Owning and Breeding Racehorses

Owning and breeding racehorses is a test of patience that usually ends in disappointment, occasionally in exhilaration, and sometimes first one and then the other. Take one of our current horses, Hot Money, as an example. His dam's (Smoldering's) first foal, a colt by Not For Love, showed real promise in his early training, then strained a tendon after his first race and is now a stable pony at Payson Park in Florida. Her next foal, a colt by a different stallion, Lycius, was sound and won four minor races, but was not very athletic. I sent her third foal, a filly, also by Lycius, to France, where she turned out to have a bone defect and never made it to the races. I sold her as a broodmare prospect. Smoldering had been under different ownership when she was bred twice to Lycius. Having reacquired Smoldering, because I had been positively impressed by her first foal, I bred her back to Not For Love, in which I had a five percent ownership interest. The resulting offspring is Hot Money. 

As a foal, Hot Money was small, but balanced, with good conformation. For months, we had to worry about his health, as he required antibiotics to treat a chronic infection. When we put him in training, he was troubled by sore shins. We finally got him sound enough to run once at two, though he was not fit enough to get anything out of the race other than experience. He had another, peculiar, problem: He walked wide with his hind legs, to a pronounced degree after strenuous exercise. It was suggested that perhaps gelding him would help relieve whatever problem was causing him to walk wide behind. As he had not shown anything in his training that would lead me to believe that he might be in demand as a stallion one day, I had him gelded. He won his next race, the second of his career, with authority, and he has shown impressive speed in his works since that race-- but he still walks wide behind. Maybe I shouldn't have gelded him?

There is  potentially a race at Belmont Park for Hot Money next Saturday, June 6.  As June 6 is Belmont Stakes day, the biggest day of racing each year at Belmont Park, owners are particularly anxious to showcase their horses by running them that day. We won't know for a few days whether Hot Money will get a chance to run next Saturday. Even if his race does get included in the program, and he draws in the race, we will then have to worry about the weather: if it rains, the race might be taken off the turf. If the race were taken off the turf, we would have to worry about the condition of the main track, and make a decision to scratch or run. Even if he does get a chance to run next Saturday, we will still have to worry about racing luck: How will he break from the gate, will he be forced wide or get boxed in, etc.?

Why do owners-- kings and commoners-- subject themselves to such aggravation? In a winning race, there is a moment when one realizes that one's horse is going to win. The anxiety that precedes that moment builds tension, the release of which is integral to the rush of winning. A horse can become an owner's avatar. The triumphant feeling generated by a long-awaited victory by a beautiful animal, the owner's competitiveness incarnate, is singular.

Rachel Alexandra

A few people have asked me about the decision of the principal owner of the great filly, Rachel Alexandra, not to run her in the Belmont Stakes next Saturday. While I was looking forward to seeing her in the race, I am relieved that she is not running. Modern Thoroughbreds need about a month to recover fully from a peak effort such as the one she gave in the Preakness; which she won only two weeks and a day after winning the Kentucky Oaks, the day before the Kentucky Derby, in a brilliant performance. If she were mine, I probably would have skipped the Preakness and run her in the Belmont Stakes, thus giving her five weeks and a day to recover from her effort in the Oaks. Given that she had run in the Oaks, under no circumstances would I have run her in both the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes.

Very few colts, let alone fillies, run in all three of the so-called triple crown races, the Derby, Preakness, and Belmont Stakes. Those that do run in all three are seldom the same afterwards. Although the Derby, Preakness, and Belmont Stakes are great races, they were not designed to be a series; a sportswriter in the 1930s, Charlie Hatton, linked them as the triple crown. Although I admire the horses that do manage to run in all three of those races and remain sound, I do not think that I would ask a horse to attempt the feat. 

Spring Vacation

Except for next Tuesday, when I have a full day of appointments at MSK, I feel that I have a bit of a spring vacation until my surgery on June 15.  For the sixth day in a row, I went to the gym today. Although my workouts are light, I am now spending nearly two hours a day in the gym. My objective is to be in the best possible physical condition for the surgery. 

I've got a lot of work to do. Having gained 11 or 12 pounds since starting chemotherapy in early March, I'm having trouble fitting into my trousers.  Getting in a little better shape may not make any actual difference in the outcome of the surgery. Nevertheless, I think that taking action to try to help one's cause always improves one's state of mind.  Moreover, because I seem to be getting a little stronger every day, I am enjoying an activity that gives me a sense of progress during my spring vacation. 

Forty-Fifth Reunion

Princeton University's annual re-unions start today. Among colleges and universities, Princeton has the reputation of being one of the most successful at getting alumni to come back for reunions and to contribute annually to the endowment. 

I must confess that I have not done my part with respect to either of those hallmarks. I can recall attending only one-and-a-half reunions, and I have added only modestly to Princeton's bulging coffers. I lived in the present and the future and was busy with my family, work, and social life: reunions could always be deferred for another year, or even until another big reunion year, like the fifth or the twenty-fifth. Although I had great respect for Princeton and felt fortunate and proud to be an alumnus, I was never able to convince myself that the university with the largest endowment per student was the one that most needed my pittances. Thus, even though research universities have been my philanthropic priority, I gave very little money to Princeton.

By the beginning of his year, my perspective had changed. I had begun studying a relatively new program, in which one could set up a charitable remainder trust that would be commingled with the endowment and participate in its returns, which would be attractive to someone who seemed likely to live for many more years. As a retiree, I would have plenty of time to attend a class reunion, especially a fairly big one like the forty-fifth. Moreover, Susan and I had accompanied a group of classmates and wives to East Africa two years ago and had enjoyed their company immensely. I made hotel reservations and signed up for the reunion.

By the beginning of March, when I returned from South America and was diagnosed with cancer, I had already begun showing signs of cancer cachexia, which is "characterized by weakness, poor appetite, alterations in metabolism, and wasting of muscle and other tissues," to quote Sherwin Nuland from How We Die. I was in no shape for reunions, and my condition would have detracted from the high spirits of the occasion. So I cancelled my reservations.

Actually, I feel good enough today to have attended the reunion. Chemotherapy's temporary suppression of the cancer has reversed most of the signs of cachexia, and the debilitating effects of the chemotherapy itself have faded in the fortnight since it was last administered to me. Several classmates have told me that they will lift a glass in my honor, and I will reciprocate with the one glass a day that I am permitted until my surgery.

Perspective

One's perspective changes when one begins to contemplate further treatment with long-term survival or even cure as possible outcomes, after a period of submitting to treatment without hope that one might become well again.

The Possibility

Dr. Leonard Saltz, my medical oncologist, told me quite candidly at our first meeting, on March 12, that my cancer was not curable, but was worth treating, partly because I was a "young 66." He based his diagnosis on a colonoscopy that showed a large tumor in my right colon, an MRI that showed multiple small lesions throughout both lobes of my liver, and manual examination of a hard lymph node in the region of my shoulder and neck. In other words, I had cancer of the colon that had metastasized extensively into both lobes of the liver and appeared to have metastasized further into at least one remote lymph node. 

Ordinarily, MSK would have ordered a PET scan as part of the initial fact gathering.  In light of my rapidly deteriorating condition, Dr. Saltz believed that there was little time to spare (it was his sense that I was "slipping off the table") and  recommended that I commence chemotherapy (specifically, FOLFIRI) immediately. The goal of the chemotherapy was to pull me back from the brink and then give me the possibility of some months, perhaps even a few years, of a relatively good quality of life. 

Because of the extensiveness of the lesions in my liver, it did not appear to be a candidate for resecting. Moreover, if my cancer had indeed spread to a remote lymph node, there would be no point to liver surgery, even if my liver were a good surgical candidate. Colon surgery didn't make sense at that time either, as any surgery would require an hiatus of chemotherapy. 

Over the weeks, as a consequence of the chemotherapy, I have grown steadily stronger, and the tumors have shrunk somewhat. Some three weeks ago, Dr. Saltz consulted with a liver surgeon at MSK, Dr. William Jarnagin, who opined that with a two-operation procedure, it would be possible to resect my liver. Such a procedure would of course make no sense if a PET scan confirmed the presence of cancer in locations remote from the primary tumor in the colon. 

Last Friday morning, I had the PET scan. Because it seemed like such a long shot that the PET scan would not confirm the apparent lymph node involvement, I tried over the last three weeks to deflect any glints of hope. Nevertheless, I had an increasingly hard time sleeping as I waited first for the scan and then for the results. 

This morning, about 8:30 a.m., Susan and I met with Dr. Jarnagin for the first time. He had not yet gotten the results of the scan, but he described the complex liver and colon resecting that he thought plausible in my case. The risks would be what you would expect: very bad things could happen. The goal would be some years of life, with the possibility of cure. According to Dr. Jarnagin, approximately half of those who underwent such a procedure might live for five years, and perhaps 20 percent might live for ten years, after which recurrence of the cancer would be relatively unlikely. (One must speak hypothetically, as five years ago, it is my understanding that livers like mine were not resected.)

Susan and I then proceeded to an appointment with Dr. Saltz. After not too long a wait, we met with him. He had gotten the results of the PET scan and had discussed them with the radiologist. There is no sign of cancer in parts of my body remote from the primary tumor. 

The first operation is scheduled for June 15, which will allow my body time to recover from the chemotherapy prior to surgery. In a future entry on this blog, I will go into more detail about the planned procedure. In the meantime, I thank you, my family and friends, for your steadfast support. If I have had any pretense of courage since the diagnosis of my cancer, it is a reflection of your kindness, your warmth, your prayers, your positive thoughts.

Backslider

Part of the appeal for those who own, breed, raise, train, ride, and otherwise work with young Thoroughbred horses is watching them develop. One has to appreciate them each time one sees them, for they will not be the same tomorrow as they are today. They change especially quickly in response to the stress of training.

When I retired, one of the things to which I was especially looking forward was being around our young horses. Horsemen often refer to yearlings and two-year-olds as babies. This year, as of January 1, the first day of my retirement, Susan and I had only one baby, Backslider. All Thoroughbreds in the northern hemisphere are deemed to have a January 1 birthday, in order to group them for racing purposes. Backslider's actual birthdate was February 22, 2007. 

Backslider's rate of change as a baby has been especially pronounced. The photographs above of Backslider were taken on December 20, 2008, March 14, 2009, and May 12, 2009. In the December photograph on the top, he is a balanced individual: each part of his body flows smoothly into the next, with his major fault being a dip in his back. (His light bay color is a temporary artifact of having just had his winter coat clipped.) In the March photograph in the middle, he is entering an awkward stage: like a rapidly growing adolescent athlete, more lean and muscular than a child, but not as attractive. In the May photograph on the bottom, he is longer bodied and starting to pack on muscle. My guess is that by this fall, he will once again be an attractive, balanced individual-- a more muscular and mature version of the yearling that I bought last August at Saratoga.

Even though I have not been able to travel to see my horses since I began treatment for cancer, the decision that I made after I was diagnosed not to sell my horses has proven to be a good one. Young horses in training are in the ascent-- a perfect antidote for someone who is physically in decline. My family and I enjoy talking about them and look forward not only to their races, but also to each report from their trainers of their progress. 

Because of the awkward stage through which Backslider was passing a few weeks ago, his trainer, Christophe Clement, considered giving him a couple of months off from training, in order to let him mature. Finally, Christophe decided to send Backslider to Keeneland, Kentucky, where he was sending his more forward two-year-olds, to see if Backslider could keep up with the others. Christophe's latest report on Backslider is that he is maturing rapidly and training well. I look forward to seeing Backslider once again in the flesh, when Christophe ships him to New York to begin his final preparations for racing.

Beyond Second Grade

My lack of response on my first day of school to the calls of the two class leaders proved to be a true indicator. I never developed any interest in following anyone else's lead, and I never had any interest in getting other people to follow my lead.  I never joined a political party or became part of an ideological movement. An observer rather than a participant, the first years of my career were spent as a securities analyst and portfolio manager. Friendship was a different matter. I joined social clubs, and my guess is that I had a normal complement of close friends, friends, acquaintances, and groups of friends, of both sexes.

In the latter years of my career, I recruited many people for commercial projects, as I started businesses myself and helped others start and build businesses. For reasons that I never really understood, I proved to be consistently effective in attracting people and capital. I was enlisting support for the project at hand, not for me personally. If I took an active role in a business, it was almost invariably as chairman or chairman and chief executive officer, never as president or president and chief operating officer. Although many of the people with whom I worked and co-invested became good friends, these friendships were not, in my mind, based on a leader/follower relationship.

A Long Weekend

Contemplating retirement, I wondered if weekends, even long ones like this Memorial Day weekend, would seem much different than workweek days.  If this weekend is representative, they do seem different. The weather is delightful today, and I feel as if I should be outdoors. I should be playing golf, or doing something else that involves physical activity. 

For the first time since I got blood clots in my lower right leg and a sometimes debilitating pain in the right side of my lower back, I returned to the gym today. For about an hour, I rotated between five cardiovascular exercise machines and lifted some light weights. Although I subsequently enjoyed the relaxed feeling that exercise followed by a hot shower brings, I am starting to think that I may have exacerbated the pain in my back. 

Now that I am in treatment for cancer, because I have had such frequent need to go to the emergency room, I feel insecure about the prospect of a three-day weekend. Yesterday, I noticed  a rash on my left shin. It was late in the day, and a dermatologist will not be available to examine it until Tuesday. Based on telephone conversations with MSK staff, it seems unlikely that the rash is a reaction to chemotherapy: the rash is unilateral, and I last received chemotherapy 10 days before I noticed the rash. MSK's staff suggested trying to control the rash with cortisone ointment until it can be examined by a dermatologist. But as someone with glaucoma, I have to be careful about using corticosteroids, which can raise intraocular pressure.

Nevertheless, I am enjoying the weekend. Last night, a friend came in from Long Island and took us to dinner. Tonight and tomorrow night, Susan is cooking, and we are having a friend over for dinner each night. Today I am reading and listening to music. Perhaps we will go to a museum tomorrow (I am particularly interested in seeing the remodeled and just- reopened American wing of the Metropolitan Museum). Perhaps we will go to Belmont Park on Monday to see one of America's most important horse races, the Metropolitan Mile. No matter the day of the week, there is never any shortage of things to do in New York City!

Contrast

Yesterday, I drank Champagne at Petrossian and Jean-Georges. Today, as scheduled, I drank contrast agent at MSK.

Second Grade

I started in public school, at the Ortega Elementary School in Jacksonville, Florida, in the second grade, when I was six years old. The cliques had been formed in first grade. At my first recess, one of the boys called out for the boys on his side to come over to him. Then another boy called out for the boys on his side to come over to him. That left me.

The Return of W.C .Jones

W.C. Jones ran well in his return to the races today. In a field of 10, he finished third, beaten a nose for second and another neck for first. If you would like to know more details of the race, please copy the URL below and paste it into your browser.

http://www.drf.com/drfPDFChartRacesIndexAction.do?TRK=BEL&CTY=USA&DATE=20090520&RN=6

Uncle Willy

In the sixth race tomorrow at Belmont Park, to be contested at a mile and an eighth on the turf, we have entered four-year-old W.C. Jones. He last ran 11 months ago, in a similar race, finishing a fast-closing second, beaten a head, after trailing the field at the top of the stretch. Because he has been away from the races for such a  long time, recovering from an injury, he may need tomorrow's race to return to his peak form. We plan to be at Belmont to see his return.

I named W.C. Jones after my late uncle, William C. Jones, whom I called "Uncle Willy." My late partner in the horse business, Peter Karches, always said that I was the man who had cost him the most money, because he had never owned horses before he went into partnership with me. Uncle Willy had the same lifelong effect on my pocketbook by introducing me to Thoroughbred horses in 1961. He invited me to the running of the Virginia Gold Cup steeplechase races near the farm that he and my Aunt Lucy had bought and on which they were raising Thoroughbreds. At such country races, the police looked the other way while the bookies operated with their chalkboards in full view. Unfortunately for me, I won the last five out of the six races I bet, including my bet on Carry Back in the Kentucky Derby, which was run the same day. In 1963, during the summer between my junior and senior years at Princeton, I worked at Saratoga for Uncle Willy's trainer as a hotwalker, the lowliest of stable employees. 

As my Aunt Lucy says, life with Willy was never dull! He was an entrepreneur in the paper industry who always operated with flair, even in later years when he worked as an executive for a company that he did not own. He had grown up riding horses under the eye of his demanding father, and he bred, sold, raced, and foxhunted Thoroughbreds in Virginia and later in New Jersey. He bet at the racetracks in New York and New Jersey, especially on grey horses, which he also preferred to ride. Before breeding Thoroughbreds, he had excelled as a breeder of  bird dogs, Tennessee Walking Horses, and prize beef cattle. He always had the most avant garde equipment for his sports activities, which included at various times tennis (with his own court, of course), golf (at one time, all custom-made woods, no irons), shooting (he used over-and-under shotguns), and deep-sea fishing (his expeditions were launched from his houseboat, which slept 10). His sporting passions changed without warning, except that he always loved dogs. Most important to me, he gave me my dog, Colonel, for my twelfth birthday.

Uncle Willy was a cool guy! Always a natty dresser, he changed cars constantly. (My father, who also loved to buy a new car, used to say that Willy turned in a car whenever the ash tray filled up.) Uncle Willy drove the first Jaguar I ever saw, a black XK-120 with red leather upholstery and a white convertible top. The Jaguar was followed by a parade of exotic cars, including at least one Aston-Martin that I can recall. 

One night while I was a student at Princeton,  I was staying at Uncle Willy's farm in New Jersey and borrowed one of his cars so that I could take out a date. I dented the front end of the car and spent the night worrying about his reaction. When I saw him the next morning, he was reading his Sunday paper. When I told him what I had done, he simply asked, without looking up, "Anybody hurt?" Later that morning, when we went to the garage to take another car, his custom-made Mercedes convertible, to brunch, he walked by the car that I had banged up without so much as glancing at it. Of course, he refused my offer to pay for the repairs.

I don't know how Uncle Willy would have reacted if I had tried to name a horse after him while he was alive. I asked Aunt Lucy for  permission to do so at his funeral, and she liked the idea. She saw W.C. Jones a few months after I bought him at a yearling sale and liked his looks and manner. She noted that, unlike his namesake, he seemed easy to train. We have fun discussing his training and racing over the telephone. I'll be calling her at her Virginia Beach home right after the race.

A Quick Question

This morning, I called MSK to find out if it would be OK for me to take Celebrex for my back pain. After eight hours in the emergency room and the imaging center, various blood tests, and an MRI scan, I had my answer: "Yes."

For diversion, I was fortunate to have a visitor in the ER-- a friend since college, who had very kindly journeyed down from Connecticut to see me. We had a spirited visit. In fact, out of respect for the other patients and their caretakers, we struggled to subdue our chuckling. We parted with a plan to get together again soon, in a more fun environment.

A Painting

Although I won my bet, and Rachel Alexandra became the first filly to win the Preakness in 85 years, I was wrong about the Derby winner, which finished second. Mine That Bird was no fluke. Apparently, the change in his running style, starting with the Derby, in which he is now taken back at the beginning of his races and urged to run in the last stages of his races, makes him much faster overall from start to finish. His radical change in competitiveness has me thinking about my horses. Before I give up on one of my young horses, I will want to talk with the trainer about the possibility of having the rider take it way back at the start of its next race (assuming that its temperament would permit it to be rated).

On Friday, for some reason or reasons I could not pinpoint (side effects of recent chemotherapy, being hobbled by leg and back pains?), my mood was a little down. On Saturday morning, my mood was lifted immediately upon opening my e-mail and reading several kind messages. Then my sister, Katie, arrived, with a present that really reminded me how kind people can be. As a favor, a friend of Katie's had painted from photographs an oil portrait of our two-year-old colt, Backslider. Katie, who lives in California, had flown to Maryland, where the artist, Ann Compton, lives, to bring me the painting. Moreover, Ann Compton had framed it beautifully. When the day ended with Susan, Katie, and I watching on television the historic victory of the magnificent Rachel Alexandra, how could I not feel blessed?

A Poem

My father sent me a translation of an oft-repeated Sanskrit poem that cannot be brought to mind too often.

     

            Look to this day

            for it is life

            the very life of life

            In its brief course lie all

            the realities and truths of existence

            the joy of growth

            the splendor of action

            the glory of power

            For yesterday is but a memory

            And tomorrow is only a vision

            But today well lived

            makes every yesterday a memory

                                               of happiness

            and every tomorrow a vision of hope

            Look well, therefore, to this day!

The Importance of Walking

Since undergoing the procedure last Monday in which I had a vena cava filter inserted through the right side of my neck, I have had an increasing pain in my lower back, on the right side, when I walk. My lower right leg also hurts when I walk, because of the blood clots. Being able to walk has never seemed so important to me. Fortunately, I have not been told by folks at MSK not to walk. So I'll try to keep walking. 

A Delightful Fluke

Today, in the ninth race at Belmont Park, we had planned to run one of our horses, Mustang Island. He was the second choice in the race on the morning line. This morning, I got a call from our trainer, Christophe Clement, indicating that Mustang Island came back lame from a routine jog. It seems that he popped a curb (a type of soft tissue injury) on his left hock. If we are lucky, he might be ready to run again in a couple of months.

This Saturday, at Pimlico Racetrack in Baltimore, the Preakness Stakes will be run. The Preakness is the second leg of the so-called triple crown of racing. The Preakness is held two weeks after the Kentucky Derby and three weeks before the Belmont Stakes. No horse since Affirmed in 1978 has won all three of these races. In my opinion, the only horse with a possibility of winning the triple crown in 2009, the Derby winner, Mine That Bird, will not be the first triple crown winner in 31 years.

In a delightful fluke,  Mine That Bird won the Derby as a 50-to-one long shot, the second highest odds on a winning horse in Derby history. Mine That Bird got pinched back to last of 19 at the start of the race, giving his jockey, Calvin Borel, the opportunity to gallop him along at the back of the pack, along the rail. The surface along the rail was firmer than the rest of the track as a result of rainfall and track maintenance procedures (sort of like the strip along the beach where a wave has just receded). With about 3/8s of a mile to the finish line, jockey Borel, in a brilliant ride, was able to begin passing the other horses on the inside, as they drifted off the rail owing to fatigue. In essence, Mine That Bird ran without interference on a firmer, faster surface, on the shortest circumference of the course, while the other horses jostled each other for position on a deeper, slower surface.

Even though Calvin Borel is illiterate, he is no fool when it comes to horses. He is switching horses tomorrow to ride the only filly in the Preakness, Rachel Alexandra. I think she is as good a three-year-old filly, at the sort of distance over which the Preakness is contested, as I have ever seen. Tomorrow, for the first time, she will try to beat male horses. I think she can do it.

Eternity

A friend of mine passed along to me a quotation that he incorporated in his eulogy for his father, a lifelong teacher.

                        "A teacher affects eternity, he never knows where his influence stops."

                                                        Henry Brooks Adams

Over an excellent lunch at the Oyster Bar (my red blood count is responding, by the way), my friend, a co-investor and co-director with me in companies that we helped to build, was kind enough to suggest that I had had influence similar to that of a teacher, through mentoring managements of companies and younger colleagues through the years. To my surprise, he said that he himself sometimes thinks about what I might say or do in a given circumstance. Because of the great esteem in which I hold this very decent and successful man, I must admit that I was not only flattered at the time, but also find myself pondering what he had to say. (He also urged that I write something, other than in my blog, about my experiences in business, which I have never done. I have never been convinced that I have anything original, of any consequence, to say about business. I could tell some pretty good war stories, but I would have to fictionalize many of them to protect the guilty-- and some of the innocent!)

As I think about Adams's quotation, I think it is probably true that all of us influence others, for good and for ill, if only in our personal lives and decisions, far more than we realize. Certainly I have been startled many times over the years when someone has mentioned to me how much he or she has applied in his or her life something I said to them fifteen or twenty years ago-- which I invariably have no remembrance of ever saying. (I never had a great memory, even when I was young.) In my career, I certainly did not have as much opportunity to influence others as does a lifelong teacher. Nevertheless, as I think about it, the nature of my career inexorably entailed affecting a fair number of people's lives. 

From 1966, when I got out of training class on Wall Street and became assistant to the director of research at Reynolds & Co., I was involved in the hiring, firing, promoting, and demoting of people throughout my career. As a private investor and venture capitalist, I invested in well over eighty other privately held companies, in many of which I was directly and indirectly influential. Managements and co-investors at least have to pretend to pay some attention to you when you own voting shares, when you may be willing to invest more, and when you perhaps sit on the investee company's board of directors and compensation committee. In addition, I sat on the boards of publicly held companies and not-for-profit institutions. Most such responsibilities require making some difficult decisions that affect other people's lives. With the best of wills, not all decisions prove to be wise, and certainly many are viewed as negative and hurtful by people directly and indirectly affected. Ironically, many people who are cheered by a decision take the wrong message from it, and many who disagree with a decision, and dislike you for making it, learn from it-- perhaps consciously, perhaps not--  and improve their lives as a result.

Recently, I have been asked several times what I did best in my career. I think I hit my peak at about age 12 when I trained my Dalmatian, Colonel, for obedience trials. Otherwise, I think that I was best-- for which I have been immodest enough to credit myself  elsewhere in this blog-- at giving people, particularly young people, a chance to do things for which they were ostensibly not qualified and which often had not occurred to them to try.  Most succeeded at their new opportunity.  Sometimes I suppose I "mentored" them intensively, sometimes not. But I never felt comfortable being called a mentor. I always felt that I was learning so fast, because I had so much to learn, that I was hardly in a position to regard myself as a mentor. 

How does one define eternity? For me, it will last as long as the human race exists. I do not think that the human race, or our planet, or our solar system, will last forever. But I do accept that there is a secular eternity as long as human beings exist; as an imperfect being, I hope that the good that I have contributed to it outweighs the bad. As I think about it, I attribute most of my failings, other than mistakes in judgement, to cowardice. I am still trying to muster courage.  It is never too late for self improvement!

Sacred Music and Chemotherapy

Sacred Music ran fourth in her race today. MSK ran hours late in its chemotherapy suite today. Early reports are that she came out of her race in good order. As a result of kind friends treating us to a bottle of post-therapy Dom Perignon, I am pleased to report that I came out of my chemotherapy session in good order also!

When to Drink Champagne

"In victory, you deserve Champagne; in defeat, you need it."

             

                 Napoleon Bonaparte

This morning, at about 10 a.m., I reported to the emergency room at MSK; at about 7 p.m., I left the hospital, implanted with a vena cava filter. As determined by ultrasonic examination, I have blood clots in my lower right leg. Apparently, my cancer has predisposed me to blood clots. The existing blood clots are highly likely to propagate into the upper leg. Because blood clots frequently cause pulmonary embolisms, which kill 50,000 to 200,000 people each year in the United States, the doctors would normally treat me with anticoagulant drugs. Unfortunately, the size of my primary tumor makes anticoagulants inadvisable. MSK will monitor the blood clots, which will be an ongoing problem for me, and defer for now making a decision on giving me anticoagulants. The filter was inserted through my neck into the inferior vena cava, the largest vein in the body, which drains blood from the lower body into the heart. The vena cava filter is designed to trap clots, to reduce the probability of pulmonary embolisms.

Tomorrow, Sacred Music faces 15 other three-year-olds, including eight males, in her race in Strasbourg, the Prix Champagne de Venoge. Whether or not we she is victorious, we will raise a glass to her!

Mother's Day: Sacred Music Redux

My right shin and ankle are pretty painful today, so our horses may have to be my exercise proxies for a while. When the doctors examined my leg last Thursday, they were unsure about the locus and cause of the generalized pain.  The pain is more acute now than it was then, so I have a better idea about its nature: bone is not involved, and it has something to do with circulation. Partly because I note that moist heat seems to help the condition more than cold, my current uninformed opinion is that my chemotherapy has given me a case of phlebitis, or something of that ilk. My current inclination is to wait to go to the hospital tomorrow, when the specialists are all on duty, rather than go to the emergency room today, Mother's Day Sunday. Besides, it is a pretty day, and I'd much rather go out to brunch than sit in the emergency room!

Nicolas Clement, our trainer in France, has entered Sacred Music in a race at a track in Strasbourg. The race is on Tuesday, at a distance of 2,350 meters (nearly a mile and a half), for a total purse of 17,000 Euros.  He says that she has trained well since her recent racing debut, and that the long distance of her race on Tuesday should be no problem for her.  Although I think that we have every reason to expect her to give a good account of herself. I don't know the form of  horses in France. When we get the entries tomorrow, Nicolas can help us assess the opposition.

Meanwhile, we are pointing two of our horses in New York to races at Belmont Park. We have entered Mustang Island for a race on Thursday on the grass, similar to the race that Hot Money won last Saturday. This sprint race on the grass will be the second start of Mustang Island's career, just as last Saturday's race was for his fellow three-year-old stablemate, Hot Money. Two days ago, W.C. Jones worked well over the Saratoga training track, as his trainer, Christophe Clement, prepares him for his scheduled comeback race on May 24.  We have been resting and rehabilitating four-year-old W.C. Jones since his last race, which took place about a year ago. He will need one more work before his race. Although it is a tall order to ask a horse to win at a distance of a mile and a quarter (the exacting distance of the Kentucky Derby) after a long layoff, Christophe is celebrated for his ability to have a horse ready to give a peak effort under such circumstances.

Hope springs eternal in the horse business, particularly when one has young horses that have not yet established the limits of their potential. The racing of Thoroughbred horses is a sport with origins in England more than three centuries ago.  The sport is full of hoary and colorful aphorisms. A favorite of mine is, "No man with an unraced two-year-old ever committed suicide." We have an unraced two-year-old colt, Backslider, in training in Kentucky.

Gym Rat II

This morning, although I have less energy than yesterday, I went back to the gym. On both visits to the gym, I was inhibited a bit by one of my recent side effects from chemotherapy, a sore shin and swollen ankle. I would estimate that my strength and cardiovascular fitness are, respectively, about 40 percent and 25 percent of their levels of four months ago. But when I look back two months to the beginning of my chemotherapy, I am now stronger and have much more endurance. 

Gym Rat

 For the first time since we left for South America in early February, I went to the gym today. Although I didn't do much-- 25 minutes of cardiovascular work and about 10 minutes of light weightlifting and sit-ups-- I got pleasantly tired. As I had wondered if I would ever be able to go to the gym again, I also had the satisfaction of minor accomplishment.

In early 2002, having determined that I would retire from my job at the end of 2008, I decided that I did not want to be physically unable to enjoy fully my retirement years. So I went on a diet, which entailed losing about two pounds a month for 24 months. Then I did two things to keep the weight off: 1) bought new clothes and had my old clothes altered, so I would have an immediate logistical problem if I gained weight; and 2) went on an exercise program, which consisted of two hours at the gym every morning (one hour of cardiovascular exercise, one hour with a personal trainer) and about an hour of walking around the city during the day. A number of people, not least Susan, said I got to be too skinny. Vestigial love handles argued otherwise. 

Snowballs in July

Today, I learned the results of last Sunday's CAT scan, which confirmed what was expected, given improvements in my blood work, skin color, and energy level and a weight gain of about nine pounds. My tumors have been reduced in size by chemotherapy since my first and only previous CAT scan in early March. Although the tumors have not responded as dramatically ("they are not melting like snowballs in July") as is sometimes the case at this point in chemotherapy, the progress is consistent with continuing the current regimen. 

Also, I learned that the dermatologist's initial reaction, when he heard last Friday by telephone that there was a patient who had a skin rash after being injected with Neupogen, was that they would have to discontinue giving me the drug. He changed his mind after actually examining me.

Optimism

Although most of my family seem to accept the reality of my diagnosis, a number of my friends have obviously been disappointed with me for "giving up," i.e., for not believing that somehow I can "beat" the cancer that afflicts me or at least survive for a long time. I am deeply touched by their concern.

In part, some of my friends' difficulties in accepting the fatal ending of my condition may be owing simply to incomplete information about my diagnosis and/or incomplete understanding of the resultant prognosis, given the current state of the art of oncology. Difficulty in acceptance by others may stem from a belief that if I "give up," my outcome will be negatively affected. For some, the difficulty may go to the heart of their belief systems, such as beliefs in miracles, miracle cures, divine intervention, and the curative power of prayer and positive thoughts. (I am profoundly grateful for friends' thoughts and prayers.) For some, if I do not believe that I can survive my condition for an extended period of time, it is harder for them to deal with my plight. Each of these difficulties is well taken and would be more than worthy of a separate discussion. 

In spite of my acceptance of my fate, I do not find myself lacking in optimism or positive thoughts. As the recipient since my diagnosis of extraordinary kindness from loved ones, friends, and care-giving professionals, I have never felt closer to my fellow man or more optimistic about the human condition. I see no contradiction between being a realist and being an optimist. 

Perhaps I could describe my current state of mind as that of a realistic optimist. Susan and I recently made a monetary contribution to cancer research, not out of any hope that it will benefit me, but rather out of faith that eventually cancer research will result in significantly lower death rates and significantly longer survival times for those afflicted by cancer. I enjoyed myself today with friends at lunch and dinner, and I have plans to do the same, and more, tomorrow!

Annual Meeting

Today, for the first time, I attended an annual meeting of Harris & Harris Group, Inc., as an outside shareholder. Because, like most entrepreneurs, I had always tried to control my environment, I had been a little curious about how I would feel sitting in the audience in a passive role. I felt completely comfortable. Undoubtedly my comfort was in large part a reflection of my confidence in the management team (which gave an interesting presentation). But my comfort may also be an indication that I really could have retired as I had intended, that I did not need to occupy my time with commercial pursuits.

Two Cups of Coffee

As I have written previously, when I learned that I have cancer, from the nature and extensiveness of it, I realized immediately that under no circumstances would I now live to a ripe old age. Because of my parents' extreme longevity, and because I had long taken great pains with respect to diet, exercise, and medical check-ups, I had always been concerned about disabilities of old age. In particular, I was concerned about going blind one day. My father suffers from wet macular degeneration, and my mother is legally blind from glaucoma. About 10 years ago, I was diagnosed with a complicated case of glaucoma as well, for which I meticulously administer four different prescription eye drops in various combinations each day to lower my interocular pressure from normal to sub-normal. About seven years ago, I serendipitously discovered that caffeine raises my intraocular pressure. Since then, I have abstained from caffeine, which had always been my drug of choice.

The morning after I learned that I have cancer, I decided that, now that I don't have to worry about outliving my eyesight, I may as well go back to enjoying coffee. So I had a cup with my breakfast, and it was every bit as enjoyable as I had remembered. And I did the same thing the next morning. But the third morning, I decided that even though resuming coffee consumption would now be perfectly rational behavior, it seemed like a self-destructive, negative thing for me to do. To date, I have not had another cup of coffee.

Sunday Silence

I spent the morning at MSK getting an injection of Neupogen and a CAT scan. My exercise for the day consisted of walking back and forth from the hospital in light rain, amidst bicyclists who had the run of the city in a sanctioned event. After having lunch and watching reruns of Hot Money's race, which we had recorded on Tivo, I devoted the rest of today to reading by the fireplace in our living room. Since starting chemotherapy, I am a much slower and more contemplative reader, but reading is still essential to me.

Hot Damn Hot Money

Shortly after returning from the winner's circle, I looked at my Blackberry and saw, to my surprise, that I already had a number of e-mails congratulating us on Hot Money's win today, one of which was entitled, "Hot Damn Hot Money." I hope that the e-mailers had a bet on as well: Hot Money went off at 8.6 to 1 odds. As the track announcer called, "Hot Money got the money!"

Hot Money actually has a nice story line. Our trainer, Christophe Clement, trained Hot Money's dam, Smoldering, for a European owner. Smoldering showed some potential, but slipped and fell on the way to the track one morning and injured herself badly. Saving her would require an expensive operation followed by a long convalescence, and she would be unlikely to race again. Her owner declined to undergo that expense and ordered that she be put down. Christophe then received permission to pay for her surgery himself and took title to her. When I learned about it, I offered to take on the expense, and when my partner, the late Peter Karches, learned about it, he offered to share the expense with me, and Peter and I became the owners of Smoldering. There are more twists and turns to the story, but Susan and I wound up as the owners of Smoldering and bred her to Not for Love, a stallion in which I owned part interest. We named the resultant foal "Hot Money."

Hot Money got sick as a foal and was on antibiotics for months. He grew to be a small, but well-made, balanced horse, with one pronounced flaw: he walked wide behind for some reason we could not determine.  For want of a better solution, I had him gelded this winter. He tracks better now, and certainly ran well today in his second lifetime start, the first since he was gelded. He is quick on his feet and can be a bit naughty, unseating his exercise riders in the morning if they are not alert. We hope to have a lot more fun with him!

Kicking On

Since I developed a rash on April 20 after receiving a shot of Neulasta for the second time, I have been quite apprehensive about what would happen the next time I received Neulasta. Given how suppressed my white blood cell count became when I received chemotherapy without Neupogen or its longer acting version, Neulasta, it is obvious that if I could not tolerate Neupogen or Neulasta, my chemotherapy would have to be curtailed significantly.

Neupogen and Neulasta commonly cause bone pain, which I experienced with Neupogen, but not with Neulasta. Neither is supposed to cause a rash, and I had received Neupogen twice and Neulasta once with no skin rash. Dr. Saltz, my medical oncologist, decided to give me Neupogen this time, so that if I got a skin reaction, it would not be exacerbated over an extended period by the longer acting Neulasta.

I received the injection of Neupogen at 8:50 a.m. today, and when I got home and checked in a mirror about an half hour later, I saw that I was developing a rash. After several telephone calls with Dr. Saltz's nurse; a visit to the urgent care center at MSK's main campus, where I was seen by a doctor who conferred with Dr. Saltz by telephone; and a subsequent visit to MSK's other facility to be examined by a dermatologist, who conferred with Dr. Saltz by telephone at about 3:30 p.m.; Dr.Saltz decided that if my reaction to Neupogen does not worsen significantly, I can receive as planned another injection of it each of the next four mornings.

Susan and I got home in plenty of time to watch with our son the televised Kentucky Oaks, which was won as easily as I have ever seen a horse race won by the great three-year-old filly, Rachel Alexandra. Had she been entered in tomorrow's Kentucky Derby against the colts, I think she would have been favored to win. In one of Susan's and my greatest experiences in racing, we were guests of Bert and Diana Firestone when their filly, Genuine Risk, won the Derby twenty-nine years ago, the second time a filly ever won the Derby. As the field for this year's Derby stands, I think the lightly raced colt, Dunkirk, is the most talented entrant. 

We are planning to run Hot Money, one of our three-year-olds, in a six-furlong grass race, the 10th race tomorrow at Belmont Park. It is raining here now, and it is supposed to rain tomorrow, so we have our fingers crossed that the race stays on the turf. He has never run on turf, but his dam was a turf horse, and he moves well on that surface. As it would be over a month before another suitable turf race would come up for him, we plan to run him even if the race comes off the turf. His trainer, Christophe Clement, says Hot Money is  training well, looks well, and should be ready to run tomorrow.