face like a weasel. He was slight of stature and furtive. Nobody knew his background. Some thought he had once been a jockey who lost his license to ride.

"Well, I'll tell you, Tom. There's a new, two-year old that has never run in a race before," Sam whined. "He's going off at 32 to 1. Knowing what I do about horseflesh and breeding, I'd risk a hundred on him to win. You'll be $3,200 richer."

"I'll bet him," Tom's interest picked up. Sam had always been correct, well almost always. "What's his name?"

"Footloose. Bet him. You won't be sorry," Sam reassured Tom.

Tom's place was more than just a barbershop, even though he and his son Tommie had a large clientele of the male persuasion. Women were served by half a dozen skilled ladies who did everything from give permanents to tasteful haircuts, both men and women as some preferred. One space was set aside for manicures.

Tom pointed out that one could choose between him and his son by observing which had the better haircut, since they cut each others hair. Seeing as how the son's hair was always cut better than the father's, many men chose the elder barber.

It was always said by the customers should a movie ever be filmed about his barbershop, Robert De Niro would be the natural choice to play the role of Tom. The resemblance was evident.

"Good luck, Tom," his employees said as he prepared to visit the track, notwithstanding some skeptical glances passed between a few of them.

Horses have always separated the rich from the poor. For much of history it was even illegal for peasants to ride horses, in the Roman Empire for example. Although horses were beasts of burden used to pull plows. That was different.

Horses have been so commonplace throughout history their strength is still used as a measure of power. Buying a new automobile many people ask first what is its "horsepower" as if any respectful horse would want to propel one.

Cash on hand separates ownership today. You need a pasture and stable space. Just like owning a boat or an airplane, you have to keep the horse someplace and feed it. And like the boat and airplane horses need daily maintenance, need to be groomed and rubbed down.

The idle rich find it convenient to keep horses the way some people keep house pets. Some have a string of ponies to play Polo, riding furiously across wide, green lawns chasing a ball with a long stick. They dress the part with contestants wearing helmets and trousers that are double-wide at the hips. Tall, slick boots complete the ensemble. No cowboy hats are ever seen in a Polo match.

And dressing the part has infused horse racing too. Over the years those with the most influence have always dictated how the Jockey should be outfitted, how the saddle should look, how much the Jockey and equipment should weigh.

It is always the same in leisure pursuits affordable by only the rich people. Boating and flying have cult imperatives. Sailors must wear no socks with shoes especially made to avoid slipping overboard. Airplane drivers are required to have a scarf and big sunglasses.

None of the ritual demanded by keeping horses, boats and airplanes for show will apply to people who use those things to earn a living.

Horses pulling wagons are dressed out in whatever the owner can afford. Boats that go to sea for economic reasons are manned by people wearing comfortable clothing. And a variety of tasteful garb is worn by working pilots.

Footloose was a splendid two-year old race horse with good breeding. His father had won many races, as had his mother. Footloose was the third foal from her. Both his parents were noble beasts.

Poor Footloose wondered what his future held. Stabled between two other males, he looked saddened.

"What's wrong, young fellow?" asked his stable mate to the left.

"Wants a date with those young fillies, I bet," guessed his friend on the right.

"What's that?" Asked Footloose.

"A lot to learn yet," the left stable's occupant muttered.

"Want to learn about lady horses?" His friend on the right offered.

Footloose picked up his ears. "I'm willing to listen."

The left stable offered his advice. "Win today's race."

Footloose was filled with even more doubt. "It's my first race. I just don't know."

"Even more opportunity to make a good first impression," came the helpful advice from the right stable.

A Groom came to saddle Footloose. He was accustomed to being saddled and ridden by a trainer. Today would be serious business. An experienced Jockey would be in the driver's seat.

First went the bridle with a light, jointed bit in the mouth. Then a small saddle.

"This isn't so bad," thought Footloose. The Jockey was a small fellow, really a lightweight.

Footloose joined several other two-year-olds to parade around the track. All the Jockeys were dressed in different colors, looking like jungle birds. Footloose noticed they all carried small sticks.

Along the rail separating the track from the viewing stands stood many interested horserace fans, poor folks mostly. Way up high in glass-enclosed boxes sat the rich and famous.

Those leaning over the rail felt important because for the day they were participating in the "Sport of Kings."

As the horses were placed each into small, tight places all in a row side-by-side with individual gates opening onto the track, Footloose wondered what those small sticks were used for. Could they be for swatting flies?

Standing on a grassy knoll was a tall man in a tuxedo wearing a top hat playing notes on a long, important looking bugle. He seemed to have played the piece many times before. It was loud and commanding.

Suddenly the loudspeaker announced, "THEY'RE OFF!"

Then throaty yells were heard from the multitude, each urging on the horse they had bet to win.

The barber and the bookie yelled in unison, "Go, Footloose!!"

And go he did, plunging ahead with a mighty leap as the gate opened. Footloose laid his ears back and the Jockey loosed the reins.

The loudspeaker shouted, "And it's Footloose by three lengths!"

Tom looked at the bookie who winked knowingly.

Aware of the thundering hooves behind him, Footloose chanced a glance to the rear. Each and every one of the jockeys was laying brutal, intimate strokes upon their steeds' flanks with those sticks. Evidently with evil intent they were bent upon overtaking Footloose.

Footloose was remembering his goal, win this and all other races for the reward that would await winners in future years.

Returning to the barbershop, Tom was grinning from ear to ear.

"Do any good?" The employees asked, half expecting a negative reply.

"Thirty-two hundred dollar's worth," was all Tom said and prepared to cut the bookie's hair, no charge because it had been more than earned.

As the years went by Footloose won nearly all his races and became a legend known the world over. At the same time a filly named Fancy Free his same age won almost all of her races.

Tradition held true to expectation. A winning stud was mated to a winning filly. Footloose and Fancy Free roamed the pasture gleefully in their waning years, producing many winning foals.

Barbershop gossip being what it always is, the bookie's reputation gained greatly and his hair was always neatly trimmed.

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