Racing Report
Cosmic Song broke third, moved up outside horses to take the lead at the eighth pole, but could not hold off Forest Sky, finishing second, beaten two lengths in a gritty performance. Her time was almost two seconds better than that of her winning maiden race. She’s improving and should benefit from the increased distance she will enjoy in her next races. We should get one more start, maybe around Christmas, before Calder closes and racing returns to Gulfstream Park in Hallandale. Gulfstream is a much more difficult meet, with horses coming in from all over the country to winter in Florida. Top trainers from New York, Kentucky, Chicago, etc., bring down their classics contenders for a star-studded series of stakes that will introduce the prime contenders for next year’s big races. Gulfstream’s allowance races are extremely difficult and many allowance horses drop into the high claiming ranks for this meet, a likely option for Cosmic Song. We also have the alternative of Tampa Bay Downs, which features easier racing along with smaller purses. And a much shorter drive for Bill and Siobhan. We’ll keep you posted, of course.
That Old Gang Of Mine
You’ve already met some of the old Subterranean Circus employees, like Irana, Jenny and Patty Wheeler. But return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear while we mention some of the others.
We have to start with Dick North, one of our three founders, with Pamme Brewer and me. Dick was a little guy from Boca, professorly glasses, black hair tied back in a ponytail, deeply into Eastern Religions. And pot. Dick was a leatherworker, made sandals, belts, etc., and sold them in the Circus. Later, he started working with brass, opened a shop nearby called the Apollonian Alternative and did well financially.
Dick did well with the ladies. He was one of those guys who always had a girlfriend who seemed above his station, but these women appreciated his intellect and his sense of humor, which was finely-honed. Ah, but those who make women the centerpieces of their lives often must pay the consequences. When Dick’s high-school senior inamorata, Honey (her real name), told him for the thousandth time that yes, she was still going to college in Atlanta, he put a pistol to his forehead while Honey, in panic, phoned her parents. They heard the gun go off, the telephone fall to the floor and nothing else, scrambling to their car, careening across town to Dick’s shop, not knowing who, if anyone, was shot. They arrived to find Honey distraught, Dick slumped to the floor dead, blood everywhere.
We arrived from across the street about the same time as the cops. I saw the gun, knew it had previously belonged to a friend named Greg Morton and had a hair trigger. We never knew whether Dick offed himself intentionally or if he was bluffing and accidentally pulled the trigger. RIP Dick North, comrade, major contributor and good friend.
While we’re speaking of guns, how can we not be reminded of the pistol-packing Sturm Brothers, Bob and Rick? Bob was my long-time store manager and Rick short-term counter help. Both of them carried, among other things, 45s, and they took them everywhere. In the store, they kept the guns on the shelf next to the extra boxes of cigarette rolling papers, ready for a quick response. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately in their eyes—nobody tried to rob us in the twenty years we were open. I guess word gets around.
Rod The Biker
Then there were the guys who didn’t need guns, like Rod Bottiglier (aka Rod The Biker). Rod came to us from Valdosta on his motorcycle, which was never more than a few feet away. He kept it in pristine condition, housing it in a step-van when not riding it. One day, Harolyn left her horse Odessa in the garage for a couple seconds while she went in the house for something. Odessa was unhappy being relegated to the garage and she broke out. The only vehicle available to chase Odessa was Rod’s van.
“C’mon, Rod, hurry up, we’ll never catch her going ten miles an hour,” urged Harolyn.
“Can’t go too fast,” griped Rod. “Can’t have the bike falling over.”
Odessa made it several miles across town to her stable before Rod could ever get to her.
Rod, despite being only about 5-9 (or maybe because of it) was a martial arts expert. But he didn’t talk about it much so the customers certainly didn’t know. Nonetheless, shoplifters, troublemakers and other ne’er-do-wells would never challenge him when apprehended or confronted, as if they somehow instinctively knew they would be crumpled.
Rod’s favorite store activity was standing out front with his arms crossed, waiting for illegal parkers. There was a breakfast restaurant named Down To Earth across the street (which Rod was sure was operated by lesbians, among his least favorite people). We needed our seven or so parking spaces, so Rod politely advised miscreants they must move. If, for some foolish reason, they did not, he would withdraw a large nail from his pocket and angle it into a tire, so that when the illicit parker backed up, the nail would penetrate.
“They just get a slow leak,” he said. “And they never know for sure where it happened. But they probably have a pretty good guess. And they probably don’t park here no more.”
Rod’s idea of the ideal job was short-distance truck-driver for Roadway. Fussy as they are, they finally hired him anyway and he was last seen heading north on the Interstate, hauling freight into the distance.
Siobhan
Next Monday, the 13th of December, will be Siobhan (pronounced cha-von) Ellison’s 58th birthday. She was born 12/13/52 in Ipswich, England and came to the United States five years later when her divorced mother, Mary, married Tom Floyd, an American serviceman. As happens with military personnel, they moved often, in Siobhan’s case to Idaho, Colorado, Arkansas, Maryland and Pennsylvania, settling in Florida when she was in 6th grade. In school, she was a pistol in Science. In 7th grade, she won a prize for creating a still from “common household items.”
Unlike most people, who have overly ambitious and/or muddled notions of their futures, Siobhan always knew she wanted to be a veterinarian. She attended the University of Florida, receiving her BS in 1974, an MS in 1975 and a DVM in 1983. Thanks to Vaunted Vamp’s great success on the racetrack ($420,000 career earnings), Siobhan was able to take some time off from work to return to UF for her PhD in 2001. She began her equine practice as an assistant to Dr. John Langlois in 1984, branching out on her own in 1987.
Siobhan earned her pilot’s license in 1977 and promptly bought herself a Piper Vagabond. A couple years later, while flying near Charleston, S.C., the engine failed and she crashed into an inland waterway, smashing her face and causing major damage to her teeth and lip. While many of us would then take our ball and go home, Siobhan, who is not like you and I, took the insurance money and went out and bought a Piper Cub. She would like you to know she did not crash this one, although she did develop the fearsome “cake bomb.”
Siobhan’s kindly mother often labored over gift pastries for her daughter, once taking three days to develop a wonderful Royal Cheesecake, which she presented to her prior to a return trip to Gainesville. On the way back, Siobhan hit an air pocket and the long-toiled-over pastry took flight.
When she got to Gainesville, mother called.
“And how did you like the cheesecake?” she asked.
“Smashing,” said Siobhan, who never ever lies. “It made quite an impact.”
While practicing with Dr. Langlois, Siobhan visited my farm in Orange Lake, in the company of Ted Specht, my regular vet and one of Langlois’ three partners. She promptly made known her disdain for my keeping alive a young mare who had run through a fence, damaging an elbow joint irreparably and reducing her to three useful legs. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I wondered, although she was probably right. In her future practice, Siobhan’s frankness sometimes alienated clients and lost her business, though, in most cases those clients would have been better off taking her advice.
Eventually, Ted Specht decided to return to school with the intention of becoming a surgeon. His replacement, a member of his partnership, turned out to be undependable and overbearing.
“I need somebody else,” I told him.
“Well, there’s Siobhan Ellison,” he said. “What she lacks in experience, she makes up for in ability and effort.”
Oh, her, I thought. Little Mary Sunshine. But I acquiesced, respecting Ted’s opinion. I figured at least she’d be on time. But she was better than I thought. At the time, I had fifteen mares. The national average for getting mares in foal is about 67%. Siobhan’s first year, we got 14 out of 15. The next year, all 15. She said she wanted a Special Dinner in Paris, or even Atlanta, but, alas, I was dating the redoubtable Betsy Harper, an A+ girlfriend, at the time. Eventually, though, Betsy moved to Miami, and, as you know, nature abhors a vacuum.
I called Siobhan one night while I was out watching mares, waiting for foals. It became obvious nobody was going to foal for hours, at least, so I needed to get some dinner.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Whatever you’ve got,” I told her.
And that was the beginning of an interesting relationship. When I was dating Betsy, we went out on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The other days Betsy called “dark days,” the designation racetrackers give to non-racing days at the track. Siobhan was not interested in navigating through dark days. We had to have a closer relationship. So, after much hemming and hawing, I sold my house in Gainesville and moved into her place in Fairfield in March of 1986. Which means, I know, that it’s almost Silver Anniversary time in 2011.
Surprisingly, after having many relationships with people who seemed more appropriate, I ended up with a cautious, critical woman who thinks spontaneity is a dubious practice. That said, she is a paragon of honesty, reliability and support. Now, I don’t mean frivolous support. Siobhan is the sort of person who, if you won the Nobel Prize, might give you a slight pat on the back and mutter “Good job”, while other girlfriends might fete you at the Waldorf-Astoria. But Siobhan will be there goading you into scheduling cardiac catheterization when you don’t think you’re having a heart attack. Or pushing you to visit your mother before, rather than after, her funeral. Or reminding you of the upside possibilities when your spirits are low.
She is also a trouper. When we went to hike Half-Dome in Yosemite, I had the advantage of several years of gym workouts to prepare for the 16 mile uphill ordeal. She accomplished it with the aid of mere Tylenol.
And you know how old men feel about girls with very small waists.
“So when did you decide you might like me?” she wanted to know.
Well, one day on my farm, we were walking toward one of the paddocks to give shots. Siobhan, who kept her hair in a long braid, presumably for efficiency purposes, reached up, took off her hairband, shook her head and let loose a great mane of blond persuasion in the face of a poor, defenseless sucker for long hair. Oops, I thought.
“Then,” I said.
