(Knight’s Move won his first race ever on Tuesday. It was race day. It was a remarkable day. / Photos submitted)

On Tuesday morning, I woke up at 4 a.m. and headed to the airport, a little weak; a lot tired; and so very weary. To say that the last 3+ weeks have been a little challenging would be an understatement. To write that the past few weeks have been a little health hurting would be less than honest.

Without the saving grace of one of the best primary health physicians ever, and the loving care of a darling and most beautiful bride, I don’t think that I would be standing. Or sitting. Or, perhaps, laying down. Or, for that matter,  on the green side of the ground. Or so it seems, at the least.

Without the restoring hope and strength that only a Higher Power and the motivation of hearing three beautiful grand sons calling you “Pops” can provide in times of both stress and strain, I don’t know if I would even care so much.

Without feeling badly, I am told, we would never truly enjoy and appreciate the privilege of feeling great. But I am here — thank God — to tell you that feeling great is great. Greater than great. The greatest feeling ever, to be true. And, feeling poorly? Well, it sucks. Big disparity.

But on Tuesday morn, despite the hour and the battle scars of yet another lung infection, I still woke with one overpowering, positive and thrilling thought bouncing in my head. On this day, our 3YO gelding, Knight’s Move, would make his racing debut at Horseshoe Indianapolis for the best team of owners and friends a person could ever assemble on one team.

On Tuesday morn, despite the long, long, long line at the American Airlines counter, I took solace in the fact that our horse would be making his long-await debut in just hours.

On Tuesday morn, despite the fact we arrived at the airport two hours early and still had to run our way from ticket counter through security and to the airport gate, I escaped with the dreams of a great and safe first race for our boy.

On Tuesday morn, I couldn’t wait until a few hours passed so that I could text our trainer (and great friend) Stephen Lyster to check on the horse’s status; his demeanor; his mind set; his body and soul.

It was race day.

It was a day we have been waiting for and pointing to since we purchased him in January of his 2YO year.

It was a day that we sometimes wondered would ever come. After all, 2YO colts have a mind of their own and sometimes the only thing that helps them adjust is when they become 2YO geldings.

It was the day that all horse owners — and lovers — look most forward to with such thrills and chills that it makes the mind bounce with dreams and the tummy roar with butterflies overdosed on caffeine.

It was race day.

So, as we made our way to Charlotte, on the first leg of our journey, I thought about Knight’s Move and his ride from Lexington to Shelbyville, IN. I dreamed about being at the track, and wondered if both horse and team could make it without me. (Of course, they could. After all, I am the least important part. Just a cheerleader.) I dreamed of a “dream trip” and how I wanted so much to see Knight’s Move run well; run like the wind; and whip the heck out of every other horse that had the nerve to challenge him on this day. His day. Our day.

When we arrived in Charlotte, we didn’t even have enough time for a bathroom break. Had to go from Terminal E to Terminal B in about 15 minutes to make our connection. The lovely Leigh Ann, hell bent on making that trip to Key West, looked like the speed horses in this year’s Kentucky Derby. Loose on the lead. Head down. Bowed neck. Hellish fractions. I, on the other hand, looked a little more like Harley, the lead pony to the stars. I can saunter with the best of them. That’s my best “breeze” these days.

Still, as we made our agonizing way from gate to gate, my mind wandered to Knight’s Move. I wondered if he could weave his way through traffic and get to that finish line in time, too, just like we were trying to do. I wondered if he could get up in time and make a dramatic finish. I wondered if he could make it happen.

As fate would have it, both Leigh Ann and I made it to the gate, and, eventually, Key West. Even though one of our travel bags did not. Seems as if American Airlines didn’t put it on the plane in Louisville. Seems as if American Airlines didn’t think we needed it after all.

But since it was Leigh’s bag and not mine, I must admit that I didn’t shed as many tears or “advisory words” to the airline’s crew in Key West as I might have otherwise. That didn’t work when I launched into a rather stirring, and, I thought, convincing tirade to the American Airlines crew in Iceland a couple of years back. So, I didn’t think it was the best strategy in Key West, either.

So, instead of engaging in verbal fisty-cuffs with a beleaguered “AA” employee, I allowed LA to do the bidding, and I sat on the sidelines and texted with Stephen. About guess who? Yep, Knight’s Move.

“How’s he doing?” “Did he ship well?” “Is he resting up?” “How do you think he will run?” I launched question after question. Stephen responded positively to all. By the end, though, I am sure he felt like he had run a race, too.

So, the race was on for the race that was soon to be on.

Instead of pacing the racetrack oval, as I usually do, I walked from sea to shining sea. Instead of plowing into the early races and handicapping along the way, I plowed into a yummy rum drink and my first fish sandwich of the trip. Instead of fidgeting and figuring, I fidgeted and figured from afar.

All the way until it was race time.

And, then both LA and I discovered. Both our phones were nearing the end of their battery lives. Both of them. Nerves wracked.

I tuned into TwinSpires and got the video up on my phone. I watched the pre-game show with “Racing Rachel” McLaughlin, who picked us to win. Bless her little heart. I watched the paddock show and saw both Stephen and co-owner Lori Hebel-Osborne doing their work in the saddling stall. (Lori is there to lay hands and bless.) I watched the horses go to the track and I saw Knight’s Move reject the lead pony like it had the plague. He declined that prom offer quickly and with distain. I watched as our rider, Marcelino Pedroza, just calmly broke off from the post parade and easily galloped into their warm-up session. That man is a maestro in the saddle. I watched until the phone screen when blank. Phone dead.

Quickly, Leigh and I turned to the back-up plan and her back-up phone. We hit keys quicker than I walked from Terminal E to Terminal B. (Did I mention that, already?) We cussed a little and waited impatiently. Until the little light flickered to life. The horses were loading into the gate.

It was race day.

We watched closely — with high hopes — when the gate popped open and they were on their way in the Indiana-bred and Indiana-sired maiden special weight race that was scheduled for 6 furlongs.

But as the group raced to the first and only turn, we watched Knight’s Move race to the back of the pack in a field of 10. At one time, there were 9 horses in front of him. High hopes were dimming as fast as the sun sets in Key West.

Until.

Until Mr. Pedroza began to ask and Knight’s Move began to give.

He passed the two others in the back, and set sail for the others in front of him in the turn.

He weaved in-between some of the tiring leaders and some of the other plodders, and made his way past the flying mud clots to the outside as the stretch run beckoned.

And, then, just then, the dream started to come true.

Knight’s Move was running like I had never seen him before. As if on wings of angels.

He and Pedroza flew by two more and now it looked like they would be 3rd. Leigh and I, sitting by the pool, started to cheer a bit. Maybe he could hit the board.

Hit the board?

Knight’s Move and Pedroza had more in mind. They closed in and flew by the 2nd horse and with just yards to the finish line, our little horse threw his head lower to the ground and dug his hooves into the ground with determination God gave a coal miner.

At the wire, Knight’s Move made a final lunge.

Leigh Ann and I now were standing and yelling and cheering  and shouting. And about 50 other people at the pool — all of whom had no idea what the hell was going on with the two loonies in airport clothes were staring and wondering and questioning.

“Did he win? Did he win? Did he get up in time?”

Leigh Ann shouted.

“I think so. I think so. I hope so. I hope so.”

I shouted.

As soon as the on-track TV cameras switched over to Knight’s Move — looking brave and strong, like I had never seen him before — and showed him galloping gallantly back to the winner’s circle, I sighed.

“We won,” I told LA. “The cameraman is never wrong.”

Sure enough. Knight’s Move had won. By a skinny nose hair. But he had won.

And, with that, the second phone went blank. Gone.

But it didn’t matter. The dream had come true. Knight’s Move had made a King’s Move. Knight’s Move had made “The Move.” Knight’s Move and his run were truly moving.

And, right then and there, I think both LA and I knew why we own racehorses.

It was race day.

And, it was a remarkable day.

A. Remarkable. Day.