On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound
I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
After nine days I let the horse run free
Cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with it's life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
“For anybody who loves horses, and for all of those who are thrilled by
horse racing and the behind-the-scenes drama of the track, The Horse That God Built is must reading."
--Michael Korda, author of Horse People
Secretariat A Moment of Eternity
Secretariat tribute - The Chronicle of the Horse
Most of us know the legend of Secretariat, the tall,
handsome chestnut racehorse whose string of honors runs long and rich:
the only two-year-old ever to win Horse of the Year, in 1972; winner in
1973 of the Triple Crown, his times in all three races still
unsurpassed; featured on the cover of Time, Newsweek, and Sports Illustrated;
the only horse listed on ESPN’s top fifty athletes of the twentieth
century (ahead of Mickey Mantle). His final race at Toronto’s Woodbine
Racetrack is a touchstone memory for horse lovers everywhere. Yet while
Secretariat will be remembered forever, one man, Eddie “Shorty” Sweat,
who was pivotal to the great horse’s success, has been all but
forgotten---until now.
In The Horse God Built,
bestselling equestrian writer Lawrence Scanlan has written a tribute to
an exceptional man that is also a backroads journey to a corner of the
racing world rarely visited. As a young black man growing up in South
Carolina, Eddie Sweat struggled at several occupations before settling
on the job he was born for---groom to North America’s finest racehorses.
As Secretariat’s groom, loyal friend, and protector, Eddie understood
the horse far better than anyone else. A wildly generous man who could
read a horse with his eyes, he shared in little of the financial success
or glamour of Secretariat’s wins on the track, but won the heart of Big
Red with his soft words and relentless devotion.
In
Scanlan’s rich narrative, we get a groom’s-eye view of the racing world
and the vantage of a man who spent every possible moment with the horse
he loved, yet who often basked in the horse’s glory from the sidelines.
More than anything else, The Horse God Built is a moving portrait of the powerful bond between human and horse.
Secretariat (March 30, 1970 – October 4, 1989) was an American Thoroughbred racehorse that in 1973 became the first U.S. Triple Crown winner in 25 years. He set race records in all three events in the series – the Kentucky Derby (1:59 2/5), the Preakness Stakes (1:53), and the Belmont Stakes (2:24) – records that still stand today
'And he looks at me, with eyes wiser than his years. He cannot tell me
what his mind is saying, so instead he uses his powerful body to
communicate. Sometimes his eyes alone can show the meaning behind his
actions and other times just they way he carries himself tells me how he
feels. There is no truer friend then him, for he knows me inside and
out. When I sit astride him he listens to what my body tells him; not
because he has to, but because he WANTS to. You cannot trap his spirit
or be his master, for his soul alone is purer, his body, rippled with
muscle, more powerful, his heart more forgiving than your own. He is an
Angel without wings, his forelock and mane, his halo. He is more
courageous, more loving, more trusting, more powerful, than any other
being in this world - and yet so gentle as to let me join him on his
Journey. He is my best friend, who tells no one of my secrets, who
rejoices in my joys, shares in my sorrows, and his neck is always there
to wrap around me in a caress. A caress that gives me everything I've
ever needed: Warmth, security, hope, strength, and reassurance. I cannot
break his spirit, nor would I ever want to. I cannot be his Master;
only his Partner. When I do wrong, he does not judge me. When I cry, he
comforts me. When I laugh, he prances around with his head held high and
his tail streaming behind like silk. It is not I who teach him, it is
he who teaches me. He does not need to talk for me to listen, I
understand him in a way I'll never understand even myself. And he knows
me, more than anyone that walks this earth. And he accepts me, for
everything I am.. and everything I am not....'
Tabla Buţii is a "pass" - an alpine passage at the height of 1340m, in the Curvature Carpathians.
The link through this thoroughfare was always made between the Southern Carpathians towards Muntenia and the interior bend of the Carpathians's curvature to the North - West through Ţara Bârsei with Transylvania.
This pathway is easily accessible thanks to the landscape - not very hilly, being the shortest way between Transylvania towards the Occident and the Danube's exits to the Black Sea, towards Levant.
Tabla Buţii spot is the summit, the peak between the Valley of the Teleajen that rises from Muntenia and the origins of Buzău in the Ciucaş Massif towards Transylvania.
The name of Tabla Buţii comes from the printed "tables" - applied in the past on the barrells filled with merchandise during customs, because there was a custom between Ţara Românească and Transylvania.
