A Day in the Life of Gene, the Racing Machine

A pink flush of sunrise was trying to make it through the smog when jockey Ricardo Lopez showed up on his bicycle at Barn Z with a box of donuts for all hands and a pat on the nose for the big bay gelding in stall three.

Gene, the knobby-kneed $150 refugee from the boneyard who with 12 wins is America’s winningest horse this year, passed up the donuts to savor a clump of sweet alfalfa hanging by the door.

Owner-trainer Gary Patrick, who never before has had a horse that won his heart or salvaged his bank balance, was trying to aim three electric fans for the maximum comfort of his star boarder. Surrounding Gene was a menagerie that included 31 other horses, a stable cat named Jenny that sleeps with her five kittens between Gene’s forelegs and two minature goats, one named Bullet, whose specialty is getting up on her hind legs to hug and lick visitors.

“This horse deserves an air conditioner,” suggested Ricardo, a frequent commuter aboard Gene to the winner’s circle at Ladbroke Detroit Race Course, taking down a saddle from the clutter of tack on the barn wall for the morning workout.

“He’s ready to race again,” said Bill, the groom, pausing over a pitchfork of straw to admire the way the five-year-old with the black bangs and the white blaze clear down his nose kept nodding his head as Cindy Patrick, Gary’s wife “and a hell of a hand,” arranged the purple and white saddle blanket she had stitched up on one of her sewing machines in the room next to the goat stall.

“He’s always swaying that head to keep in practice for sticking his nose out at the finish line,” said Gary, as Ricardo hopped aboard. “He’s won so many times by a neck it’s unreal. Do you think there’ll ever be another horse like Gene?”

Gary asks that question of anyone who wanders into shed row or occupies a nearby table in the track kitchen, as if a fellow who has “gone broke a couple of times” needed more convincing that a just plain Gene could “turn it all around.”

“From now on I’m gonna name all my horses Jim or Bob,” Gary vowed as Cindy swung aboard Clem, the Appaloosa stable pony that is Gene’s best friend, to join the dawn patrol toward the already busy track. “For the first time in my life, I got a few bucks put aside.”

Raking out Gene’s stall--”some days I clean 19 stalls” -- Gary told the story of how he bought this Smith-Barney of Motown’s $2 investors for $150 from a veterinarian who was “gonna put him down because those legs were so bad.”

A few hours later on that February day a year ago Gary almost sold Gene for a $50 profit. “Then a thunderstorm came up. Over a pizza and a sixpack I decided to give that broken down horse a chance instead of getting in the pickup to go find that buyer.”

Gene’s genealogy saved him from the cat food shelf. He is by Fappiano out of the Native Charger mare Sioux City Su.

“Never had a horse with those kind of blood lines,” admitted this 40-year-old rodeo buff who got involved with thoroughbreds as a teen-ager when he “saddle broke 18 two-year-olds” a neighbor brought to the family farm in Ashland, Ohio. “I got to keep two, and raced them at River Downs in Cincinnati. They went no place, but I got my trainer’s license.

“I’ve have some good horses since, but none in Gene’s class. His daddy sired Cryptoclearance, and you know it’s gotta cost at least $50,000 to make love with him.”

Bred by Hall of Fame trainer John Nerud who saddled Gallant Man, the 1957 Belmont winner, and Dr. Fager, the 1968 Horse of the Year, Gene broke down his fourth time out. That was Jan. 6, 1987, in a $3,000 race at Tampa Downs, which he somehow managed to win.

He had busted his right hind cannon bone down to the ankle. X-rays also showed chips in the front ankles and a fractured front right knee.

“He was so crooked, he could hardly walk,” said Nerud, who disposed of the horse for $300.

Gary got him for half that price from the vet, who prescribed an $800 operation to put “pins in those legs before arthritis set in and he wouldn’t be able to move.”

The Patricks didn’t have that kind of money, but they opted for six months of stable rest for Gene rather than equinethanasia. Cindy wrapped a big sponge around the hind leg break, and for 60 days Gene only walked far enough for them to clean the stall. Then they let him exercise in a small pen. “The last 30 days, we turned him loose with Clem on a farm we rented,” Gary continued. “ He looked good finishing fourth the first time we ran him.”

Before he could tell about the lady with the dream who helped launch the legend of “Gene the Racing Machine,” as the chant now goes up from the rail birds along the track apron, jockey agent Linda Scocca came by in a golf cart and offered to ferry the visitor to the workout.

“Look at the tail flying, he’s sure having fun,” enthused Linda, who handles Ricardo’s “book.” Gene and Clem came galloping through the haze to the beat of racing’s familiar “thump-a-thump” three note tympany.

“He’s sure a handful this morning,” demurred Ricardo.

While Cindy hosed down Clem, Gary hooked up “Gene’s jacuzzi.” With no urging, the big bay splashed in up to his fetlocks for two hours of therapy in the portable whirlpool bath, enabling his trainer to get back to the lady with the dream.

“A lady leaned over the paddock rail in Tampa and told me she dreamed about a horse named Gene that kept winning. Well, Gene won that day and it sort of became a habit.

“He tries so hard all the time, like he was saying thanks to us for not having him put down. A few races ago, he fought off two challengers, then another horse tried to slip by on the rail. Ricardo turned Gene’s head to let him see what was coming, and he gave that extra finishing spurt.”

Now Gary has a dream. He dreams of Gene beating Citation’s 1948 record of 19 victories.

In quality of competition and purse size, the two horses are a few furlongs apart.

Citation in his record string won the Triple Crown: the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont, then added such prestigious romps as the Jersey Stakes, the Stars & Stripes Handicap and the Jockey Club Gold Cup.

Gene has won races with names like “The Michigan’s Gamblers Club” and “The Winterhalter School.”

In the sport of kings, this is the serfs end of the royal mews. But even on rare days, like the recent Saturday in Chicago, when he earns neither dollars nor donuts, Gene retains that trust and affection which the ever expectant exacta players usually shower on more regally named steeds.

In his last six outings here he has gone off the favorite of the diligent scholars sucking on pencils and hunched over Racing Form hieroglyphics at the study tables in the Michigan Room just beyond the track bar.

Gene reigns as a cult hero at the blue collar track.

“He not only knows where the finish line is, he knows where the camera is,” said Gary, filling the bucket for his 11 o’clock feeding. “I don’t bet many races but I always bet on Gene.”