Fridads
After my many treasured Fridays with Tom and his buddies Ada and Murphy
ON YOUR MARKS. Loaded in their gates, the faithful steeds wait for the starter’s gun. “Get set”… Jockeys’ fingers clench rein and mane, poised like archers. “Go!” They’re off like a jet- tisonned load, slow but gathering pace. “Giddyup Sparkle Pants!” the boy jockey urges. I lean forward and prance hard, and our chariot surges into the lead, like Sancho Panza, sluggish, but faithful. I knew it was a bad idea to finish a full day at the museum with Phar Lap. This must be what it felt like to be a tired gladiator performing in the colosseum. “Giddyup Pinky Pops!” the girl jockey commands. My compatriot stands, pumping the pedals hard. I can see them in the little mirror, gaining on us. We all round the final bend like a slow river spies the ocean, and fasten our flow, sweaty flanks flaying, wildly alive, as the jockeys stand and dance. Pinky Pops and Sparkle Pants are neck and neck as we pass the grandstand, adoring fans on their feet, garden hoses crying for the flowers. It is a dead heat, rose petals flying for Sparkle Pants and Pinky Pops.
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