III. The Number After Infinity

The day at Chicagoland's Hawthorne Park was dark and cloudy until just after the eighth race when sunlight spread like a white wave across the track. Prim was always a fierce competitor; therefore he never mentioned the name of an opponent. He waited for the parade along with the other railbirds until the trumpet sounded the arrival from the paddocks. Though clothed in caps and goggles and silks of every colour with diamonds, stripes and checkered patterns, these masters of the reigns were no harlequins. All the barn entries had the inside post positions, but Prim liked horse and rider of number nine just fine. Ears perked, no leg wrappings, no blinders, no bucking and head unwavering, nine gazed straight forward in anticipation of victory. Lashes rising out above the goggles, nine' s rider appeared quite taller in the saddle than the rest and was outfitted in black silks with red diamonds. The competitors held their mounts at bay until both riders and horses sprang from the gates. All the anticipation passed in mere minutess and now rose to a crescendo. Prim cheered with the railbirds as they rounded the curve urged onward by whips into the stretch. Approaching the final length, manes flailing wildly in the wind, clouds of dust kicked up beneath their hooves. "The autumn leaves are slowly beginning to change." Only someone with keen powers of observation like Prim noticed that nine's hooves never touched the track. He narrowed his eyes as they approached the finish line, three of thirteen, neck and neck, nose by nose until . . . at exactly the last moment nine and rider blinked out and back into real time. They gently placed the lucky laural of roses over nine's strong, proud head and took the victory photograph. With such preternatural enchantment; throughout decades ahead, there were many more victories to come.