There are, indeed, heart stopping and heart breaking moments. When neither competitor Laine Ashkar or her horse Frodo Baggins got up after a crashing wreck,  everyone on the grounds knew the outcome for one, the other, or potentially both, would not be great. Frodo was euthanized that evening with an irreparable skull fracture. Last night at dinner we talked about the underlying tragedy of the sport—the riders, like Darren Chiacchia, who’s recovering from what may still be a life-changing injury, and Laine Ashkar, who’s condition is critical but stable—the extent of her injuries aren’t yet known, or at least not being told. The thing that gets us all, though, out here on the bluegrass hills of mares and foals and endless fences, the fantasy farms of my girlhood rolling out along every road, what really hurts are the horses that are lost because of a split second. The horses don’t make the choice to become a Rolex Kentucky (or Red Hills, or Badminton, or insert competition name here______) horse. He has a big heart (science proves it) that pumps his legs out of front of him (a cross country horse of this caliber eats the ground) and a mind so brave and freakishly fearless and most of all, a trust in his human that he’ll jump over an obstacle without being able to see the landing. Would you do that?

The riders make the choice for him. I’m bothered by that choice when a horse dies. I have always dreamed of coming here and I’m lucky enough to have done so—every horse lover should see these world class athletes at least once in their lives. I can see clearly the look on the face of each horse after navigating the Sunken Road, or the Head of the Lake, or the Duck Marsh—obstacles so complicated and famous that crowds gather early in the morning to catch the best spot on the grass. Their eyes are hooded a bit in concentration. Their ears zero in on each step. They look, well, supernatural.  The riders come few and far between—five to seven minutes if all goes on plan—for a 15 second pass by of hooves and breathing and a moment or two when everyone inhales and does not exhale until the rider is safe and away and there’s a cheer.

It is a cheer of relief; a cheer of admiration for the rider and a cheer of great love for the horse. After the event ended, I was homesick for my own, non-world class horses. I missed their salt smell and the green stains of their affection (or nagging) on my arms and shoulders. Losing Frodo made me want to find a horse, any horse, to hug. So the species knows we love them and that those that perish did so doing (to use a terrible cliché) what they loved to do. When I get home, I’ll head straight to the barn from the airport, and give my guys lots of treats.