Saturday, October 31. Keeneland Racecourse, Kentucky.

I sat in the Keeneland dirt by the outer rail with the other photographers. We watched the infield tote board video of American Pharoah in the paddock and waited with sweaty palms and nervous hearts.

The rumble announced his presence. It began by the tunnel between the paddock and the track and rolled out in waves over the grandstand to where I sat. Being hard of hearing, I felt it more than I heard it: a deep thrum through the ground and an electric anticipation in the air. My pulse quickened.

Then I saw him — the horse I watched with hope and secret awe in late 2014; the horse I stopped short of calling great before the Kentucky Derby; the horse that made me weep when he won the Belmont Stakes, and Triple Crown; the horse that was taking me on a ride unlike any other. He was far away, and not much closer when viewed through my 200 mm lens, but there he was: American Pharoah, the Triple Crown winner — our Triple Crown winner.

My nervous heart began pounding during American Pharoah’s long walk to the gate and didn’t stop throughout the race. The first time the field went by, I put my Nikon’s shutter to work and snapped photographs until the field entered the clubhouse turn.

Through my lens, I happily observed American Pharoah’s pricked ears and cheerful, almost carefree, lead. Then I leaned forward and focused hard on the live video on the infield tote board, watching closely as American Pharoah continued to hold that easy lead, ears perpetually up.

Adrenaline surged through my upper body when it was clear that American Pharoah was maintaining that easy, happy lead on the final turn — this was it, this was was the race! I held my breath and awaited the challengers.

None approached — or rather, they did but in vain, as they couldn’t get within reach of American Pharoah, who was already pulling away. It was the Belmont all over again. The bay colt was in his own world as that beautiful, now-familiar stride swept him past Keeneland’s humming grandstand and over the new dirt homestretch — and into history.

As American Pharoah pulled away from the field, a part of me — the part of me that is a near life-long fan of the sport, the part of me that read about the feats of Secretariat and Man o’ War and Ruffian and all the greats of yesteryear as a young girl, the part of me that collected photographs of champion racehorses on a computer hard drive in the late 90s, the part of me that dreamed and hoped and yearned for the next great horse just like Joseph Alvie Estes’ poem Big Red, the part of me that will forever remain rooted in the thrill and romanticism of horse racing — couldn’t believe, just couldn’t believe, what I was seeing and hot tears flooded my vision.

But I was there to do a job, and that part of me took over. I raised my Nikon and put the shutter back to work, still not believing what the viewfinder was showing me.

(ENTER STAGE RIGHT)

A bay colt flying with a perfect stride, rapidly leaving his rivals behind. Now he is all alone.

(HE ENTERS A GOLDEN SPOTLIGHT)

There is only this colt, and the history he is breaking and making.

(LIGHT FADES)

(EXIT STAGE LEFT)

As soon as American Pharoah passed by the photographer’s stand across from me, my arms shook with spent adrenaline. I put the Nikon down and let the tears go.