THE LAST RACE

an unpublished short story manuscript

by

Robert M. Rounkle

San Raphael Racetrack

Ibiza, Spain

October 16, 1994

Cloudy drizzle, dripping wet Sunday night.

The racetrack is closing. The racetrack is waterlogged. The racetrack is dying, and this is the last race.

Its the last race and everybody knows it; except the horses of course,-and around two hundred foreign residents who have organized a benefit "Fight Cancer" auction at the track tonight.

"FIGHT CANCER"-buy a piece of worthless shit!....impose your stupid little auction on the last night of harness racing on this island! And it IS the last night of harness racing because the track promoter is bankrupt.

Anyway, it is clear that there are two different worlds here tonight. Both under the same roof, and both trying (successfully) to ignore one another.

It has been a almost exactly a year since I was here....gave it up and havn't been back since...but God, how I have missed it!

The track is soaked; dangerous puddles going into the North and South curves.

Probably it was the whiskey that brought me here tonight, but maybe it was just the loneliness.

An imitation "Country Band" from Holland is mutilating a song called "A

Strawberry Roan".

And now, somehow, it seems important for me to see the last race before the track closes down forever-to get it down on paper maybe; to stick in the album next to all those untitled photographs and...memories.

I mean. Who in hell is going to care what went on here when the tumbleweeds and thistles recapture the home stretch? Well, I will never forget...

Some things you just don't forget. But time plays tricks on human minds-so I better get it down.

They are all here. The old-timers-the veterans.

The main bar has been taken over by a pudgy English woman selling sandwiches and brownies to the "Fight Cancer Auction" bunch....no booze, so I head for the Jockeys Bar.

Harness Racing is not a sport for weak stomachs, nor is it a sport for the "schiki-mickie" German jet-set and it is definitely not a sport for women and children-although they are all represented here tonight.

Harness Racing, quite simply, is a sport for men.

I still havn't figured out quite what drives a man to take up harness racing, but I can tell you that there are no drivers in this sport who havn't tasted the ignominiously bitter flavor of defeat. They say they are all crazy. They say they are all just a bunch of poor bastard alcoholics who sweat and bleed and break their bones for nothing. They say they don't even love their animals; they just use them till they drop. But, I'll tell you what: that's all bullshit.

I'll tell you something else: there are no cowards in harness racing. Oh, there are braggarts and fools, even drunkards and louts.

But there is also brilliance, incredible determination and lots and lots of heart.-but no cowards.

Anyway, this is the last race, and I find myself staring at the two and a half meter high wooden horseshoe over the finish line. My finish line. A product of these two hands. I built it. I lettered it. And I mounted it in steel and concrete for all eternity-right next to the order of finish board-also a product of these two hands. My eyes run out to the wall surrounding the track-they are still there-my signs. 1600 meters, 1750 meters, 2000 meters,2150 meters; painted in green and white on the wall.

Suddenly melancholy overcomes me. Old memories, old battles, old enemies.

Someone is shaking my hand, and leading me through the glass doors of the crowded Jockeys Bar.

"Double whiskey con hielo, por favor," he signals the bartender and points to me.

Before I can speak, piercing eyes from across the bar grab my attention. They are hunched over a glass and riveted upon me--and I am not so drunk as not to recognize enemy eyes when I see them. Suddenly a bar glass salute, a wry grin....Two old enemies salute each other across a crowded bar. The war is over -we both know it. But I can still remember the sting of his whip across my face split the eyebrow-warm liquid down my face. I am certain he remembers too.

The clashing wheels, neither of us reigns in-he outside, locking up both silkies, we headed for the wall and a suicidal wreckage of splintering wood, busted wheels and freaked-out horses.

God! I hated him with a blind passion!-We're going to smash into the wall!

Somebody is going to get killed you asshole!-Probable gonna' be me, but I'm taking you with me you rotten sonofabitch!!!

In the last millisecond he pulls open and frees the wheels-scraping the wall -sparks against the concrete-screaming curses he fades swiftly behind.

Destroyed.

My right wheel is busted-I enter the homestretch on the outside, goggles covered with blood-I can't see shit! Three week license suspension for me (and six stitches)-six months for him.

Oh, I'd say he remembers all right.

Some things you don't forget.

And now he raises his glass across a crowded bar-"All is forgiven" it signals. He smiles wryly. I touch my glass to my right temple, remembering the wound, but the passion is gone.

Do two old gladiators shake hands? Not yet, old friend, not yet. You did me too much damage for that. The scar on my face healed long ago, but there are deeper scars, so let's just let it lie, old friend. I don't hate you anymore.

This is last race, so let's watch it together.

A slap on my back. It is Isodoro, good old Isodoro, who led me into the bar. No words, just a pumping handshake, a hug, a grin.

"Sabia que hoy, estarias aqui!" he laughs, "I knew you would be here tonight!"

"Otro whiskey para mi amigo!" he yells at the hassled bartender.

I poke him hard in the sternum. He laughs.

"Que le vamos hacer?" he asks, "What are we going to do about it?", shrugging his huge shoulders,

"Esto no es un deporte.--Esto es una enfermedad!!"-"This is not a Sport this is a SICKNESS!". His eyes twinkle from a weathered face.

If you run a speedboat with a parachute trailing high above, dangling squealing tourists, and you do it every day of your life-you get a weathered face.

"Estas be?" he asks in Ibicenco dialect, "You OK?"

"Si", I lied.

His eyes quick-scan mine for the correct answer. And find it. He lays an arm over my shoulder.

"Eres la leche, tio!"-"You are a case!!", he laughs.

We sip our drinks and look each other over.

It has been three years since it happened. But we both remember, don't we?

Some shit you just never forget.

The track was just as sloppy as it is tonight when Montero slammed into you from the outside coming out of the south curve. Your great old black gelding "Toronado", did a forward somersault at top speed. You were thrown clear, but you lovely old champion broke his neck, ruptured his lungs, his intestines and your heart.

By the time I got to the wreckage you were sitting in a pool of frothy blood and drizzle-the old horses head on your lap. Final convulsions sent buckets of frothy blood all over your white silk trousers.

"No pot ser!!" you sobbed, "It just can't be!.." and held the dying horses head more closely.

You held the horses head. I held you. You cried, I cried. We waited in the drizzle for death to still the agonizing spasms-each time further apart.

Slowly the other drivers assembled around us in the dark. The ambulance, the Vet. They stared in silence at the sorry sight we made.

"This is the way the world ends..

This is the way the world ends..

Not with a bang..

But a whimper...."

races through my mind. Cummings knew what he was talking about.

And finally, in one last exhausted, shuddering heave, the convulsions stopped.

I dragged you to your feet and pulled one arm over my shoulder-we staggered to the stables.

"No pot ser!!", you muttered through the tears. And we both wished it was only a nightmare. You tried to look back at the wreckage and the dead horse. I held your cheek so you couldn't.

"No miras mas....", I said, "Don't look back".

"Tens rao.."-"You're right" you muttered.

Your eyes are twinkling now old friend, but I can still see the scars.

Some things you don't forget. But let's watch the last race together.

Curiously, tonight there is no announcer: no one to call out the names of the drivers and horses. Probably because the "Fight Cancer" bunch took over the loudspeaker system. But every one except them, knows that the race is starting, and amongst the veterans, no one cares about the other five races--only this one--

the "Estelar", "La Buena", the one of "Primera Categoria". It is the one we would have been in: Isodoro, Pujols, Ferrer, El Suizo, Banet and me.

We turn to look out onto the quickly flooding track. The drizzle turns to light rain, the horses steaming from their warm-ups, the drivers spattered with mud.

In front of me, familiar shoulders, neck and head. Sitting very still-curious

hat. But I know those shoulders. Why do I know those shoulders so well?

It is old 'Tabaquet'.

"You spent almost two years looking at those shoulders", I thought, "almost always from behind". I lay a hand on one of the shoulders, he turns and looks up at me. He tries to smile and struggle to his feet. I push him back down in the chair. He won't have it, and this time succeeds in getting to his feet. He smiles a tortured smile from behind steamy glasses. The face is swollen. The cap is crooked and looks ridiculous. You can see the baldness underneath. The once curly grey hair is gone.

"..fucking chemotherapy..", I thought.

He takes my hand in two great paws and pumps it.

"Como estas?", I ask.

"Be", he lies, and continues in a whisper. Voicebox gone, lung gone. Looks like hell. He's dying.

"Sabia que tu vendrias...", "I knew you would come..", he croaks.

I shrug my shoulders, "Es la ultima...", "It's the last one.." as though to excuse my presence.

"Ya lo se..", "Yes...I know.." he whispers, and leans into my ear as though to impart a great secret.-"Ya no puedo comer"-"I already can't eat anymore..." he whispers as an unsolicited confession.

Reminds me of that scene from "Papillon"-where a wretchedly dying old prisoner sticks his head thought the cell door window, awakened by the jangle of the new prisoner's chains (Steve McQueen),

"How do I look?", he croaks down the empty cellblock.

"Fine..You look just fine.." answers Papillon, stunned by the cadaverous skull four cells down.

"Tienes buena pinta....", "You look pretty good", I lie.

I regretted the lie immediatey, as Tabaquet squinted into my eyes, and recognized the truth.

We stare at each other, still holding hands.

Inside the "Country Band" is mutillating still another classic:

"......trailers for sale or rent: room to rent; fifty cents....ain't got no cigarettes.."

wails the lead singer.

We look closely at each other.

" Do you remember old friend? How many times did I let you pass you old bastard? How many times did I let you steal my place in the starting lineup? I cut you a lot of slack old man, a lot of slack..." I thought

"And when you'd cut in so closely on passing, that I had practically to yank my horses jaw off to keep you from cutting his legs out from under him...oh, I'd say I cut you a lot of slack all right, old man. A lot of slack. Kept my mouth shut too didn't I?....although we both know I coulda' got you card pulled many times.

And just like every other driver here, I hated to race with you because of your bad eyesight and slow reflexes. But I bit the bullet, and just kept watching the back of your head and those shoulders.....and you thought yourself do godamned clever!...even interpreted my courtesy to your lifetime of harness racing as weakness.

You never once found me waiting in your stables after the race ready to tear your old head off, did you?...and your bragging in the bar, when we would watch the videos on Wednesday nights over that old wood-burning stove of Ferbo's......You laughed then, my friend. You knew damn well what you had done and gotten away with, although it didn't always show on the videos. You got away with a hell of a lot.

But it don't look to me like you are gonna' get away from this."

"Anyway," I reminisced in silence, as I stared down at him. "Who wants to smack a sixty-five year-old man?...Nobody, that's who."

Does it matter anymore? Probably not. But some things you don't forget.

"Vendras el año que viene?"-"Will you be back next year?" he croaks at me now.

"No." I answer frankly.

He pauses, opens his mouth-no sound comes out. He tries again in a throaty whisper. He pulls me closer, closely aiming his lips to my ear;

"Yo tampoco..."-"Me either..."

We both knew what he meant.

"Vamos a ver la carrera",-"Lets watch the race", I said, and guided him down into his seat.

Six horses only, six bright steaming horses in this last race. We all remember the big races with twelve to fourteen horses.

The horses circle the sloppy track in the drizzle. No announcer. Godamn that "Fight Cancer" bunch...dark silence of anticipation.

These are all seasoned drivers. All veterans of hundreds of races; nobody flashing horses over the finish line to impress the punters. Everybody wants long odds. The two minute warning-light flashes from the roof of the car with the auto-start gate mounted over its trunk. The drivers hunker down against the rain and in anticipation

Four of the six drivers wear silks of green with red strips on the sleeves.

The colors of the young Russian (ex) millionaire promotor of the track.

Owner of the best horses, owner of the track, and probably owner of this, the last race.

But he wasn't even interested enough to show up-spilt the country with creditors at his heels.

The start car takes off, the gate folds forward- the race is on!!

Inside the "Fight Cancer" auction is still going on, although with dwindling interest. But no one of them comes outside to watch this last race in the spattering rain.

Everyone in the pack of drivers struggles to find a slot on the inside rail.

Banet, with fourteen year-old "Ozark", everyones sentimental favorite, gets locked in at the rail by green shirts. Green shirts in front, back and on the outside...nothing to do...ride it out Banet, ride it out.....sooner or later they will make a mistake. They have the best horses, but you know they always make a mistake...hang in there Banet. Sooner or later they'll make a mistake.

Fuckin' Russian! Got tired of paying prize money and brought in his own

jockeys and horses. Shit in his own cash register, is what he did. Because if an

owner-driver can't win any prize money, he's got to give it up. Which is exactly what has happened at this track.

He killed it with his own greed.

Banet finds a little daylight coming out of the curve into the homestretch..gives old "Ozark" a little flick of the whip. He gets by three green shirts in the stretch, but can't quite reach the fourth. Finishes Second.

A burst of applause from the vets in the bar, myself included.

"Thanks for not taking his money, Banet.", says the applause.

"Thanks for not wearing a green silks, Banet."

"Thanks for being one of us,"... and,

"Thanks for being all that is left of us, Banet."

Some things you just don't forget.

THE END

The author ,free-lance artist, Robert Rounkle, raced trotters at the San Raphael Harness Racing track on Ibiza,, as an owner-driver for three years-until its closing in October, 1994