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2^nd week in October

This time last year when I flew to Philadelphia to retrace Barbaro’s racehorse career, I was in hot water. Problem: the training center was in Maryland; my hotel was in Pennsylvania; the race track where Barbaro ran his first race was in Delaware! My lands! How was I going to get to all these places?

I’m not smart enough to rent a car and drive in a strange city—much less get from state to state.

The hotel came to my rescue. They recommended a “car service.”

I rode down the airport escalator carrying it to meet a man slicked up in a suit, smelling of cologne, holding up cardboard with my name on it. He led me to a black Lincoln limousine with dark tinted windows. I felt like I was in a scene in the Sopranos.

Much of the day I retraced Barbaro’s experiences at Fair Hill training center. Because his half brother, Man of Havana, was in Barbaro’s old stall, I sat in front of it for at least an hour observing “Man.” He has a family resemblance and was most accommodating. He’s a people horse—eager to sniff, lick, nibble and twit in place. He never once asked why I arrived in a limousine or why I was wearing such a crazy-looking hat.

Barbaro’s spirit was palpable all around.

Essay for the week:

Pants.

Last week I went to the cleaners to drop off my black target pants. They’re the ones, you know, that tell you if your diet is working. If you can get in them, it’s like stepping on the scale and—bingo!—you see the number you’ve been aiming for.

The woman behind the counter there is named Janelle. Over the last year, she and I have become friends. So I told Janelle that if I could get into those pants by the following Friday, I was going to wear them to a local high school where I’d been asked to talk about the value of reading. “Sure,” Janelle said, “no problem.”

On the next Wednesday, I picked up the pants and hung them in my closet. Then on Friday, I pulled them on. When I reached down to put my hands in my pockets, the loose fabric flapped around me like a wrapper on a half-eaten salami.

My new diet was working! For months I had tried all the other: low carb, high fat, no fat, sew your lips shut, stay away from any label that says “food,” then fast until you find yourself feeding the dog and licking the spoon.

I’d failed at every one of those. So I got the idea of eating only what you like most but in small quantities. So for a week, I’d been having brownies and milk three times a day.

And lo and behold—it was working! I threaded a belt through the loops of my pants, hitched them up and drove to the high school. I talked to the kids about the value of reading not just because it feeds your soul but because it can affect your body. I promised that soon I’d have out a diet book for them to read.

When I was finished, I answered the teachers’ questions. Yes indeed, I HAD lost an impressive amount of weight. And YES, I’d be happy to give them my successful diet. I even took orders for my brownie recipe.

Back home, when I walked in the door, the phone was ringing. It was Janelle. “Those are not your pants,” she said, “those are Mr. Tolliver’s pants, and I got them mixed up.”

Now here comes the really ugly part. I asked Janelle for Mr. Tolliver’s phone number, and I called him. “I’ll give you $50 for your pants,” I said.

“You’re darn tootin’,” he replied. “I hate those pants. I’ll even pay you $10 to keep ‘em.”

It turns out I was wearing Mr. Tolliver’s target pants, which he hadn’t been able to get into for more than a year.

So far, I’ve appeared in public six times wearing them.

But since he couldn’t use mine, I paid him $20 to keep them.

Apparently, dressing for success takes some wheeling and dealing.