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Description
I think this is my favorite photo from today. Yes, I know, it's simple. But let me explain the title.

Racing is a game of luck. You have to know when to take chances, and when the odds are too great for victory. Every horse starts with promise. Every two-year-old, just an innocent little horse, barely old enough to no longer be a foal, is looked upon and judged. Will his conformation make him a runner? Or will he be just another cast-off, unable to climb out of the claiming ranks?
But the true test of merit is on the track, running against other Thoroughbreds of his own age. Here, he will either rise above the challenge or fall behind. In a physical sense the horse is always moving forward, but not always upward. The good horses move on, to bigger, better tracks and stakes races with bigger price tags. Money, fame, fortune.
The little ones are stuck. The ones that try so hard every time, only to fall short of the winners' circle. They are looked upon, judged, sometimes pitied by the bettors. They aren't worth much in the racing world.
But the horse knows none of this. He only knows that this is his job, to run in tireless circles around the little dirt oval, coming back with his head held high despite defeat. While the other horses are off in pursuit of that grade 1 race, he is in pursuit of his next meal. He knows no pursuit of immortality, of having his name engraved in history. He will die one day, virtually unknown except for the people closest to him, and perhaps remembered for a short while by a bettor that made a profit of him one day. But in reality, these are the workers, the blue-collared diehards of the track. They are the horses that fuel the sport itself, and in that way, they are invaluable.

Yes, annoying long speech. But it's true.

Description
I think this is my favorite photo from today. Yes, I know, it's simple. But let me explain the title.

Racing is a game of luck. You have to know when to take chances, and when the odds are too great for victory. Every horse starts with promise. Every two-year-old, just an innocent little horse, barely old enough to no longer be a foal, is looked upon and judged. Will his conformation make him a runner? Or will he be just another cast-off, unable to climb out of the claiming ranks?
But the true test of merit is on the track, running against other Thoroughbreds of his own age. Here, he will either rise above the challenge or fall behind. In a physical sense the horse is always moving forward, but not always upward. The good horses move on, to bigger, better tracks and stakes races with bigger price tags. Money, fame, fortune.
The little ones are stuck. The ones that try so hard every time, only to fall short of the winners' circle. They are looked upon, judged, sometimes pitied by the bettors. They aren't worth much in the racing world.
But the horse knows none of this. He only knows that this is his job, to run in tireless circles around the little dirt oval, coming back with his head held high despite defeat. While the other horses are off in pursuit of that grade 1 race, he is in pursuit of his next meal. He knows no pursuit of immortality, of having his name engraved in history. He will die one day, virtually unknown except for the people closest to him, and perhaps remembered for a short while by a bettor that made a profit of him one day. But in reality, these are the workers, the blue-collared diehards of the track. They are the horses that fuel the sport itself, and in that way, they are invaluable.

Yes, annoying long speech. But it's true.