I hold Peg’s face in my hands and press my own to his, to breathe my baby in. So there we are, Peg and me, nose to nose; soul to soul. “Peg, my beautiful Peg,” I said. “Tonight, it’s you … you show me. I’m just along for the ride.”
I gulp down the freezing air near the paddock as both of Peg’s trainers, Charlie and Janelle, come over. Their bright, sunny smiles greet me, and suddenly everything is more than fine. The three of us stand in the cold with a light snow falling and with that beautiful smell of horses filling our noses. We have been working with Peg for weeks, and we instinctively know this is his time. Charlie and Janelle both give me a leg up onto Peg, who waits patiently for us to finish. Once my body connects with his, there is only one way to go. As Peg carries me, I feel as if it’s a new day and a new life. I always feel that way when I get on the back of a horse.
Following tradition, we are led to the starting gate by the outrider, Jerry. Life on the backstretch is full of irony. Jerry, an ex-cop, is quite the horseman. Fit and good-looking, he’s partial to cognac, and a few days before we’d had a heated argument in the parking lot of a bar near the track. I don’t even remember what it was about, most likely something petty, personal—that’s the way it can be on the backstretch, the world behind the racetrack. It’s a carnival-like atmosphere filled with runaways, addicts, desperate lost souls, and the rich people who employ them. But when it’s time to compete, everyone does his job. Jerry is no different. He throws me a look that says, Go, Sylvia. I nod to acknowledge it.
Once we’re near the starting gate, I look up to the grandstand briefly to find my family. They’re here visiting me, and for the first time, they will see me ride. I peruse the crowd until I see them looking down at me, wearing mixed looks of pride and concern. They’re like many American families, a cornucopia of dysfunction. My father, Edward Sr., a tough ex-army staff sergeant and recovering alcoholic; my mother, Evaliene, an ex-teacher with Crohn’s disease who for years was a punching bag for my dad; my brother Edward Jr., the minister—let’s just say he’s the good one; my oldest children, daughter Shauna and son Ryan, from my common-law marriage with Riley, an Irish hippie I met at a club. And then there was Mioshi, my youngest, the baby who was conceived during a manic farewell tryst in Los Angeles. They were all there together, and for once it was not a gathering to decide, What are we going to do about Sylvia? A rare occasion.
The weather is changing for the worse, and I can feel the icy sleet pounding my face. I know Peg can feel it too. The track will be treacherous, but it is also perfect for Peg’s old, worn body, where the soft powder of the snow is like a natural cushion for his knee and ailing bones. Finally, someone or something is delivering him the break he so richly deserves.
This is our second outing together. We came in third a month earlier, and with each workout we began to respect each other more. Despite that, on the backstretch, we are seen as lost causes—me because of my age and inexperience, and Pegasus because he had been winless in his last seven starts. Still, he is more than ready. Me? I’m terrified.
Just a few days earlier, three horses went down on the track with their jockeys in tow. The thought of a half-ton bay horse crashing onto my small frame is scary enough. But what is even more frightening to me is the possibility that a manic episode could happen right before or during the race. Skipping your medications is a big no-no in the bipolar world. The meds are supposed to keep me balanced. But in the horse racing world, a jockey can’t take any medications that give him, or her, an advantage.
I’m sure there’s an exception for a manic-depressive like me, but I don’t want anyone to feel I have to take something that gives me an adrenaline boost. I don’t think I’ve ever been manic while racing, but the exuberant feel of riding gives me the same rush. Normally, I would welcome that feeling of superhuman superiority, but not on race day. It’s too dangerous; the chance of losing your focus or miscalculating is too great. This is definitely not the state you want to be in while riding a horse. But when they load me and Pegasus into the gate, I’m normal, or as normal as a nonmedicated manic-depressive can be.
I’m a forty-year-old rookie jockey who’s riding her seventeenth race and has never won. I’m a mother deemed unfit by some to raise her own kids. I’ve been homeless, sleeping in a Jeep, wondering where my next meal will come from.
I am bipolar. And I’m about to win this race.
The Start
A top this thousand-pound mass of horse sits my taut five-foot-one, hundred-and-ten-pound frame. I contrast with the other jockeys in almost every way; my age, my gender, my race. What we all share is a determination to win, but for me this a big race—actually, at my age every race is a big race, but today my family will be looking on, and I so want to show them I can do this, give them something to celebrate instead of the trouble I have been.
Pegasus and I approach the gate, and my nerves do a jig on my body. I breathe faster than Peg can ever hope to run. He seems calm, although he shows some trepidation about entering the gate. I hope this is not a bad sign. Jerry, the outrider, comes over to help guide us into our post position.
The horses are in place. We jockeys are raised a few inches above our saddles with knees tucked in tight, which reduces wind resistance and allows us to lessen the load on our mounts. The grandstands are far from full, but that doesn’t change the excitement I feel. The air bristles with sounds, scents, and kinetic energy. I take it all in, then quiet it to a hush, slowing my sensations down to a point where I can move easily. Both Pegasus and I have traveled a long way to run this race. It’s a big moment for both of us.
The gate bell splinters the frozen air.
The horses bolt out of the gate, along with my adrenaline, as the announcer’s voice shouts, “And they’re off!”
Santa Rosa, California
“Come on, Daddy, tell me, tell me,” I beg him as he drives our wood-paneled station wagon down a dusty road I do not recognize. I’m twelve years old, and it is a typically sunny day in Santa Rosa, California, where my family lives. We moved to this small city, about an hour and a half outside of San Francisco, once my father retired from the army. Both my parents had made a career of the military, and with my father’s pension and the job he had at a nearby shipyard, we had enough money for a nice middle-class life in a comfortable suburban home.
“Tell you what?” he says, feigning innocence, knowing perfectly well what I want. The surprise is the whole reason for this trip.
“Just give me a hint, please,” I say, hoping to wear him down. I know it won’t happen, but I enjoy the game.
“If I tell you, that will spoil the surprise.”
“No. No way!”
“Okay, then, once I remember what it is, I’ll let you know.”
I poke him in the arm, then pretend to sulk, which only makes him laugh as I see what appears to be a farm come into view.
My first pony ride (Sylvia Harris)
My mind races to an image that I immediately let go of out of fear of being disappointed. I am silent—still, as if any expression on my part will somehow make it all disappear.
We stop in front of a large barn where a man dressed like a cowboy greets my father. They talk briefly; my father points toward me, then motions for me to join them. I quickly exit the car. My father introduces me as his daughter, and we all three walk past the barn to a corral that holds a beautiful horse. I long to hear the words “He’s