Here Comes the Fog

Said Aleo: "How am I going to compare this great horse, winning eight in a row, with the Battle of the goddamn Bulge? Forget it." End of interview. The exchange is now legendary among Lost in the Fog's fans, and it's not hard to see why: Here was this Northern California arriviste, putting one of those eastern types in his place. For many around the Bay Area, which much of the sport regards as the sticks (although to be sure, some think "the sticks" means anything west of Louisville), Lost in the Fog's success is not just about a local product making good; it's about the establishment's comeuppance.

Aleo, who as a kid used to drop 50-cent bets on the horses with the neighborhood bookie and didn't buy his first horse until 1979, has also distinguished himself from his peers in his handling of Lost in the Fog. Where most owners would've pushed to get a horse of Lost in the Fog's caliber onto the proving ground of the Kentucky Derby (a grueling proposition for any 3-year-old, let alone a sprinter), Aleo, along with Gilchrist, didn't think the horse was ready and withdrew him from contention. And where anyone else in Aleo's position likely would've already sold Lost in the Fog and collected a sizable return -- he was purchased for just $140,000 and, judging by the calls Aleo fields these days, could now command several million dollars -- Aleo has remained steadfast. "The horse is not for sale," he says. "All this excitement and fun I'm having, just to get some money? Then what? Then I've got to start looking for a good horse again? These don't come around once in a million. So I'll run the horse. After a couple years, I'll retire him to stud.

"A lot of people sell 'em right away. Like Smarty Jones. They sold him for $38 million. The guy is older than I am -- he's in a goddamn wheelchair. What's he going to do with $38 million that he can't do now, you know what I mean?"

Aleo is in many ways the ideal owner for his struggling sport, which is quick to dragoon its promising horses into stardom but then despairs as they fade into premature (and very profitable) retirement. Even if Lost in the Fog does achieve the stardom many people foresee for him, he will finish his career, health permitting, on the track.

It's made Aleo an unlikely sort of hero, the cult around his horse beginning to swallow him up as well. Back at Golden Gate Fields, Aleo greets a group of people who have come to watch Lost in the Fog's workout. These are some of Gilchrist's neighbors, actually, and Aleo goes around the circle, shaking hands pleasantly. "Harry," one of them says, "I heard a quote from Saratoga, where an ESPN reporter asked if Lost in the Fog compared to the Battle of the Bulge ...." Later, when the workout is over, an older woman in the group will ask Aleo to sign a stack of what look like racing programs. "This is a treat to have you do this," she'll tell a reluctant Aleo. "Thank you so much." These programs, the woman will explain as Aleo takes a Sharpie in his trembling hand, were made up for her late husband's memorial service. "My husband was so fond of watching your horse."

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Gilchrist's stables are a collection of low-slung green buildings not far from the track. As we wait for Lost in the Fog to be led out of his stall, Aleo and I watch some of the other horses canter to-and-fro, many of them beneath a female rider. "A lot of women in this business," Aleo says. "I used to hate it, years ago. It just didn't go with the horses. But over the years I've thought, 'You know, they get along better with the horses.'" A heftier woman bounces by on a horse. "Now there's an extra-sized rider," Aleo says. "That's kind of like a batter when he picks up two bats. The horse loves the jockey then."

After a few moments, Lost in the Fog materializes in the distance, next to his groom, Pascual Garcia. Garcia knows the horse as well as anybody. He flies with him for out-of-town races (Lost in the Fog, it is said, "travels better than a Samsonite"), coos to him all day in broken English ("Heyheyhey, where you goin', Foggy?"), even sleeps in the barn with him, or at least close by him, the night before races. Garcia was with Gilchrist back when the trainer had Soviet Problem, the 1994 California Horse of the Year, but Garcia says this horse, Foggy, is his favorite. "This is the big horse," he says. The big horse: It's that rare simple phrase in the lexicon of the track; horsepeople use it to refer to the breadwinner of any given stable, but also, more generally, to any great horse. "Too much class, this horse," Garcia says.