The Inside Rail

Contributions from TIHR co-founder, editor and writer Sean Clancy.

Living the Dream

I thought he won. I was almost confident, well, as confident as you can be in a photo finish.

The Iroquois over the Years

The Iroquois. It came across our radar back in 1978 when Dad was told to win it for George Strawbridge Jr. It was his goal, his grail. Owhata Chief duly did.

Calling John Dewey

Two days after the Kentucky Derby and about eight hours after Gary West went on the Today Show and further muddied the water, I found myself trying to explain Derby.

The Thrill of Victory

One thousand, one hundred and fifty eight miles. Door to door to door to door to door. Middleburg to Camden to Aiken to Queen’s Cup to Middleburg.

On the Road

Road trip – Middleburg to Camden to Aiken to Mineral Springs to Middleburg.

The Whip

Whips. We have come to the crossroads on whips. Sure, we should have been here long ago, but, alas, here we are now. Sadly and strangely, whips (and Lasix but that’s for another day) have been thrown in the mix with injuries and fatalities at Santa Anita. The California racetrack has a problem, that’s obvious. Why that has become a whip or Lasix issue is unfathomable. Breakdowns at Santa Anita have nothing to do with whips or Lasix.

In Search of the One

Grand National morning. Wake up and for a moment, just a moment, it’s a regular day. Then it hits you fast, the realization, the expectation, the impending, the dread and delight of the impending. It’s the biggest race of your life, the biggest day of your life. See, riding is your life. Sure, you have friends and family, lovers and haters, but, for you, it’s a singular quest. You are a jockey.

Long Lost Tracks

Miles and I went to a birthday party Saturday. Atomic Trampoline. In Leesburg. I'm not sure what they call it, perhaps, a Contrived Community...there are houses and houses, shops and shops, sprawl and sprawl. Interesting in a way, certainly convenient, but a long way from the Leesburg I remember. Miles enjoyed the party, the pizza was decent, ice cream organic and the cleanup was minimal. 

Welcome to England

The wind whips. The tea is strong. Wolverhampton replays on the telly. A jumper, an all-weather specialist and a couple of spring turf hopes canter past the window. A retired greyhound begs for a sausage. The butter sits on the counter. The bread, the milk, too. The door sways in the wind. The Aga warms the room. Racing Posts, a tweed jacket, Cheltenham hats wait in boxes on the table.

Real-life Superhero

“Where are you?”

“I don’t actually know.”