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Anake Wolmerans tensed as she entered
the arena at the Phoenix show grounds. She was the last competitor
in the jump-off round at the Open Grand Prix. They were down to a
field of five, two of whom had jumped penalty-free over the short,
difficult course.
Her spectacular performance at
Calgary’s Spruce Meadows the week before had suddenly made her
favored to win. It bolstered her hope of being selected for the
United States Olympic Three Day Event team.
She was the only rider on a homegrown
horse, which she bred by crossing her Polish Arab with a magnificent
Friesian stallion. The rest of the field was dominated by
professionally raised and trained European Warmbloods. At that
moment, she felt certain that riding Élan gave her an emotional
edge.
To win, she had to jump clean in a
course time of less than eighty nine point three seconds.
There had been complaints about the
NATO fighter squadrons, training out of nearby Luke Air Force Base,
making disturbing noises.
Now, all was silent as Anake began her
round, talking encouragingly to Élan. She knew him down to every
muscle, and immediately sensed his high level of energy. She held
him back, carefully steadying him before entering the course and
then released him as they triggered the timing system.
He accelerated instantly and easily
cleared the first five-foot triple fence. As he landed, she turned
him tightly to enter the second gate in four rather than five paces.
For a moment, it seemed too tight as they approached the next
double-fence, which was only three feet wide, set five feet apart.
But Élan seemed at ease and took off, handsomely clearing both
fences to an audible sigh of relief from the audience.
A sharp, right turn took them to a
gold and white wall of balustrade pillars, topped with viaduct-like
cutouts, set close to the five-foot mark. Élan stepped slightly
short and cleared the jump uncomfortably close with his rear hoofs
almost touching. The crowd sat in suspended silence as Anake
steered Élan through a long turn to enter a row of three jumps.
She steadied him slightly before
spurring him on to clear the first, single, five-foot fence,
suspended between two Budweiser bottle standards. In the next
twenty-four foot space, she positioned him again and they sailed
majestically over the five-foot, candy-striped, square oxer. They
rapidly covered the thirty-seven feet to the last five-foot oxer and
gracefully cleared it.
Elated, she spurred him on to the
final daunting six-foot wall. As the time display clicked off the
eightieth second, the audience fell breathlessly silent. Élan was
perfectly positioned, gathering a full blast of energy for the high
leap racing toward them.
Suddenly, a thunderous boom shook the
ground. In spite of his momentum, Élan instinctively tried to rear,
and twisting into the air, they came crashing into the wall. Square
blocks went flying in all directions, the audience gasping audibly,
before jumping to their feet to see a stunned Élan scrambling to his
feet and turning quickly to stand, head down, hovering over Anake’s
motionless body. In the eerie silence, he let out a resonant, low
whimper.
* * *
Charged with adrenaline, André, flew
over the guardrail, and stormed across the arena to where his
student lay below the anxious stare of her noble horse.
As he fell to his knees, the flow of
blood from the back of her head caught his eye, and he called out
frantically to summon medical help. Her helmet had crumpled. It
looked to him as if it had pierced her skull. “Oh my God” he let
out audibly, praying desperately for her survival. He took the
reins dangling from Élan and bent forward to feel her pulse. Softly
calling her name, he could see that she was unconscious, but her
pulse was strong.
He stood up to make room for the
paramedics. The horse backed away muzzling him, and sought succor
by whimpering in a rich baritone grunt.
With great care, the paramedics moved
her onto a stretcher, secured her, and slid the stretcher into the
ambulance.
“Where are you taking her?” André
asked.
“Who are you?
“I’m her trainer. I know everything
about her.”
“OK then, will you ride with us?”
“First, I have to take care of this
horse. Where will I find her?”
“Saint Joseph’s Hospital Emergency
Ward.”
“Thanks, and pray to God that mercy
goes with you.”
Oblivious to the loud, spontaneous
applause of the crowd, André walked Élan around the arena to the
exit and once he was certain he’d not been injured, gently settled
him in his stall. Deeply worried about her head wound, and
murmuring hopes for her survival, he hurried off to the hospital.
He knew so little about her
background. As her trainer, he never pried. Her father was alive.
She had a son. He didn’t know how to reach them. He couldn’t
leave important medical decisions to the hospital bureaucrats. She
had been married once. If pushes came to shoves, he decided to act
as her husband.
They kept him waiting in the lobby of
the emergency ward. His mind wandered through the experience of
working with someone as tenacious and talented as Anake. In his
experience, the way she communicated with her horse was
unprecedented. Élan was as close to her as her own offspring. They
could immediately sense if something went wrong with each other.
When she was on his back, they moved as one. She was a brave woman
on a highly talented horse. As a team, they seemed invincible. How
else could one explain a rider winning top honors in dressage, show
jumping, and cross-country racing, all on the back of the same
horse? Certainly, they’d been the most remarkable pair he’d ever
trained.
He felt a tinge of remorse thinking
about the times he’d lost his temper with her. She hadn’t
complained and simply tried harder.
“Mister Brink,” a female voice brought
him back to reality, “you may now go in to see the neurologist.
Doctor Pritchard is his name. Follow me, please.”
Dr. Pritchard looked up.
“They tell me you’re her trainer. I
sense you’re essentially her manager. She’s in serious condition.
The fall crushed her hard-hat and a shard of titanium entered the
rear of her skull. She’s still unconscious. We have to perform
surgery immediately to remove any foreign material that could have
got into the wound in her brain. We’ll then have a better idea of
any damage she may have suffered.”
“Will she survive?”
“Yes, her vital signs are strong and
stable. If I had to guess, I’d say her eyesight may be impaired.”
“You’re being forthright and honest.
Her great ambition is to represent the United States at the next
Olympiad. You can imagine what screwed up vision will do to her
psyche! You just have to pull all the stops you can to save as much
of her sight as humanly possible.”
“To make the Olympic Team may take
super-human effort. How’s your relationship with her?”
“We’re professionally close—colleagues
with a common goal.”
“You’re kidding me! I saw you on
TV...the look on your face...the way you came running! Leave your
cell phone number with the desk. I’ll need you here after she’s
conscious.”
“When will that be?”
“I want to do a cat scan first...say,
about three hours.”
“Thanks for staying focused, doc.”
“Don’t mention it. She’s something
special. Take care of that horse.”
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