Hovdey: American Pharoah and the art of Zen

There is a perception, and rightfully earned, that American Pharoah never gets a moment’s peace, except maybe when he is in the air going from one coast to the other. And we all know how restful air travel can be.

When on the ground, the impression lingers that American Pharoah is always in some form of demand beyond his daily training routine. He has posed for magazine spreads and entertained politicians. There are the stall-door photo ops, the celebrity strolls around the walking ring, the on-camera appearances to nuzzle news talent and pose for a mainstream television audience.

When American Pharoah travels, he becomes a one-horse Mecca. Pilgrims gather to press as close as possible, if only to catch a fleeting glimpse of their four-legged shrine. He is, without fear of contradiction, the most publicly recognizable member of the animal kingdom since the Energizer bunny or the Taco Bell chihuahua. Yo quiero American Pharoah? Everybody quieros American Pharoah.

That is why it was so surprising, and very reassuring, to find the Triple Crown champion alone with his thoughts and his jet lag last Monday afternoon at Del Mar. He had begun the day on Eastern Daylight Time at Saratoga, vanned to Albany International Airport, flew to Lexington, continued on to Ontario International Airport near Santa Anita, then vanned home to Del Mar, arriving at around 2:30 p.m. Pacific to his usual effervescent welcoming committee led by the Ahmed Zayat family. Stall door to stall door, it was about 12 hours.

Now, two hours later, he was alone, deep in the darkness of stall 35, looking outward to the storage alcove across the shed row with its bales of alfalfa, buckets, leg paints, and sundry equipment. The only sounds, save an occasional chirp from a backstretch bird, came from the steady thrum of a floor fan hung from the shed-row roof beams and the occasional stirrings of his stablemates, Bayern and Dortmund, in nearby stalls.

American Pharoah had made a small mess on the ground of his hay from a hayrack hung waist-high to the right of his stall door, not far from the colt’s “Triple Crown winner” halter and the barn’s “alarma del fuego” installed on the adjacent wall. This visitor knew enough to make himself unobtrusive at the back of the alcove, doing his best imitation of a bag of grain, so that American Pharoah could enjoy his “me” time without the fuss of undue attention.

A couple of minutes later, he took a turn and began to sway, then knelt facing outward in the deep straw bedding. The descent of a horse can be an unnerving sight for the uninitiated. They appear to go clumsily from a proud, handsome creature of flight to an awkward lump of horse hair, all body and no legs. But at this movement American Pharoah was as liquid as Fred Astaire on roller skates. Is there anything this horse does that isn’t pretty?

Even the Travers was a graceful exercise, no matter the outcome. American Pharoah broke like a bullet, rated through an opening quarter, answered the challenge of Frosted from the half to deep in the stretch, turned him back, and then only lost by three-quarters of a length to an opponent he never saw until the final few yards.

The endless deconstruction of the race laid blame at everything from international fractions to lane bias to American Pharoah’s failure to pack his ‘A’ game along with the rest of his travel gear. Make no mistake, though: The colt left Del Mar ready to run his race, but only one race. Perhaps the long haul to upstate New York dulled his edge. Or maybe it was the race-like atmosphere of the Friday morning exhibition at Saratoga, during which American Pharoah’s final pre-Travers gallop was turned into an outsized public spectacle.

Whatever the answer, American Pharoah wasn’t talking, but he was up again with a shake and a turn and then a peek over the webbing to check outside. A baby had started to cry from a tack room around the corner in another trainer’s shed row. Next door, Bayern snorted out a piece of hay tickling his nose. American Pharoah shifted to the side wall and planted his head in the corner for a few minutes of equine meditation. The baby stopped crying.

It is useless to mention how all outstanding horses are beaten eventually, and how such iconic exceptions as Personal Ensign and Black Caviar only serve to prove the relentless enforcement of the rule. Those fans who have lived through Cigar losing to Dare and Go, or Zenyatta losing to Blame, or Affirmed hounded into his Travers disqualification the last time a Triple Crown winner came to town all know the score. It’s tough. It hurts. And it is only a big deal for as long as it takes to cool them out and bed them down, safe and sound.

American Pharoah was peckish now, digging into his hayrack like a kid discovering popcorn in a sock drawer. He’d grab a mouthful of alfalfa, then duck inside for a drink of water. Mouthful, drink. Alfalfa, water. Back and forth for seven or eight minutes until he’d had his temporary fill, at which point he returned to the center of his stall, back from the webbing, to plan his next move.

The announcement has come from Zayat and Baffert that American Pharoah will be pointed for the Breeders’ Cup Classic at Keeneland on Halloween. We will all dress accordingly.

In the meantime, he has a public appearance scheduled for Del Mar on Sunday afternoon, similar to an appearance Baffert turned down earlier in the summer while the colt was training for the Travers. This will be the ceremonial American Pharoah, under no pressure to do anything but pose. The most photographed horse in history will be photographed some more.

But now, back at the barn, American Pharoah pawed at the straw, turned and was down again, this time clearly with intent to sleep. Next door, Bayern gave a snort. A car drove past blaring music. American Pharoah’s head grew heavy, his eyelids slowly lowered, and he receded into the shadows, a dark horse in a darkened stall. For a moment, he looked like any other horse in any other stall at any other track. But only for a moment.