It's 6 a.m. or at least I think it is. I had to get up and move my truck because the city of Portland will be by with their annual, you get one shot, leaf clean-up and they need to get to the curb. I live on a street with historically large elm trees. In the summer they are strikingly beautiful. In the winter, they shed everything from leaves to seeds, to sap and an occasional large branch, not to mention the continual barrage of small twigs, bird droppings, and a mossy substance that occasionally pelts my windshield.
I looked forward to getting up early. Had to make sure the clock was turned back, alarm set, and I was ready for the rain. My truck now sits about a half mile near home, close to a movie theater on a main drag. No leaf crew there. This is what I needed to sort out Zenyatta's performance yesterday.
Notice I didn't say loss. Sometimes a win and a loss are the same thing. So Zen.
Sure I've been numb since her head crossed the wire about a foot behind the head of Blame, a magnificent competitor in his own right. But it was always about Zenyatta. From where I see it, it still is. We won't see anything like her again in my lifetime.
My forced walk so early this morning gave me the opportunity to figure out a few things. Like the sport of horse racing itself, the race horse is a mirror. It reflects outwardly everything that we are. From the worshipers and haters, to the addicted gamblers, the artists, the dreamers. From the children and the uninitiated, to the child-like and the veterans, we all come to drink from the fountain and we all leave something.
We wanted perfection. Just one time. But Zenyatta took our burgeoning hubris and reminded us... nope, not this time, or ever. It doesn't work that way.
What we are left with is knowledge, insight, and wonder. The kind of things that can come in a dimly lit walk in the rain at dawn. That's not so bad after all.
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