Horses and Starting Gates

August 2, 2012                     

Dear Readers,

As I go through the memoir there are passages that are going to get cut. Good stories that don’t necessarily move the story along and therefore need to be sacrificed. So here is one of the stories that got relegated to the trash bin. Hope you like it.

Along with proper conditioning through galloping and workouts, perhaps the single most important aspect of getting horses ready to run in their first race is the starting gate. Races can be lost behind the gate, in the gate and as the gate opens.

Behind the gate while the horses wait to be loaded, they are milling around in close quarters with all the other horses and ponies gathered together. Once the loading starts, the real excitement begins. Thousand-pound equine athletes, primed and ready to explode, are shoved into a confining steel chute. Jockeys are yelling at the top of their lungs, and the gate crew is rushing excitable Thoroughbreds into the stalls of the starting gate as fast as they can. The horses already in the gate are dancing in place, kicking and rearing up. Occasionally, one will flip and get stuck under the gate. 

During one Santa Rosa County Fair meet, Jim had a mount in a 350-yard Quarter Horse race. Drawing the number one post position, Jim and his nervous mount were loaded first. When the last horse had been coaxed into the gate, the starter held his thumb poised over the trigger that would spring the latches on each stall in the starting gate. In the time it takes for one beat of your heart, Jim’s horse flipped and became wedged upside down in the stall. Jim's legs were trapped between the horse’s back and the tailgate. From his knees to his head, upside down, Jim was completely helpless as he dangled over the back of the tailgate.

Depending on the circumstances, the gate crew often can simply open the tailgate, allowing the horse to roll out, scramble up and regain its footing. But in this case, if they opened the tailgate, the horse would land on top of Jim, smashing him under a thousand pounds of struggling animal. Finally the crew, with some fancy maneuvering, managed to get the horse upright and Jim back on his feet.  When asked if he was all right, Jim’s response was to grab his whip and climb back aboard his mount.

He barely had his feet in the stirrups and the reins gathered in his hands when the starter hit the trigger to open the gate. The field was away, and despite his unruly behavior in the starting gate, Jim’s mount broke fairly well. They managed a second-place finish, beaten only by a nostril, in a very close photo. As Jim dismounted after the race, he needed two valets to carry him back to the jocks room. In short order, it was discovered that his leg had been fractured when the horse trapped him. Jim had ridden the race with a broken leg.

This is just one story highlighting how Injury or even death can result from starting gate mishaps, a specter all horsemen live with until the field is safely away.  This is one reason so much attention is spent schooling horses in the starting gate, by both the trainers and the gate crew.

The men I have known working the gate over the years took great pride in their horse handling. It was personally satisfying for them if the horse they were handling got off safely and in good position. Unsung heroes these guys really take a beating from the horses and as the majority of jockeys know, at one point or another, the members of the gate crew have helped save them from serious injury.

That’s it for this time, I hope you have enjoyed reading this excerpt and keep sending me emails; it helps remind me to update the blog. I am heading off now to enjoy the equine jumping in the Olympics. I hope everybody is having the opportunity to watch the games. They have been terrific so far.

Take care,

Shelley Riley

Fan Mail and H.R.H. Prince Ahmed Bin Salman Bin Abdulaziz

July 19, 2012                                Fan Mail and a Prince

Dear Reader,

As the first and only woman to train and race a horse through all three legs of the American Thoroughbred Triple Crown, I received a lot of mail from people all over the world. Including the following letter from H.R.H. Prince Ahmed Bin Salman Bin Abdulaziz, who owned Lear Fan the sire of my horse Casual Lies.

May 11, 1992

Dear Mrs. Riley,

When I bought Lear Fan as a yearling in 1982, I had a premonition that he would do well. Many other horses were bought and sold but never with the same conviction.

When he first stood at Gainesway Farm and I visited him, the same vibes came across, notwithstanding the decline in the equine industry as a whole and the prophets of doom decrying his potential.

Since I retained a majority shareholding in the syndicate, I have followed the progress of his progeny with a keen interest, albeit remotely. The story of Casual Lies has been quoted as a fairy tale, Cinderella reborn, etc. I did not share that view. I felt history was about to repeat itself since he appeared to be a chip off the old block. I happened to be in the U.S. on one of my too infrequent visits this year, and I watched the race with a positive attitude.

Permit me to congratulate you on your success with him so far and wish you even more for the rest of the season. By copy of this letter I am asking Pat Payne, the Sales Director at Gainesway Farm, to give Lear Fan an extra carrot, two more sugar lumps and a pat on the shoulder for a job well done.

I am uncertain whether I shall still be in the U.S. on May 16^th, but wherever fate happens to take me, I promise you my voice will be nearly as hoarse (!) as yours at the Preakness.

Every best wishes,

H.R.H. Prince Ahmed Bin Salman Bin Abdulaziz

I delighted in reading the mail I received from fans both in and out of racing. I certainly had not expected to get any, let alone a letter from a Prince.  At the time, along with other criticisms from various sources, I had been accused of treating Casual Lies like a big pet. So it was charming to find this Saudi Arabian Prince enjoyed feeding carrots and sugar cubes to his horses as well. Although I must admit, the treats I gave my horses were carrots, apples or an extra handful of grain. Sugar only entered their daily rations in the form of blackstrap molasses.

Take care,

Shelley Riley

A Look Back - Sacramento State Fair

July 12th, 2012 

Hi there everybody,

                Today the California State Fair is opening for the 2012 season.  The Cal Expo stable area is where I first learned the craft of training racehorses.  We met and made friends with a lot of interesting people over the years we were stabled at Cal Expo.

Sharing the shedrow with us at one point was one of those interesting people and a very memorable old fellow named Sam Johnson. I don’t know how old he was, I can’t really even hazard a guess, suffice it to say, and too my twenty-six year old eyes he was ancient.

                Sam had a uniform he wore every day. Every item consisted of faded khaki, including the floppy hat he wore without fail, and pretty much every minute of every day. We shared a hot walker next to the barn and as we watched our horses walk, Sam would tell his stories.  

                Unlike a lot of elderly people I have met, Sam never told the same story twice. It was really remarkable how varied and rich his repertoire was. Sam was a prolific story teller, the old memories just flowed off his tongue and he always painted a picture with his words that put you in the moment.

                Most people judged Sam on his looks, his cataract covered eyes bulged, one looking to your left and the other at your feet. The bottom lid on the right eye had a large divot gone, as a result the eye watered steadily. A stream of tears coursed down his check to splash on his khaki colored jacket. His nose ran nearly as copiously as his drooling eye, so Sam always had a well used crumpled up handkerchief at the ready, stuffed in his hand.

                 He only had one tooth left; at least it was the only one I ever saw. Located in the middle of his bottom jaw, it angled out, yellowed with age and he had his top lip tucked behind the lone tooth most of the time. It was hard to make out the words Sam was using all the time, but I did the best I could.

                 Jim couldn’t understand why I would listen to old Sam. Jim was like the rest of the critics, feeling the business had passed Sam by and considered him little more than a derelict, and certainly felt he was no longer relevant.  But I had found that Sam remembered things long forgotten by his more youthful colleagues, who had been seduced by the lure of new technologies and were dependent on new medications to do the training for them.

                 I might have to listen to fifty stories to glean one gem of information, but there was no hardship in that. Sam was a gentle soul and he was blessed with a rather pointed sense of humor.

                Sam only had a couple of good clients left, but they had been with him for a long time and they kept the faith. One gentleman had sent Sam a nice two year old colt to break and train. Truthfully I thought this big rambunctious colt was going to get the best of Sam. One day the colt thunked Sam a good one, right on top of his head, after he’d reared up, striking out at Sam with his front hoofs. 

                The old floppy hat never budged, leading me to believe, as I had suspected, it had become one with Sam’s scalp over the years. Jim ran and caught the ill mannered colt, while I helped Sam to his feet. He was sporting a nasty red scrape, but surprisingly he seemed otherwise none the worse for wear.

                As time went by, the colt became more and more of a problem. He had obvious talent but was turning into quite the uncontrollable rogue on the tract. Sam asked Jim to get on the colt, but Jim refused when Sam wouldn’t let him carry a whip. A real necessity if you’re going to climb on a nasty tempered colt, one who particularly liked nothing better than rubbing you off on any solid surface he could get next to.

                 I agreed it wasn’t worth the $2, which was the going rate for galloping a horse in those days, to get busted up on a horse without any manners.

                Next thing I know, I look up to see Sam heading off to the track with the obnoxious colt hooked up to a harness-horse racing buggy.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was more than a little surprised Sam wasn’t already dead and the horse down and tangled up in the remains of the buggy.

                This colt was as wild as a March Hare, and this looked as though a clear case of suicide by stupidity was about to happen right in front of all our eyes. You wouldn’t want to hook any horse up to a buggy without a lot of prep work, let alone a green two year old thoroughbred colt.

                Word spread rapidly around the barn area and everybody who could, raced to the rail to watch the smack down that was about to take place. The buzz of excited voices ceased abruptly when the colt stepped onto the track dragging the cart and big Sam behind him.

                The colt stood there, frozen in place, the rail birds held their collective breath, eyes riveted, unblinking, for fear of missing the launch. The colt looked right and then left, he lifted a front leg… the railbirds leaned further over the rail, straining to see the action. At which point the colt turned and walked up the track, as though he’d done it a thousand times before.

                Sam trained that colt using a buggy for weeks on end. When he finally put a rider on his back and took him to the track for the first time since he’d hooked him up to the buggy, the colt galloped around there like an old campaigner.

                Eventually Sam entered that colt and he raced well. Old Sam certainly danced to the beat of his own special drum. You didn’t need to agree with his tactics, but then Sam had his own style of proving there was more than one way to train a horse. He’d also acquired another story to tell, that is if you were willing to listen.

                I probably won’t be coming out to Sacramento for the Fair this year, but I have been asked to be a guest at another handicapping clinic in Santa Rosa at the Sonoma County Fair. I will let you know the date when I find out.

Take care,

Shelley Riley       

Alameda County Fair - Jorge Herrera

July 8^th, 2012      

Dear Readers,

     First off, I want to thank all of you that showed up at yesterdays Alameda County Fair to attend the Handicapping Seminar. As a guest speaker, I was thrilled to see so many people show up for the event, standing room only, in fact.

    Located right next to the saddling paddock, Dennis Miller and Frank Mirahmadi put on a great show.  Both gentlemen have a vast amount of experience backing them up, making the seminar both interesting and useful.

    Frank is the announcer and race caller for the Alameda, Ferndale, Fresno and Stockton County Fairs, as well as the race caller at Oaklawn Park in Arkansas during their racing season Frank is also a TVG on air personality.

    Dennis Miller is the editor of “Aces” a Northern California Golf Lifestyle magazine, great website, by the way. Dennis is also The Alameda County Fairs Horseracing Publicist, charged with promoting the horseracing side of the Association.   

   To be greeted so warmly by so many fans of the Shelley Riley – Casual Lies saga, was not only surprising, but refreshing, while the interest shown in acquiring the memoir was heartening and encouraging. Duly incentivized, I was at my computer, typing away early this morning, pushing to finish editing Chapter 14 after Tracy’s initial comments had come back on the Chapter.

    I don’t know how long it will take to get it published, as you know, but I will keep everybody apprised as to my progress on that front.

   Finally I wanted to say a few words about the tragic loss of Jorge Herrera. As you're aware, Jim Riley, my husband for well over 20 years was a jockey. As the wife of a jockey, my heart was in my throat throughout every race he rode, and until he jumped off and unsaddled his mount.

   The life of a jockey is a life filled with danger, slightly more than a hundred pounds of man or woman, perched atop over a thousand pounds of horse flesh, with a mind of its own.  I needn’t dwell on recounting gory tales from the past; we have all seen the accidents, spectacular and horrifying alike. What I do know firsthand, is the feeling that sweeps over you as you see someone go down in a race, the fear and the alarm. When it’s your loved one, the fear escalates to near panic and the alarm becomes terror.

     In the early seventies, Jim was riding races at Charles Town Race Track and Shenandoah Downs. Both tracks shared a parking lot and ran their meets one after another, in Charles Town West Virginia.  About as far from the top tiers of racing as you could get, and Jim was riding a lot of horses with very questionable underpinnings.

    Racing under the lights, on a tight five to six furlong oval, aboard hard used old campaigners, was audacious to say the least. But we were poor and even a losing jock mount meant a lot to us at the time.              

      One night, Jim had been scheduled to ride several horses on the card and one old class horse in particular, stood out from the rest.   

    This horse had once been a really good racehorse, winning allowance and stakes races alike. Changing hands, via the claiming box many times, his glory days were obviously long gone. This classy but unfortunate warrior had been campaigned steadily, right down to the bottom of the barrel, over a career spanning many years.

    Named on the horse at the draw, we didn’t know the trainer, he didn’t train a lot of horses, but his stats were pretty good. So why didn’t anybody want to ride him? Once the horses were in the saddling paddock, it became pretty obvious, this old boy had seen his fair share of injuries over the years.

   Swathed in running bandages, it was obvious, unless they had packed the bandages with cotton to scare off a claim, this horse had some pretty big ankles and his knees looked like a spiked dog collar.

  I rushed over to the Jocks room and waylaid Jim as he came out. Anxious and worried I told him the horse had two big ankles, and his knees looked like deeply notched flywheels. He laughed, and told me not to worry; those old broke down class horses stayed around, because they knew how to take care of themselves. “He won’t run fast enough to hurt himself, no matter how hard I ask him.” Was his parting comment, as he walked over to the saddling paddock, to get on his mount.

   I hurried over to the rail to watch the horse warm up, praying they would scratch him in the post parade. No such luck for me, he traveled like a new car on a four lane freeway.  As the race was being run and as they approached the turn, three horses went down, bam, one after another. It looked like the whole field might go down. Only four horses avoided the melee, by going practically to the outside fence, avoiding the downed riders and their mounts. I stood gripping the rail with all the strength in my one hand, while the other covered my mouth. I whispered behind my hand, please get up, please get up…….

   I was so focused on the wreck; I failed to see Jim and his wily old campaigner pass under the wire for the win.

  On the way home, I was talking about the horse and how bad his legs looked, I felt we had gotten twice lucky. One, he’d won the race and two he didn’t break down or get caught up in the accident.  At which point Jim laughed at me, and told me to stop worrying, he’d ridden a lot of horses who were a lot worse than him.

  But you don’t stop worrying, that’s just the point, they love what they’re doing, and part of why you love them is because of their passion for their chosen sport. After that night, I made Jim promise me that if he went down, even if he had a broken leg, he needed to get up and lean on the rail so I could see he was alive.

   Jorge Herrera left this world with his boots on and his whip in his hand, doing what he loved to do. My heart goes out to the family left to mourn his passing. Jorge was way too young to start his next adventure, wherever that may be.

Take care, each and every one of you,

Shelley Riley

Shaquille O'Neal effects the Preakness post position draw.

June 26th, 2012 Casual Lies the Memoir update

Dear Reader,

I certainly hope this update finds you all in good health and still enjoying my update entries. Chapter thirteen came back from Tracy today and here is a short excerpt that will be thought provoking.

[Who would have thought Shaquille O’Neal, one of the three most sought after choices for the National Basketball Association’s 1992 draft, could affect the outcome of that year’s draw for the Preakness Stakes? Certainly not me—I had never even heard of him. My mom, on the other hand, was a North Carolina native who watched college basketball with an unholy glee. Her favorite was North Carolina State University, with Duke University a close second in her affections.

As we trooped over to Pimlico’s Sports Palace the morning of the Preakness draw, we were discussing the condition of the track and how we hoped the sun would either emerge, drying out the surface, or that it would just go ahead and pour down rain. A muddy track would be a blessing compared to the hard yet slippery condition it was in now.]

I am still working on the last chapter and I am having more fun with all the wondrous memories of New York. I have a publishing workshop this weekend so I am getting ready for that at the same time I work on this last chapter. To say I can be easily distracted would be admitting to a character flaw and I hesitate to admit to something that is already so obvious.

Suffice it to say; I am anxious to get done so I can move on to the next step. That step will include sifting through hundreds of photographs. I want to include pictures, where appropriate, throughout a hard copy of the book.

As always, thank-you so much for your interest and please feel free to email me with any queries you may have.

Take care,

Shelley Riley

I'll Have Another's scratch from the Belmont Stakes

June 8, 2012

Hi Everybody,

I wanted to talk just a little bit about the unfortunate turn of events resulting in the scratching of I’ll Have Another from tomorrows Belmont Stakes. I feel so disappointed that we have all been denied the opportunity to see a Triple Crown winner after so many years has passed without one.

I watched the press conference streaming live on my computer and was so very impressed with how the owner and trainer of this terrific horse handled, what had to be a gut wrenching situation. Tears held at bay by just a thread, they both showed a lot of class, just like their horse, while under a barrage of criticism and outright speculation.

I have read many reports about the entries in the Belmont being forced into a detention barn. How the New York racing officials felt this was necessary, to ensure the integrity of one of the greatest historically significant three year old races in the world. How the entourage of people associated with each entrant were screened and scanned before they could enter the facility, and care for their horses.

When I was there in 1992 with Casual Lies I was honored and thrilled to have been assigned a stall in Woody Stephens barn. The medication rules in New York at that time were more restrictive than any other state we had raced in. We were aware of this long before we had agreed to leave Maryland for New York and I was more than willing to comply completely and thoroughly with those regulations. Casual Lies ran completely clean of any medication of any type that day in 1992.

If I had been asked to put Casual Lies in a detention barn with all the other horses entered into the 1992 Belmont Stakes, thus ensuring all the contestants’ ran as equals, at least as it pertained to medication, I would have acquiesced without complaint. In fact I would have been tickled to death to move him. It wouldn’t have hurt me or Casual Lies, not even one little bit. He was always happy as long as his grub showed up at the appointed times.

It would appear, at least to me, everyone involved had endeavored to do the right thing for racing in this year’s Belmont Stakes, both officials and participants. All grumbling aside of course.

Finally I can’t tell you how impressed I was with the behavior of I’ll Have Another during the press conference. Did anyone notice the little girl standing in front of him as he grazed? This is after all a three year old colt, primed and ready to run. A little girl standing in front of a racehorse, on a lose shank, without fear is not something I would have expected to see occurring anywhere, let alone in front of an international television audience.

I fervently hope no other horses are scratched from the Belmont Stakes tomorrow. I also hope there aren’t any huge form reversals, which would only add fuel to an already overheated fire of speculation about the honesty of this breathtakingly beautiful spectator sport. My life would have been dull indeed if I had been unable to indulge my passion for the horses that I loved so much, in a sport that has endured for centuries.

Here’s to a safe and beautiful 144^th running of the Belmont Stakes, the third and final leg in the Triple Crown of Thoroughbred Racing. I look forward to next year and yet another chance for a Triple Crown winner in the 145th running of the Belmont Stakes.

Thank-you so much for your interest,

Shelley Riley

A Fun Story to Share

Hi everybody,
  As promised, I am going to post, that very short story I wrote many years ago. If you don't know what a Minus Show Pool is let me give a very brief description.

When all the wagers go down, the track extracts about twenty percent from the total pool of each placing ie Win, Place and Show. Once that extraction is done, the amount left is divided up to return to the winning bets. There is by law a minimum payout amount. In other words you can't bet $2.00 and lose money if your wager comes in.

On occasion and usually only in the show pool, there will be more wagers than money to return. This is then called a Minus Pool, and the track loses money. Needless to say, they don't like that and will cancel the wagering on a particular horse, if it looks like that is going to be the result. However if the money goes down really late, like just before the windows close, even as the horses are standing in the gate. Too late, Minus Show Pool pay out willl result.

Since I wrote this, rules and payout amounts may have changed. But I am sure basically this is still how it goes. Enjoy and be sure to email if you have any questions. Also if you sign up to follow, the system will notify you when there is a new posting.

Thank-you all for your interest,
Shelley Riley

                                            The Bag Man Cometh

                                              by: Shelley L. Riley 

            What evil lurks in the heart of a man, a man that would lay down one hundred grand on a one to two shot, to show?  On the California Fair circuit he's wicked indeed.  However, if he lays it off on the “Wicked North” in the Hollywood Gold Cup, the deed is done, thy will is done and one hundred grand is simply gone.  

This does not however, deter our intrepid one; he slinks back north from south, to make back in the North what the “North” in the south, took from him.  Thus something wicked this way comes, striking terror in the hearts of all pari-mutuel managers in its path.  He ferrets out, the very next day, “Wing It”, the Appaloosa equivalent to Secretariat, at the Alameda County Fair. “Wing It” has won no less than 24 races.  On a wing and a prayer, he lets fly one hundred grand, just to show.   

Everyone knows, whichever way you face “Wing It” in the gate, backwards, forwards, any which way, he most assuredly will leave, to say the least, all the others in his wake.  Result, minus show pool to the excess of twenty-six grand, our man has gleaned five cents per dollar.  Let’s see, that's five grand up on Sunday, from the one hundred grand down on Saturday, after all North is up and South is down.   

Not one to rest on success, our man sharpens his pencil and bends his neck to the task. Sure enough, at least to him, a sure thing if there ever was one scheduled for the very next day.  “Swans Crossing”, a four year old maiden, running for an eight thousand dollar claim.  Cross my fingers, hope to die, who would have the presence of mind to find a sure thing in the bottom of the barrel, on the fairs. 

OK, I suppose it did look good, I mean if anything could look good at that claiming level, but HELLO, this filly had never won a race.  Wait, I see the answer, its right there before my very eyes, how could I have missed it? “Swans Crossing” is out of a mare by “MAKE MONEY”!  Result, minus show pool in excess of another twenty-two grand.    

Oh goody, another five grand up, only ninety grand to even for our hearty nemesis.  So let's see, our man need only risk one hundred grand, eighteen more times.  Maybe it becomes clearer to you if not to me, when you realize one-million-eight-hundred-thousand must pass through the windows, without a miss, to get back the ninety grand he's still down from the “Wicked North” wager.   

Amazing isn't it, who is this masked man anyway?  Why nobody knows for sure, but they call him; The Bag Man.  The what man?  You say.  The Bag Man!  Well, I suppose that makes sense, after all he has to carry it to the track in something.  Does that mean if he used a money belt, he would be the belt man?  Or if he arrived at the track, with it in his pockets, would this make him the bulging pocket man?  Could there be more than one?  Could we have discovered a fraternity or maybe they are born this way?  

Could this bag man be the descendent of the man I met at a Bay Meadows quarter horse meet in the sixties?  My father used to take me to the races, once or twice a season.  I loved it; I picked the horses by their color, as good a way as any, right?  Curious and bored between races, I spotted a man lurking in the shadows.  He was really old to my twelve year old eyes and he blended in nicely with the background, dressed all in black.  I watched him for some time, noting his shapeless long black overcoat.  His voluminous pockets stretched to bursting with what appeared to be scraps of old papers, all wadded up and shoved where ever they would fit.  He watched the tote board like a hawk, occasionally snatching out a piece of paper and scribbling madly.   

At the two minute call, he would stuff away his scraps and pull from a limitless number of inside pockets, equally stuffed to overflowing, a wad of crumpled newspaper.  He unfolded from its center what appeared to be a huge amount of money and away he would go to the windows.  After each race I watched him go back to the window to cash his tickets, the cash went back into the newspaper and back into the inside pocket. 

  Even at twelve I wasn't dumb, this man looked as if he knew what he was doing, and I thought he must surely be some eccentric millionaire.   I'm sure my father would have had a heart attack if he had seen me talking to this disreputable looking character.  The early sixties were a kinder, gentler time, we weren't taught to be afraid of everybody.  He was gruff, but I must have appeared harmless, for he explained his methods to me, when asked, well sort of.   

He watched the tote board in the last five minutes before post for the smart money, as he called it, to go down.  Then he would use his own form of calculating, on those bits of paper, to decide if it was an opportune time to make his show bet.  That was all he ever bet, to show and only when his strict criteria were met.  I had never forgotten that unusual character, as witnessed by my instant recall, when I was told of The Bag Man.  We must admit there are some parallels here, but maybe only the shadow knows for sure.   

If you're standing at the window waiting to cash a bet, and you should hear the distinct crinkling of a paper bag. Look to the tote board, check for a blank where the show should be, tote boards don't go that high, at least they didn’t. You can't be sure and you may never know, but the illusive, mysterious, scourge of the minus show pool, THE BAG MAN may have just this way come!

Casual Lies the Memoir

Can a woman from the suburbs refinance her house, invest in a thoroughbred and run him in the Kentucky Derby?

My name is Shelley Riley and that’s just what I did when I used the equity in my home to buy an overlooked thoroughbred colt for $7,500.00 at a Kentucky Bloodstock Sale on a snowy day in January of 1990.

This is the story of my journey from the suburbs of California to the Blue Grass of Kentucky. From saddling horses on the California Fair Circuit to the nose bleed atmosphere of the oldest, most prestigious and coveted three year old thoroughbred race in the world. 

I will tell you how we took on the thoroughbred racing elite and rubbed elbows with both celebrities and princes. Enduring criticism, insults, prejudice and ridicule along the way! You will learn about that special horse who came into my life surpassing even the most extravagant and farfetched fantasies I could have conjured up. I was prepared to embrace the opportunity but I also needed to find the self confidence in myself to stand up and push back against all the naysayers and detractors while maintaining my focus as I guided this brilliant young horse to accomplish the extraordinary.

“Casual Lies the Memoir” is something I have put off for far too long. In one hundred thirty seven years only twelve women trainers have saddled thirteen horses in hopes of beating the odds and winning this race. I was one of them, WOW! I was the first woman thoroughbred trainer to run in all three legs of the Triple Crown of racing. Casual Lies ran and my job was to believe in my horse when so many didn’t.

Is there a market for one more Cinderella story? Perhaps! However when the hammer fell that cold wintry day in 1990 looking back now it was more like going down the rabbit hole than trying on glass slippers for the ball.

Thank-you for stopping by,
Shelley Riley
copyright all rights reserved Shelley Riley 2011