Now the palm trees are edged in pink.
The tractors are wheeling off the track, the dirt combed smooth and soft.
The oval track is silent. Ready.
The horses are nodding and shoving against the rubber stall webs, eager for their turn. Sweet hay smells mix with pungent sour dirty straw.
My car door creaks as I push it open with my boot.
I stretch, yawn, zip on my suede chaps, slicked to a polish on the inside knees. I shove my whip in my back pocket, gloves in my other pocket, bandanna over my hair, open ear flaps and shove my helmet on.
My boot heels click on the pavement before I step into the first barn.