Horse Jockey Quotes

The racehorse, by virtue of his awesome physical gifts, freed the jockey from himself. When a horse and a jockey flew over the track together, there were moments in which the man's mind wedded itself to the animal's body to form something greater than the sum of both parts.

At first I wanted to be a jockey. I rode horses in Cleveland but I kept falling off and I was afraid of horses. So there wasn't much of a future in it.

She reckons most of those models eat about one carrot a week, chew cotton wool like race horse jockeys to keep thin, and smoke cigarettes. Apparently, they all look like crap by the time they are 30, and go out with the ‘wrong’ sort of men..

To pilot a racehorse is to ride a half-ton catapult. It is without question one of the most formidable feats in sport.

Goldman’s top four officers could not sell more than 10 percent of their Goldman shares until 2011, or until Buffett sold his own, even if they left the firm. He had explained his rationale for this condition to Blankfein by saying, “If I’m buying the horse, I’m buying the jockey, too.

Jason and Ferrin turned. Aram, face shiny with sweat, pulled a small pair of pants over his skinny legs. His shrunken hands trembled. Ferrin struggled not to smile. He was unsuccessful. Ferrin's involuntary grin forced Jason to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Ferrin noticed and began to shake, eyes watering. Aram hastily pulled on a shirt. Then he folded his arms, glaring grumpily up at the others. "Go ahead, let it out, have a good laugh." They did. Feeding off each other, magnified by the knowledge that their laughter was so inappropriate, their mirth was uncontrollable. Ferrin buried his face, attempting to compose himself. Jason stared at the ground, trying to summon sober thoughts. "We need to go," Aram said indignantly, clambering up onto his suddenly oversized horse. Atop the huge stallion, he looked like a little jockey. Jason coughed out a final laugh. Ferrin shook quietly, wiping tears from flushed cheeks. "Finished?" Aram asked. "You two are ruthless." He looked down at himself. "I guess it's quite a contrast." "We don't mean to rub it in," Jason apologized. "We've already seen you both ways. It isn't that big of a deal." "It doesn't help that you're so shy about it," Ferrin tried to explain. "It was more your expression than anything." "Let's leave it behind us," Aram said, nudging his horse with his heels. The stallion didn't respond. Ferrin buried his face in the crook of his arm. Jason ground his teeth.

And in what business is there not humbug? “There’s cheating in all trades but ours,” is the prompt reply from the boot-maker with his brown paper soles, the grocer with his floury sugar and chicoried coffee, the butcher with his mysterious sausages and queer veal, the dry goods man with his “damaged goods wet at the great fire” and his “selling at a ruinous loss,” the stock-broker with his brazen assurance that your company is bankrupt and your stock not worth a cent (if he wants to buy it,) the horse jockey with his black arts and spavined brutes, the milkman with his tin aquaria, the land agent with his nice new maps and beautiful descriptions of distant scenery, the newspaper man with his “immense circulation,” the publisher with his “Great American Novel,” the city auctioneer with his “Pictures by the Old Masters”—all and every one protest each his own innocence, and warn you against the deceits of the rest. My inexperienced friend, take it for granted that they all tell the truth—about each other! and then transact your business to the best of your ability on your own judgment.

A quarter-horse jockey learns to think of a twenty-second race as if it were occurring across twenty minutes--in distinct parts, spaced in his consciousness. Each nuance of the ride comes to him as he builds his race. If you can do the opposite with deep time, living in it and thinking in it until the large numbers settle into place, you can sense how swiftly the initial earth packed itself together, how swiftly continents have assembled and come apart, how far and rapidly continents travel, how quickly mountains rise and how quickly they disintegrate and disappear.

But for all its miseries, there was an unmistakable allure to the jockey's craft... Man is preoccupied with freedom yet laden with handicaps. The breadth of his activity and experience is narrowed by the limitations of his relative weak, sluggish body. The racehorse, by virtue of his awesome physical gifts, freed the jockey from himself. When a horse and a jockey flew over the tack together, there were moments in which the man's mind wedded itself to the animal's body to form something greater than the sum of both parts. The horse partook of the jockey's cunning; the jockey partook of the horse's supreme power. For the jockey, the saddle was a place of unparalled exhilaration, of transcendence.

finding success. It leads to unpleasantness that I would rather . . . avoid. Even the greatest jockeys, the men everyone delighted to cheer for, cannot now get a decent mount, South or North. And if they do chance to ride, it has become perilous. The White jockeys collaborate against them to provoke falls.

The jockey never recalls using a whip. The horse never forgets.

Mr. Tarmack,if you try to put a jockey on this horse, I'll have you up on charges.In fact,I'm damn well having you up on charges regardless.

No matter how good a jockey, he can’t turn a plow horse into a thoroughbred. It was the same with chips and software. Indeed, an operating system depended on a reliable chip.

At two meetings the stimulated horses that I was backing outraced the unstimulated or insufficiently stimulated beasts except for one race in which our fancy had been overstimulated to such a point that before the start he threw his jockey and breaking away completed a full circuit of the steeplechase course jumping beautifully by himself the way one can sometimes jump in dreams.

Italy still has a provincial sophistication that comes from its long history as a collection of city states. That, combined with a hot climate, means that the Italians occupy their streets and squares with much greater ease than the English. The resultant street life is very rich, even in small towns like Arezzo and Gaiole, fertile ground for the peeping Tom aspect of an actor’s preparation. I took many trips to Siena, and was struck by its beauty, but also by the beauty of the Siennese themselves. They are dark, fierce, and aristocratic, very different to the much paler Venetians or Florentines. They have always looked like this, as the paintings of their ancestors testify. I observed the groups of young people, the lounging grace with which they wore their clothes, their sense of always being on show. I walked the streets, they paraded them. It did not matter that I do not speak a word of Italian; I made up stories about them, and took surreptitious photographs. I was in Siena on the final day of the Palio, a lengthy festival ending in a horse race around the main square. Each district is represented by a horse and jockey and a pair of flag-bearers. The day is spent by teams of supporters with drums, banners, and ceremonial horse and rider processing round the town singing a strange chanting song. Outside the Cathedral, watched from a high window by a smiling Cardinal and a group of nuns, with a huge crowd in the Cathedral Square itself, the supporters passed, and to drum rolls the two flag-bearers hurled their flags high into the air and caught them, the crowd roaring in approval. The winner of the extremely dangerous horse race is presented with a palio, a standard bearing the effigy of the Virgin. In the last few years the jockeys have had to be professional by law, as when they were amateurs, corruption and bribery were rife. The teams wear a curious fancy dress encompassing styles from the twelfth to the eighteenth centuries. They are followed by gangs of young men, supporters, who create an atmosphere or intense rivalry and barely suppressed violence as they run through the narrow streets in the heat of the day. It was perfect. I took many more photographs. At the farmhouse that evening, after far too much Chianti, I and my friends played a bizarre game. In the dark, some of us moved lighted candles from one room to another, whilst others watched the effect of the light on faces and on the rooms from outside. It was like a strange living film of the paintings we had seen. Maybe Derek Jarman was spying on us.

Devington could clearly ascertain by the end of the second lap that Slug was decidely undermanaged by his indolent jockey, and the high-strung Hawke was incontrovertibly terrized by his...By the end of the final lap of the arduous run, Lord Uxeter had completely used up his horse, and Slug had completely uased up his rider! ...Devington seized the moment to claim the lead, murmuring low to Rosie, "It would appear, my lovely girl, the race is ours.

Dawn was casting spun-gold threads across a rosy sky over Sawubona Game Reserve as Martine Allen took a last look around to ensure there weren’t any witnesses, leaned forward like a jockey on the track, wound her fingers through a tangle of silver mane, and cried, ‘Go, Jemmy, go!’ The white giraffe sprang forward so suddenly that she was almost unseated, but she recovered and, wrapping her arms around his neck, quickly adjusted to the familiar rhythm of Jemmy’s rocking-horse stride.

He was halfway to the house, thinking to set the cabbage inside the kitchen door,when a brown blur thundered past him. Joanna Robbins tore out of the barn astride a magnificent chestnut quarter horse. She leaned forward in the saddle,hat flopping against her back, hair streaming out behind her in a wild curly mass as she urged her mount to a full-out gallop. Unable to do anything but stare, Crockett stood dumbstruck as she raced past. She was the most amazing horsewoman he'd ever seen. Joanna Robbins. The shy creature who claimed painting and reading were her favorite pastimes had just bolted across the yard like a seasoned jockey atop Thoroughbred. She might have inherited her mother's grace and manners, but the woman rode like her outlaw father.Maybe better.

Yankovich explained the most salient points: “You’re at a quarter mile and someone asks you who your mother is: you don’t know. That’s how focused you are. Okay, call the ball. Now it’s a knife fight in a phone booth. And remember: full power in the wire. Your IQ rolls back to that of an ape.” It sounds as if he’s being a smart-ass (he is), but deep lessons also are there to be teased out like some obscure Talmudic script. Lessons about survival, about what you need to know and what you don’t need to know. About the surface of the brain and its deep recesses. About what you know that you don’t know you know and about what you don’t know that you’d better not think you know. Call it an ape, call it a horse, as Plato did. Plato understood that emotions could trump reason and that to succeed we have to use the reins of reason on the horse of emotion. That turns out to be remarkably close to what modern research has begun to show us, and it works both ways: The intellect without the emotions is like the jockey without the horse.

Brian,really." Keeley continued to mix the blister for the knee spavin. "You've had a really long day. I can handle this." "Sure you can.You can handle this, morons like Tarmack, washed-up jockeys and everything else that comes along before breakfast.Nobody's saying different." Since the statement wasn't delivered in what could be mistaken for a complimentary tone, Keeley turned to frown at him. "What's wrong with you?" "There's not a bloody thing wrong with me.But you could use some work.Do you have to do everything yourself, every flaming step and stage of it? Can't you just take help when help's offered and shut the hell up?" She did shut the hell up, for ten shocked seconds. "I simply assumed that you'd be tired after your trip." "I'll let you know when I'm tired." "The gelding here doesn't seem to be the only one with something nasty in his system." "Well,it's you in my system, princess, and it feels a bit nasty at the moment." Hurt came first, a quick short-armed jab. Pride sprang in to defend. "I'll be happy to purge you, just like I'll purge this horse tomorrow." "If I thought it would work," he muttered, "I'd purge myself.

Love is like a horse riding on the back of a jockey. I wouldn't bet on it anytime soon.

Now since the race cannot have been rigged so that all of the horses win, you realize that something is seriously amiss and that it is possible that all of you, yourself included, have been led astray. In such a situation, you--as a rational bettor--would turn a critical eye on the evidence for your own belief that your horse will win. Perhaps you were relying on someone else's report about the rigging of the race. In this case, you would want to examine that person's credibility more carefully and grill him about what grounds he had for his assertions. Or perhaps you weren't relying on second-hand reports. Perhaps you had first-hand evidence: you yourself were there when the trainers and/or jockeys were apparently conspiring to have your horse win. In that case, you would want to question your own gullibility. Could it all have been a grand hoax on their part? Or might your desire to "win big" have been so strong that you had misinterpreted what you had heard and so fell into the trap of self-deception? And, by parity of reasoning, might it not be the case that all of you, not just you but the other bettors as well, have likewise been deceived or deceived yourselves? On reflection, you would be warranted in concluding that this is not just possible, but probable.

... a man cannot win if he's at the same time a horse and a jockey.

The diamond-and-square framework provides the answers. The framework’s diamond breaks down the startup’s opportunity—that is, the “horse”—into four constituent parts: its customer value proposition, technology and operations, marketing, and profit formula. The diamond is framed by a square whose corners denote the venture’s key resource providers: its founders (that is, the “jockeys”), other team members, outside investors, and strategic partners.

Why was the horse naked? His jockey fell off.

While most investors blame bad jockeys for startup failure, some see slow horses as the main problem. For example, billionaire entrepreneur and investor Peter Thiel says that “all failed companies are the same: they failed to escape competition.” Paul Graham, founder of the elite accelerator Y Combinator, likewise holds that having a compelling solution to a customer’s problem—a strong horse—is the key to success: “There’s just one mistake that kills startups: not making something users want. If you make something users want, you’ll probably be fine, whatever else you do or don’t do. And if you don’t make something users want, then you’re dead, whatever else you do or don’t

just off the track—where the owners and the horse and the jockey all stood proudly for a photo. I hoped the horse got an apple or something; after all, he seemed to be the one who had done most of the work.

she had accepted that doling out sarcastic criticism invited a cutting response. They circled each other, in consequence, like exactly matched opponents unwilling to declare open war. For as long as he could remember William had been irresistibly attracted to horses and had long affirmed his intention to be a jockey, of which Sarah strongly and I mildly disapproved. Security, William said, was a dirty word. There were better things in life than a safe job. Sarah and I, I suppose, were happier with pattern and order and achievement. William increasingly as he grew through thirteen, fourteen, and now fifteen, seemed to hunger for air and speed and uncertainty. It was typical of him that he proposed to spend the week’s mid-term break in riding horses instead of working for the eight ‘O’ Level exams he was due to take immediately afterwards. I left his letter on my desk to remind myself to send him a cheque and unlocked the cupboard where I kept my guns. The air-gun that I’d taken to school was little more than a toy and needed no licence or secure storage, but I also owned two Mauser 7.62s, an Enfield No. 4 7.62 and two Anschütz .22s around which all sorts of regulations bristled, and also an old Lee Enfield .303 dating back from my early days which was still as lethal as ever if one could raise the ammunition for it. The little I had, I hoarded, mostly out of nostalgia. There

He too was running off, but it was in the direction of the barn, and he was making a case for not being a jockey but a racing equine himself.

In short, high sensitivity, or responsivity, as these biologists also called it, involves paying more attention to details than others do, then using that knowledge to make better predictions in the future. Sometimes you are better off doing so; other times it is a waste of energy or worse. What if events now have nothing to do with your past experiences? Suppose you are at the horse races and the first two races are won by horses with jockeys wearing red silks. Of course you are one of the few to notice. Would you bet on red silks in the third race or, if that fails, do it in the fourth? Your subtle red-silk strategy could be a costly mistake. Further, when a past experience was very bad, an HSP can overgeneralize and avoid or feel anxious in too many situations, just because the new ones resemble in some small way the past bad one. The biggest cost to us of being highly sensitive, however, is that our nervous systems can only take in so much. Everyone has a limit as to how much information or stimulation can be absorbed before one becomes overloaded, overstimulated, over-aroused, overwhelmed, and just over! We simply reach that point sooner than others.

Funny how that is. The jockey never recalls using a whip. The horse never forgets

Good jockeys will do well on good horses, but not on broken-down nags.” -1989 letter

A no-name jockey, a freshman trainer, and a horse that no one wanted to handle. We fucking did it.

It’s got a grumpy, damaged hero. The heroine is tough. She’s a horse jockey and she works for him. The tension is so hot. Plus, I didn’t see the big twist coming, which adds major points.

That’s what this life probably felt like, she realised. One big racecourse. But she had no idea if she was the horse or the jockey in that analogy.

I dressed up like a horse, and my horse-faced friend dressed up like a jockey. This worked out great, because I ended up giving him a piggyback ride to the party.

By Lawrence Van Alstyne December 24, 1863 As tomorrow is Christmas we went out and made such purchases of good things as our purses would allow, and these we turned over to George and Henry for safe keeping and for cooking on the morrow. After that we went across the street to see what was in a tent that had lately been put up there. We found it a sort of show. There was a big snake in a showcase filled with cheap looking jewelry, each piece having a number attached to it. Also, a dice cup and dice. For $1.00 one could throw once, and any number of spots that came up would entitle the thrower to the piece of jewelry with a corresponding number on it. Just as it had all been explained to us, a greenhorn-looking chap came in and, after the thing had been explained to him, said he was always unlucky with dice, but if one of us would throw for him he would risk a dollar just to see how the game worked. Gorton is such an accommodating fellow I expected he would offer to make the throw for him, but as he said nothing, I took the cup and threw seventeen. The proprietor said it was a very lucky number, and he would give the winner $12 in cash or the fine pin that had the seventeen on it. The fellow took the cash, like a sensible man. I thought there was a chance to make my fortune and was going right in to break the bank, when Gorton, who was wiser than I, took me to one side and told me not to be a fool; that the greenhorn was one of the gang, and that the money I won for him was already his own. Others had come by this time and I soon saw he was right, and I kept out. We watched the game a while, and then went back to Camp Dudley and to bed. Christmas, and I forgot to hang up my stocking. After getting something to eat, we took stock of our eatables and of our pocket books, and found we could afford a few things we lacked. Gorton said he would invite his horse jockey friend, James Buchanan, not the ex-President, but a little bit of a man who rode the races for a living. So taking Tony with me I went up to a nearby market and bought some oysters and some steak. This with what we had on hand made us a feast such as we had often wished for in vain. Buchanan came, with his saddle in his coat pocket, for he was due at the track in the afternoon. George and Henry outdid themselves in cooking, and we certainly had a feast. There was not much style about it, but it was satisfying. We had overestimated our capacity, and had enough left for the cooks and drummer boys. Buchanan went to the races, Gorton and I went to sleep, and so passed my second Christmas in Dixie. At night the regiment came back, hungry as wolves. The officers mostly went out for a supper, but Gorton and I had little use for supper. We had just begun to feel comfortable. The regiment had no adventures and saw no enemy. They stopped at Baton Rouge and gave the 128th a surprise. Found them well and hearty, and had a real good visit. I was dreadfully sorry I had missed that treat. I would rather have missed my Christmas dinner. They report that Colonel Smith and Adjutant Wilkinson have resigned to go into the cotton and sugar speculation. The 128th is having a free and easy time, and according to what I am told, discipline is rather slack. But the stuff is in them, and if called on every man will be found ready for duty. The loose discipline comes of having nothing to do. I don’t blame them for having their fun while they can, for there is no telling when they will have the other thing. From Diary of an Enlisted Man by Lawrence Van Alstyne. New Haven, Conn., 1910.

Horse Racing in Durban from Seawater Three Durban, South Africa was the end of the line for us. We usually did not know how far up the East Coast we would go, since it always depended on our cargo. On the African Enterprise it was different and instead we depended on the passengers. Most of the time the last of the passengers were off the ship before we got to Durban but that was not always a given. I loved Durban where the food was wonderful, and the girls were fun. Kerstin was no exception and was always ready to have a good time. The racetrack was one of the places that we would go to and where, with a little inside information, I would know how to place my bets. When I asked Kerstin why she wasn’t cleaning up at the track she simply said that it was not a sure thing. It was for the same reason that I usually just placed conservative bets, but my returns were still enough to pay for my food, drinks, and ample pocket money. I still do not know why Tiger Wright a “once-was” jockey shared his valuable information with me, but he did it in a coded way. He never just blurted out what he knew, rather he would say things like “If it was me, I would consider…., or I would never place a bet on a horse called ….” Only once did he say that a certain horse was sure to win; and it did! Perhaps he liked me or perhaps he was just bragging but I know that he liked my company. He also definitely loved the company of the beautiful ladies that surrounded him. I knew that he liked Kerstin, but for whatever reason, she did not play his game.

I am The Black Book. Between my top and my bottom, my right and my left, I hold what I have seen, what I have done, and what I have thought. I am everything I have hated: labor without harvest; death without honor; life without land or law. I am a black woman holding a white child in her arms singing to her own baby lying unattended in the grass. I am all the ways I have failed: I am the black slave owner, the buyer of Golden Peacock Bleach Crème and Dr. Palmer’s Skin Whitener, the self- hating player of the dozens; I am my own nigger joke. I am all the ways I survived: I am tun-mush, hoecake cooked on a hoe; I am Fourteen black jockeys winning the Kentucky Derby. I am the creator of hundreds of patented inventions; I am Lafitte the pirate and Marie Laveau. I am Bessie Smith winning a roller-skating contest; I am quilts and ironwork, fine carpentry and lace. I am the wars I fought, the gold I mined, The horses I broke, the trails I blazed. I am all the things I have seen: The New York Caucasian newspaper, the scarred back of Gordon the slave, the Draft Riots, darky tunes, and mer- chants distorting my face to sell thread, soap, shoe polish coconut. And I am all the things I have ever loved: scuppernong wine, cool baptisms in silent water, dream books and number playing. I am the sound of my own voice singing “Sangaree.” I am ring-shouts, and blues, ragtime and gospels. I am mojo, voodoo, and gold earrings. I am not complete here; there is much more, but there is no more time and no more space . . . and I have journeys to take, ships to name, and crews.

With large companies you can get away with betting on horses, but with small companies you have to bet on jockeys.

The Enterprise Fund skidded 25 percent in 1969, and Fred Carr resigned.19 Other go-go funds also went down down. (Tsai landed on his feet, though, selling his fund company to CNA Financial of Chicago for about $30 million. In the 1980s, he would repeat the pattern, twice more making deals that worked out better for him than his shareholders. “With Gerry, you don’t bet the horse, you bet the jockey,” one person who knew him said. “You invest when Gerry invests, and get out when he does.”)20

Arrigo Sacchi, a terrible player turned great manager of Milan, phrased it, “You don’t need to have been a horse to be a jockey.

There was something about a handsome man astride a powerful horse that made my heart skip.

You’re standing in a square in a medieval town, staring awestruck at the many flags and banners that decorate the surrounding buildings. Suddenly, the sound of hooves echoes around you. Young jockeys, riding horses bareback, race around the square, or piazza, three times. The prize is a silk flag, the Palio. This is part of an eight-hundred-year-old festival that is held twice each summer in the town of Siena.

Races weren’t supposed to be pageants or cocktail parties. They were tests. Hundreds of hours of training came down to a few breathless moments—and only then would anyone know if the animals were ready, which would rise and which would stumble, how the work and the talent would match up to carry this horse through, while that one would be left wearing dust, the jockey ashamed or surprised or full of excuses. There

Listen to me, dearest, most precious wife, but pat the horse while you do, because Dolan is looking this way.” Eve thumped William soundly on the neck, as a male jockey might. “You will win this race not because we have money riding on the outcome. I assure you we can afford the loss, and we don’t honestly need the coin if we win. I promise you this. You will win this race not because it means we keep William—he’s already covered every mare I could possibly put him to. I promise you this as well.” He wasn’t finished. Eve gathered up her reins just as Goblin started to prop in earnest, and the stewards started motioning her closer to the starting line. “There is more I would say, my dear.” Deene reached over and stroked a hand down her shoulder, and Eve felt all manner of tension dissipating at just his touch. “You will win this race because it is yours to win, because this horse is yours to command. I have every faith in you, every faith. But if you don’t win, that hardly matters. I will love you for the rest of my days and beyond, because when I asked for your trust, you gave it to me.” Another

In truth, Belmont’s Jockey Club, the organization that controlled Thoroughbred racing in America, was founded by a mix of people. Some were blue-blooded Americans who traced their ancestry to Mayflower voyagers and Puritan founding fathers, and others were nouveau riche industrialists who wished to ally themselves—through marriages to aristocrats, membership in the Episcopal Church, and associations with the elite sport of horse racing—to the American upper crust. At

one of the most deliciously atrocious writers around

God is always present, but do we consistently see Him?... I believe we all have the abundant capacity for seeing our Great and Almighty creator when we learn to truly look for Him." "When we become one with the Lord in purpose and goal, we harness His power like the jockey whose horse takes him to the finish line.

Everyone who works around a racetrack knows the starting gate is the most dangerous place to work," said Tim Snyder. "You've got a thousand-pound horse, a hundred pound jockey and you're putting them both in a steel cage. Out on the track you can get thrown, but the ground is forgiving and in the event you get trampled, you'll probably be okay. In the gate you can get absolutely crushed".

jockey was whipping it mercilessly, but the horse was falling farther behind every second. And the black one, a frisky colt, was simply holding its own, hoping to make it to the finish line without any greater exertion. Nightingale’s Song, however, was not spent at all; indeed, the horse seemed only

Kelly looks up at me and wags her tail. I swear she's smiling at me. It never fails that some of her radiating positivity seeps into my being. I make a conscious effort to change my perspective. Investigating the death of that poor young jockey might not only get answers for the family and for Neal and Linda, but could help me as well by providing a distraction away from the self-pity I'm inclined to wallow in.

FRANK HAYES IS THE only jockey to win a race after death. No, really! It was 1923, and poor Frank suffered a fatal heart attack in the middle of a race at Belmont Park in New York. However, his horse, Sweet Kiss, didn’t know this and carried on to win the race with the lifeless jockey still on board.