SARATOGA SPRINGS, N.Y. -- They line the rail each morning, residents of the town and tourists on vacation. Little kids. Husbands and wives. College buddies. Friends. They come to see the horses, to catch a glimpse of the life we live. If they can't make it in for breakfast, they stand by the fence on East Avenue, peering through to the magic of the Oklahoma oval. Somehow, in the beat of hooves against this soft dirt track, they find the wonder we once knew. I stand on the clubhouse steps before the winner's circle as the last few runners gallop from the oval. It's a new day. Rain is in the air. I look down at a little girl as she gazes, wide-eyed, at a passing stable pony. I remember what brought me to this sport, and why I embrace it in spite of its shortcomings and failures, in spite of the crazy people I deal with, hate, and love. It's far too easy to lose sight of the mystique of racing, the beauty of the horses, the joy of the game. Too tempting to put our heads down and plough through the season, so much work to do. It's a world we know so very well, and when it envelops us, we often lose our breathing room. Sometimes, I think, we ought to take time to remember what brought us here. Sometimes we ought to realize how lucky we really are.