Big Hearts of Belmont

When Secretariat crossed the finish line, he was 31 lengths ahead—nearly the length of a football field.

May 21, 2025 - I was born in August of 1971, in central, bustling New Jersey—just a year and a half past the most famous racehorse in history taking his first breath. Secretariat was born on March 30, 1970, in Virginia, at Meadow Stable, and by the time I was old enough to toddle, he was already rewriting the record books.

Baby Secretariat

Fast forward to 1989. I graduate high school in June, turned 18 that late summer, and by autumn, on October 4th, the most famous horse of all time, Secretariat, died. He was 19. Even people who’d never seen a race knew his name. A veterinarian told the media that the post-mortem evaluation had revealed something extraordinary: his heart weighed an estimated 22 pounds, which was more than double the average horse’s heart. It was perfectly formed - not the least bit diseased - just giant. Built to run. Built to win. Built, it seemed, for something more than just a horse. Built for legends.

It wasn't until few years later, on campus in my Anatomy and Physiology 301 course, I was able to fully appreciate the news of Secretariat's big heart. We were presented with various specimens in class - frogs, pigs and lab mice. But one day, an actual real-life horse’s heart was brought into the class. Enormous. Bigger than I'd ever imagined. Imagine the size and weight of perhaps a medium-sized dog or maybe a toddler. I had a daughter, my big heart, Nicquelle at this time – and she was this size. The professor explained how this was the “engine” of a creature whose power output was nearly four times that of a human. In fact, one horsepower - the unit - is based on the energy needed to lift 550 pounds one foot in one second. A healthy horse can generate 15, even 20 horsepower at full gallop.

Now double that for the case of Secretariat.

I didn’t grow up around horses. You’d think I did, the way I obsess over racing silks and historic bloodlines, but no. My only brush with the sport at this time was getting dragged along to the Meadowlands Racetrack by a pack of degenerate teenage friends. They didn’t care about horses. They never left the betting booths. The place smelled like stale beer and old hope. It was dark... loud... sticky. I didn’t even know where the stables were, and honestly, I was too intimidated to go look. I had no idea I was standing in the same space where legends had galloped.

I didn’t know it then - but the stables were just beyond the concourse.

I didn’t know it then - but greatness had thundered down those same lanes.

I didn’t know it then - but I was in the presence of the big hearts.

...a flame may have been lit. But I didn’t know it then.

The Race That Made Our Hearts Skip a Beat

Little Dawn Stolz (Hartfelder) somewhere around 1973.

As I’ve already indicated, Secretariat was already a legend by the time I was learning to walk. But on June 9, 1973, he became something else entirely. That day, at Belmont Park, he lined up to run the Belmont Stakes, the longest and most brutal of the three Triple Crown races. He had already won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness Stakes, and if he won this too, he’d be the first horse in 25 years to sweep the Crown.

"They're on the backstretch. It's almost a match race now.

Secretariat's on the inside by a head.” - Chic Anderson

But here’s what people don’t understand if they’ve never watched horse racing: the Belmont is a graveyard for favorites. That means the horses everyone expects to win—the fast ones, the flashy ones, the ones with the hype - often don’t. The Belmont is long: a mile and a half, the longest of the Triple Crown races. It's not built for early speed; it's built for stamina, for pacing, for heart. Horses that blaze through the shorter Kentucky Derby and Preakness often hit a wall at Belmont. Their legs go heavy. Their breath shortens. They falter in that final stretch while the long-striders—those with rhythm, reserves, and resilience—come surging forward. In other words, the Belmont doesn't care about your odds. It asks one question: what’s left in your heart?

But Secretariat didn’t fade.

He exploded.

At a few minutes past 5:30 on the afternoon of June 9, 1973, Charles (Chic) Anderson raised binoculars to his eyes and prepared to call the 105th running of the Belmont Stakes. He was 41 years old, married with five children, living an itinerant life that took him away from the family home in Evansville, Ind., for weeks at a time, but one which he clearly loved. He had been calling races since the late 1950s; in 1961 he became the regular caller at Churchill Downs and eight years later was hired by CBS to call the Triple Crown races on its telecasts. He was at the pinnacle of his career. Yet he couldn’t have known in that instant—because who does? - that words he spoke in the ensuing two-and-a-half minutes would outlive him by decades and help frame one of the seminal moments in sports history. (from Yahoo sports)

Chic Anderson’s voice cracked through the television speakers, astonished and breathless:

"They're on the turn, and Secretariat is blazing along! The first three-quarters of a mile in 1:09 and four-fifths. Secretariat is widening now! He is moving like a TREMENDOUS MACHINE. Secretariat by 12, Secretariat by 14 lengths on the turn!"

From the gate, he took the lead. And not a small one. He pulled away like he was racing ghosts. The farther he ran, the faster he went. His stride was so long and effortless that his jockey, Ron Turcotte, just sat still—he wasn’t asking the horse for more. Secretariat was giving it freely.

When he crossed the finish line, he was 31 lengths ahead—nearly the length of a football field. The crowd was screaming. The announcer’s voice cracked with disbelief. The final time: 2 minutes, 24 seconds. A world record that still stands.

It was so much more than a win. It was a moment when a living creature transcended the sport. No one had ever seen anything like it.

And they never have since.

"Secretariat is all alone!

He's out there almost a sixteenth of a mile away from the rest of the horses!

Secretariat is in a position that seems impossible to catch!"

- Chic Anderson

But Secretariat didn’t do it alone.

Ron Turcotte, Secretariat’s jockey, wasn’t the loud kind. He came from a tiny town in New Brunswick, one of 14 kids in a logging family. He was supposed to be a carpenter. Ended up at the track walking horses just to make a little money—and somehow, he became one of the greatest riders of all time.

He didn’t learn in some elite racing academy. He learned the old way—by watching, by trying, by listening. And that’s what made him special. He listened.

He didn’t try to control horses. He connected with them. Trusted them. Especially this one.

That day at Belmont, the world watched with clenched fists—but Ron never pulled on the reins. He never asked Secretariat to slow down. He felt what was happening underneath him—that enormous stride, that boundless drive—and he let him go.

Trust like that takes ‘big heart’ to fly with.

And Ron flew.

And then there was Penny Chenery, Secretariat’s owner. She was no one’s underdog. A mother of four, so her heart had already quadrupled too, she stepped into the world of Thoroughbred racing without the pedigree of her male peers—but what she lacked in credentials, she made up for in clarity, courage, and cunning.

1973 Secretariat with Helen Penny Chenery - Triple Crown Legend Horse Racing

When her father, Christopher Chenery, who had built Meadow Stable, had fallen ill, everyone told Penny to sell. Cut losses. Walk away.

Brave heart, she didn’t walk away.

She rolled up her sleeves and took over the operation—flying back and forth from her home in Colorado to Virginia and Kentucky, learning every inch of the business, asking smart questions, and refusing to be patronized.

Bold heart, she didn’t just save the farm—she positioned it for glory.

She faced down male-dominated boardrooms and bloodstock agents who dismissed her. She wore her Sunday gloves to meetings, smiled, and then made history behind the scenes.

Sweet heart, making legends.

And before Secretariat ever set foot on a Triple Crown track, Penny brokered one of the boldest financial moves in the sport’s history: she syndicated Secretariat for $6.08 million. Not out of greed—but necessity. It was how she secured the farm’s future, locked in ownership, and protected what her father had built. It was strategy. It was stewardship. It was, in every sense, big-hearted.

And then there was Lucien Laurin.

A fiery French-Canadian with silver hair and a sharp tongue, Lucien wasn’t supposed to be the guy. He was nearing retirement, content to coast on a long and respectable career. But Penny called him in, and something about the colt hooked him. He agreed—reluctantly, maybe—but it didn’t take long for him to see what others missed.

Secretariat was too big, they said. Too pretty. Too wild. All flash, no grit.

Instinctive heart - Lucien didn’t buy it.

He saw more than beauty—he saw power. Precision. Potential. And he understood something that would become critical to the story: this horse couldn’t be trained like any other. His stride, his build, his temperament—it all demanded something different.

Heart on fire - Lucien fought for that difference.

He pushed for a training schedule that wasn’t standard. He clashed with expectations. He didn’t care about tradition. He cared about the heart. The literal one, yes—but also the fire behind the eyes. The willingness to work. The refusal to fade.

Trainer Lucien Laurin ( March 18,1912- June 26, 2000.) on the right. He played such a pivotal role in Secretariat's and Riva's racing success.

He didn’t train Secretariat to win the Triple Crown.

He trained him to become the only horse in history who could win it like that.

Anderson’s words spilled out like the crowd’s disbelief:

"Secretariat has opened a 22-length lead!

He is going to be the Triple Crown winner!

Here comes Secretariat to the wire.

An unbelievable, an amazing performance!

He hits the finish 25 lengths in front!"

But the final margin was even greater—thirty-one lengths. A number that doesn’t even feel real.

He stopped time that day. All hearts skipped a beat then – and still do when watching the replay.

No one watching could ever forget what it looked like—this animal, this legend, flying down the stretch, as if every ancestor in his bloodline had been born for this exact moment.

Secretariat didn’t just win the Belmont Stakes.

He defined it.

And in doing so, he left behind a legacy so large, it could only be carried in a 22-pound heart - the biggest physical heart racing had ever seen—but the biggest heart in the truest sense of the word.

You can’t win a Triple Crown without it.

The Big Heart (continued...)

The Love Story That Painted a Legacy

A 'navy-er' blue version of the famous silks of Secretariat

I’ve painted four lawn jockeys in the silks of Secretariat now.

Iconic as they are - blazed into our memories - you’d think they’d be easy to paint.

But no. Among the most challenging I’ve ever done. From the striping down the sleeves to the perfectly (ehh, never turns out that way) squaring up of the boxes of checkers - all the way to selecting the right blue. One commission insisted it was more navy. Another said it had to be lighter than the royal blue I selected. And still another requested a Kentucky Derby logo emblazoned across the back.

Challenge… upon challenge.

Famous silks of Secretariat with Kentucky Derby logo added on.

But every time I paint those famous silks, I hear hoofbeats. I feel heartbeats. I hear the roar.

I know I’m not a legend like Secretariat. Or Ron. Or Penny.

But I paint for those legends.

I take your winning spirit - your drive, your story - and I do my best to inscribe it in paint on stone. A forever piece that will outlive us all - your great-grandchildren can tell your story long after the last race has been run.

How did my heart get here—painting lawn jockeys?

It started with a love story.

(to be continued)

Want more stories from the track—and the lawn?

• Read more on the Blog.

• Thinking about a custom lawn jockey to match your silks? Find us at your favorite track or schedule a delivery to bring your colors to life.

• Explore our Gallery to see some the silks of our beloved famous horses displayed on a lawn jockey.

By Dawn Hartfelder

Dawn Hartfelder is a Marketing Analytics Specialist at Sweet Media and an MBA candidate at Arizona State University. A veteran of New Jersey’s largest nonprofit organizations, she’s fluent in navigating chaos and cutting through noise.

She is also—perhaps more notably—the world’s leading lawn jockey painter, bringing equestrian sport’s most iconic colors to life in cast stone. Her expertly crafted jockeys honor the legacy of champions from Secretariat to Zenyatta, blending artistry, heritage, and reverence into every piece.

Her latest blog, Big Hearts at Belmont, weaves a heartfelt love story—of horses, of history, of legacy, and of the deep passion that keeps the sport alive.