Through the ancient gates of history - to a place where no race horse had ever been or may ever pass again. Beyond the flags fluttering above the infield lake. Through the gauzy vapors of heat that hung like veils on the rows of trees along the backstretch fence. It hangs in a corner of memory like one of those old English racing scenes whose paint has begun to crack - an heirloom of the mind now seen in fading colors, with that sunlit horse and rider in the center of it, plunging through the lights and shadows of the late June afternoon. You have reached a degraded version of because you're using an unsupported version of Internet Explorer.įor a complete experience, please upgrade or use a supported browser
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