I go because when those gorgeous beasts pound past on the homestretch, necks straining, bodies soaring, my heart gallops with them. I scream, I jump, I go hoarse. I’m a horse girl, a rider, a Maryland native who has ridden my share of OTTBs — off-the-track Thoroughbreds, retired racehorses who go on to second and third acts. I grew up cantering bareback among tobacco fields in Southern Maryland, bombing around for the sheer joy of it. Once, at a fair, I got to race my horse, a strawberry roan named Shane, on a real race track. Shane wasn’t built for speed, but that track was. We both felt it. He arched his neck and plumed his tail, and when I whispered “go!” we flew to the lead, glorying in a gallop with no divots, no stones, no foxholes, no unseen dangers, until another horse overtook us and won.