7:15 a.m., Oklahoma training track.  Picture perfect:  the sun has burned away the early morning fog; the predicted 90 degree heat has yet to descend.

As usual, I [inadvertently] time my arrival to coincide with the break, so there’s time to chat before training resumes.  Some of these folks have been here since 5:30, to watch Rachel Alexandra work out; at that hour, I was playing feline peace mediator.  The blending of the upstate and downstate feline families is less than 24 hours old, and soothing ruffled feline feathers took precedence over watching an equine superstar.

Jockeys have come up from downstate to work horses—“Gotta remind the trainers that you’re here,” says one well-known jock.  Trainers and assistants are jovial—because it’s not too crowded yet?  Because they’re glad to be here?  The jokes fly along the rail.

Ice Box on the outside

Zito and Mott and Pletcher and Asmussen are all sending horses out; groups of two-year-olds train together, and Ice Box, Florida Derby winner and Belmont Kentucky Derby runner-up, works in company.  A jockey asks a photographer to take a picture of a horse coming down the lane; she obliges, then asks, “Who was that?”  He answers, “My Girlfriend Sylvia.”  We think that he’s talking about the horse, and we file the name away.  Turns out, he was talking about the rider.  (The name has been changed to protect the innocent…)

I wander across the street, where workers of all sorts are getting the Spa ready for her 2010 début.  New buildings are going up; machines are being tended to; furniture is stacked, ready to be distributed across the grounds.  And because it’s quiet, I notice things I’ve never seen.  We all should be as lucky at “Bijou” Cox.

The grounds look lush, despite the heat and lack of rain, although the grass in the backyard is not quite as emerald and full as it usually is.  Trees in full summer raiment offer cool promises; the morning is moving from 60 to 90 much, much too fast.

Coming home to Saratoga to work for the summer is different from coming home as a fan:  working means a schedule, and obligations (and yes, more pleasantly, a paycheck).  But the moment that I step inside the gates, I remember, fully, exactly, how much I love this place.  Its beauty and its history engulf me, and I revel in thinking how lucky, how incredibly lucky, I am that this place, the old Spa, is my summer job.

We’re going for 40 days this summer, 40 days of two-year-olds and stakes races and friends and fun and writing and late nights and early alarms.  And yes, of course, of New York-breds and claimers and turf sprints and heat and crowds and maybe even what feels at times like racing saturation.

But we’ve got only 40 days of it, only 40 days.  It’s 11 days away, and I can’t wait.  40 days?  Bring ‘em on.

As always, you can click on the photos to enlarge them.