One of the most amazing pleasures of being a "bonafide horseman" is your access to the awesome world of the "backside." In this maze of barns and shedrows, of strange equipment and strawpiles, there exists a magical admixture of scents, sights and characters quite unlike any other in Creation. The time to be there is early morning. The world of the "backside" begins to come alive in the silent hours before dawn. The workday is nearing its end before noon - and by the time the outside world is locked into the hubbub of traffic and nightlife, the thoroughbreds and their legion of caretakers are already retired into the shadows and bedding down.

For some trainers and their barns, "morning" begins as early as 3:30, with the smell of brewing coffee, the thuds and snorts of stirring horses, and the sight of sleepy grooms starting about their work by the light of dim, bare bulbs. By 5:30, the backside has become a beehive of activity. The shadowless morning is permeated by the smells of sweet hay and soapsuds. The air swarms with commentary in accents from every corner of the Western world - from the fens of Scotland and the wilds of Australia to the mountains of Guatemala. And everywhere, there are animals...not only the thoroughbreds themselves, but trainers´ and owners´ dogs, the barn cats, chickens, an occasional goat - and ever-present sparrows busying themselves in the rafters, the dirt, the eaves.

Horses who will race that day are being walked, bathed, and examined by the State vet. Some are given pre-race Lasix and placed in isolation stalls. Most have muzzles to keep them from eating, to keep them "light" for the race; some stand up to their knees in plastic buckets of ice.

Meanwhile, the other horses in the barn are being moved out, one and two at a time, to join the steady stream of other thoroughbreds from other barns headed to the track for morning works. Every animal wakes in its own mood; some move out dragging their feet or with their heads hanging, half-asleep, while others are ready from the moment their stall door opens. But as the horses near the track, everything changes. Heads go up; ears move to catch every sound, some steeds prance and snort and arch their necks in anticipation. At this hour, when everything is possible, these scores of racehorses look exactly like what they are: forty generations of breeding, millions of dollars on the hoof, and every one born to run.