He flies over jumps with ease and shies away from nothing. As he soars down the racetrack, he eats up the ground; his hoofs gliding over the mud. At the end, prances with glee as if hot ashes were beneath his mighty silver hoofs, knowing he has done well. His tail and mane like burning fire, but as he rears, his tail cracks like a whip and his mane flows like a tattered flag. His golden chestnut eyes always focused on the obstacle between him and success. His black coat glistens in the sun as he stands proud and tall. He is stern, but gentle, relaxed, but focused.

As he sits in the box now, waiting for the gun to strike his ears like a clock at 12, he fears failure. Even though no trace of fear could be found in his eyes. He counts slowly,

“One, two, three”
Ready, set, go.