(7 of 10)
8 a.m. Old Les Murray waddles into Stall 6, trustfully sits on the straw directly beneath Native Dancer and begins wrapping training bandages around both fore ankles. Bill Winfrey, standing by and sipping coffee, does not intend to work the Dancer hard but merely to "blow him out"—let him run to clear his lungs and get his system unkinked for the afternoon's business. Bernie Everson, the Dancer's regular exercise boy, mounts and, with Winfrey in the lead on a palomino pony, walks the Dancer slowly out to the big track. From the stands, the dockers can see a quarter of a mile away that the Big Grey is out for a gallop. Another Vanderbilt horse, Find, jogs ahead and then breaks into a gallop. Everson follows with the Big Grey. "I got the Dancer," cries one of the dockers, flicking the stem of his stopwatch. Effortlessly, the big legs stretch out, and the long grey frame glides past the white and gilt distance poles. Twenty-four seconds later the Dancer coasts past the finish line, a nose ahead of Find and snorting only slightly from a brisk but hardly demanding ¼ mile.
8:10 a.m. Back in the barn, Les Murray takes over again, to "do" his horse.
Though given to rough playfulness that can easily hurt a man (he once blacked Winfrey's eye merely by lifting a knee while the trainer was inspecting his ankle), the Dancer stands stone calm as the groom sponges off the sleek grey hide and gives the legs a liniment wash. "He knows me lak' a book," says Murray. "An' I knows him. We gets along." Mutters a visitor: "That guy sure has faith in that grey horse." Now almost finished, Murray takes hold of the dark grey tail and pulls his 200-plus pounds to his feet. "That's how I stand up," Murray laughs. The Dancer hardly moves a muscle.
9:25 a.m. The official veterinarian arrives to make sure the grey horse's lip tattoo matches the one listed for Native Dancer (F6888), takes his temperature (99.4) and pulse (34).
9:50 a.m. The track blacksmith examines the Dancer's aluminum racing shoes (size 6, next to largest), replaces a few questionable nails.
10:30 a.m. The Dancer whickers. "When he's talkin' like that, he wants his food," says Murray. Two quarts of oats go into the cerise and white feed bucket. The Dancer is a "good doer," i.e., a copious eater—about ten quarts of grain and extras a day. As the horse eats, Murray begins to whistle. "This is how I make him make water," he explains.
11 a.m. The Dancer goes to sleep. For four hours, he snoozes in his stall, standing head to corner, his rear legs slightly crossed. "He can tell every time when it's a race day," says Winfrey, "but it doesn't bother him a bit. He's the coolest horse I've ever seen."
3 p.m. Murray carefully braids the horse's mane and tail, "jes' for looks." From the track comes the faint sound of bugles, announcing that the horses for the fifth race are moving onto the track. The paddock is ready for the horses for the sixth, the Metropolitan. "And away we go!" says Trainer Winfrey. Encased in a pair of light blankets, led by Everson on a lead pony, the Dancer walks coolly through the shade to the paddock.