Gypsy Hills was a racehorse but he didn't know it. Just a sweet eight or nine year old chestnut gelding with a lump of scar tissue on the bottom of his white front right hoof where the spike went in. Horribly injured as a baby he hadn't seen the race track when my dad brought him to the ranch as part of some horse deal. The other horses liked him alright as long as he ate last when they ate together. Too lean as he was, he didn't seem to mind or was at least willing to tolerate his station within the herd.

My dad always had a thing about getting an underdog to come through. Well, he had a new underdog and a job to do.

Personally I never thought the horse could skatter his own shit. It's not that I didn't like him, he was sweet, kind, gentle, easy to ride. But he didn't have the attitude that said, "I love to run and I will get to the front or die trying". The spirit of a race horse is worthy of worship; it's as god like as love.

Gypsy turned eleven in 1976. Dad hadn't given up on him, thought he was "coming around". He was still lean but, he had gained three hundred pounds and he was fit. Still ate last when the horses ate together but he was an undisputed member of the band. I still didn't think he would ever see a finish line first. But dad was right he was well bred the son of Hillsdale.

It would have been late August when we hit the bush meet in Salinas CA. A big time Rodeo with four horse races a day mixed in some how between rodeo events for four days. Lots of interesting people to meet lots of interesting stories hear. Some I might not have heard if people had known I was only seventeen. Just for the sake of selfish reminiscence I'm going to tell you of some of those people and hint at some of their stories. Now you gotta remember that this is the story of Gypsy Hills. I'm not going off on this tangent to stop a war or even to change the world. It's all blissful and tragic indulgence. Come with me, smell the smells and meet the people.

The smell of the backside in the bushes is about the same as the smell of the backside of any race track. Horse shit, horseflesh, liniment and soaped leather an exotic mix that still moves me to the core. The cast of characters is even about the same, a little more gritty, every body knows the smell of money. A few pretend high rollers but nobodys been pretending long enough to forget the smell of money. We always had a racing secretary to arrange facilitate and fill races. Racing officials to make sure everything was fair and square and discuss what they didn't see. There was never more than one camera and that was at the finish line. Drugging horses was a fact of life. It was like smoking a joint, do it but don't get caught. Dad and I were straight. Well, dad and the horses were. I smoked a little pot. Sometimes while I slept with them on guard duty.

Now I'm not suggesting that there wasn't honor among race trackers, there was. Deep friendships were made. Certain evils met severe consequences.

In Nevada there was the state racing commission, Stanley Wells. I never saw him change the order of finish but, when your peers were done with you Stanley Wells would walk into the jockey room. A six foot four inch cowboy, gregarious on most occasions, created severe silent tension in a jockey room. He seemed to savor the silence before he grabbed you by the throat and turned red with words and rage.

There was Joe V who was the master packer. Packed his machine in his mouth. An electric gadget that gets a lot of run out of some horses. The size of a nine volt battery, otherwise known as a battery. I only used one once. Horse jumped right into the rail on his way to take off. Now a real race horse doesn't need electricity or drugs it just wants a bit in it's mouth and room to run.

There was Al H. Al was about sixty. Rode old school forties fifties style with the long irons. Never saw him ride a race without a stogie in his chops. He could ride a horse with the best of them probably did. Never asked him why he wasn't, he probably wouldn't have enjoyed telling me. He and I got rounded up by some country radio station one day. I was winning all the races. Too young to be a jockey, too young to already be too heavy. Al was the charismatic character with the stogie. I thought I was being interrogated, went blind and mute. Al had a good time talking about young women, old whiskey and fast horses.

If I had run with a little different crowd I would have met Jake Y long before Burning Man in 1999. Jake was standing there on the other side of the fire in a long pink country girl satin nighty. A great and interesting character, destiny demanded we talk. He mentioned he used to ride bulls. I said, "then you knew Bobby K". "Oh yea, five time Bull riding champion of the world". We shared a couple beers and reminisced about where we had been what we had done the people we shared. The last time he saw my friend Eddie J, another too young and already too heavy jockey, they spent the night in jail together. Jake has himself a ranch in Nevada where he raises Quarter Horses and Long horn cattle. He invited me up anytime, come hang out. But he's hard to get a hold of, no phone and an address care of a small saloon in a small town in Nevada.

Like me Jake, probably most of us, probably learned to drink young to calm the demons of passion that we rode to the edge of sanity. If my compadras are much like me they have done time drinking toasts to the mundane. Drinking to be normal in an anticlimactic world.

Within the week of meeting Jake my father said to me, from the other side of life, "son I don't want you to end up like Jake". I said "thanks dad, I hear ya". If a demon is something that takes you beyond your normal placid state of experience then the demons of passion and intensity became deaf mutes and probably terrified in the pressence of my dad. They were like dirt, something to walk on. He was beyond them, he had an unbearable dream that drove him on.

I told you to remember but you probably forgot, this is the story of Gypsy Hills. The smell of horseshit, horse flesh, liniment and soaped leather. In Salinas the smell was tainted by all the Eucalyptus trees.

Dad entered Gypsy in a five furlong race, they were all five furlongs except the mile race on the last day. Jim the racing secretary called my dad aside and told him that his daughter had a pet name for a horse and it would really make her happy if it were in a race. Dad said, "sure". And that's how Gypsy Hills became Wimpies Pride.

Came out of the gate a little slow. Achieved last place pretty fast. Hit the last turn ahead of one horse. A freaked out scared S. O. B. on the inside of us. I knew he was going to blow the turn. I took Gypsy up a little so he wouldn't take us with him. The other horse saw it as an opportunity and went to the outside rail. Gypsy jumped his back legs on his way by and took the sweetest line into the turn. No major mishap we were cruising. Last among the contenders but running well. Around the turn into the backstretch over the hardpan of the access road to the the infield that no horse seemed to miss completely. No major dirt clods, on the inside or between horses. The track at Salinas threw up the hardest nastiest clods I've ever seen. Cause the soft tissue around your mouth to swell and your nose to bleed.

Gypsy was taking the bit something I had never felt him do. Unexpected but very pleasant like a woman saying yes to a dance with a warm and real smile. We were seventh, passed the straggler of the field, middle of the backstretch on the inside. Gypsy was running good, closing but we were still sixth. The leader was pulling away. Four horses in front of us were bunching up, we were still closing.

Going into the last turn there was the leader in front by two lengths and two sets of two bunching up, we were still closing. Just into the turn two horses went to the outside of two horses abreast creating the ultimate scene on a half mile race track, four horses abreast in the last turn. It was cool we were closing, I mean really closing, they got out of our way, gave us room to run. We took the fastest track, a horse and a half off the rail. Gypsy was running like a race horse,and even after what I've said about the spirit of a race horse I would call that an under statement. There was already no room to run. No place to go. I tried to maintain the speed, Gypsy's momentum. Took a hold of him and waited for a hole, something more than nine inches, just a little daylight. Gypsy had quite the fuck you attitude, he was quite ready to make his own hole.

I know you wont believe this, but I don't give a shit. I was there and I hardly believe it myself. This next paragraph takes place within five or six strides of a race horse. The stride of a race horse is a very unique quantum of time.

The horse on the rail, the inner most of the four immediately fronting us ran out of gas and just quit. From where we were racing he might as well have been shot out of cannon directly at us. Gypsy's left front foot made a white mark on the outside of his back right hoof. Near death experience. A hole starts to open. Midline of the turn the outer two horses drift. We're there. Gypsy's ready to take a stride. Turned him loose. Had no idea I restrained him so much. My legs hit both horses, both jockeys a metallic ting on one side, then the other in the same stride. In two jumps we were second and the race was on. Lets review: 1st stride - click heels, a hole, 2nd and 3rd strides;to the hole, 4th stride I turned him loose, 5th stride we cleared the field with one to go. Somethings you just never forget.

We were in second place still coming out of the turn when I looked up. All I noticed was my dad, I think there was even eye contact. He was at the head of the streatch close to where the race began. He had headed us in the gate. Now he was the crazy guy running down the outside rail. Dad wasn't a quiet man when he had something to say and he was definitely not being quiet. I didn't hear a single word he said but the sight of him told me more than words will ever tell.

Anyway that son of a bitch was ahead by seven maybe nine lengths when we hit the streatch. but, we ran him down and won by a head.

That's the story of Gypsy Hills. He showed me with all his heart that a great spirit might also be kind. You can quit reading now if ya want. I've gotta keep going, more story to tell.

It must have been 1977, the late fall, late in my eighteenth year of life. I wasn't dieting, sweating, or purging to loose weight any more. I wasn't riding races any more. We were racing horses at the California Fair circuit meet in Fresno California.

My dad, Tommy V and I were on our way to the grandstand to play the horses in the afternoon races. For what ever reason, destiny, insanity, stupidity or accident (naah I don't believe in accidents), it was just spontaneity, we took different paths. They took the short cut across pavement and parking lot. I walked on the track with the horses going over for the next race, clockwise along the outside rail.

Found myself walking with a nice looking man five foot nothing about sixty. Obviously a former jockey turned trainer. Boiling over with exuberance like a screaming water kettle emotionally welded to the source of heat I told him the story of Gypsy Hills. He was kind enough to tolerate me, just listened. Even then at the heart of the story with all my exuberance I felt mundane.

When I was done, in an attempt to elicit a response I asked "there can't be anything like coming from the back and winning a horse race". He didn't say a word, just looked up at me with a knowing smile. A smile that I finally understand, It's the smile that contains the depth of pain, the depth of joy and everything in between.

I hadn't lost sight of my dad and Tommy and they hadn't lost sight of me. We hooked up at the grandstand. I think it was Tommy who asked, "do you know who you were talking to" ? I said, " no". "That was Johnny Longden".

If you don't know who Johnny Longden is, you can find him in the horse racing hall of fame. And somewhere between lines of statistics, between the lines of the stories you can find and meet the man. I felt pretty small at the time, but I'm over it.