By Natalie Keller Reinert

I’m beating her as we round the corner into the homestretch, laying my whip into her flank from high above my head, slap-slap-slap on her glossless hide. The rail is whizzing by close to my left foot, just at the height of my toe in the stirrup, and I’m dizzy with fear that my boot will rub on that hard metal rail and throw off my tenuous balance, losing what little grip I have on the little exercise saddle, or that the screech and vibration will send the horse spooking into the center of the racetrack, shaking me loose, into the dirt.