Heather Clay grew up on Three Chimneys Farm, a family horse farm in Midway, Ky. She is a graduate of Middlebury College and Columbia University's School of the Arts. She has published short fiction in The New Yorker. She lives in New York City with her husband and their two daughters. “Losing Charlotte” is her first novel.

Random House “Losing Charlotte” by Heather Clay.

The week leading up to the Kentucky Derby is the week when most Americans remember the sport of thoroughbred horse racing exists. They may read a flurry of articles, learn the names of a couple of hot contenders, form an impression of a trainer or jockey with an interesting story. They may tune in to the coverage that begins on the afternoon of the first Saturday in May and, for a couple of hours, become absorbed in a colorful world with its own language, characters and suspense.

The story of the Derby in recent years has, of course, unfolded against the backdrop of a larger story, that of the struggles of the sport of horse racing itself as it strives for relevance amidst closing tracks, falling attendance, cries of overbreeding, failure to maintain hold in the fickle marketplace of sports fandom. As a writer of fiction (who, full disclosure, has deep familial connections to the horse industry and an inherited love for all things thoroughbred), I can relate. I can’t remember the last time I read a positive article about the publishing industry. I am not saying the experts are wrong, or that the evolution of business in a changing world is a bad thing, merely that the backdrop of an industry in flux has surprisingly little to do with my actual job. The overarching story of trends, audience, market share, whispered doom É it doesn't affect me at my desk, and its ephemeral nature, thankfully, can't touch what's real.

And so it is, on a much larger scale, during Triple Crown season. What's real: to root a beloved horse down the track, whether it's yours in reality or in fantasy. This must be one of the more gut-twisting, joyful, terrifying, improbably poignant, fireworks-in-your-solar-plexus moments it is possible to experience as a human. I don't know why and it doesn't make sense, but if you've been there as a participant at any level, you know: you are wholly alive, in the moment, and electrified with possibility. Sure, people feel this in Yankee Stadium, on a mountaintop near the Olympic Village, leaning over the stands at the World Cup, and they feel it whether they are owners, athletes or fans. Yet I have often wondered if part of what might make racing somewhat challenging to translate is also what makes it so special; the horses. I know this may sound like the world's most obvious statement, but think about it. The athletes, in this case, don't give interviews and drive home at the end of the day in custom-built Hummers. They don't hold out during contract negotiations. Though they do not tell their own stories in the conventional ways, they are pure, their efforts to best one another are ancient and simple, and they run because of some alchemy of what they are asked to do and what evolution has taught them. To see this is to be, even momentarily and even surrounded by those who cannot imagine what the future of racing will look like, relieved of the cynicism we've all gotten too used to (yes, I'm talking to you, Tiger) as sports fans in today's world. The horses, and the emotions they are capable of stirring — surely because of their innocence, their dependence, their silence — in those fans who are still paying attention, tell their own tale. In full gallop, they provide a much more eloquent rebuttal to the prevailing spin than a battery of public relations experts ever could.

It takes a leap of imagination, perhaps, to get it. Sideline chats, locker room postmortems, tabloid gossip and the kinds of endorsement deals that lend huge exposure to those two-legged sports figures we're more used to cheering for would surely make it easier. But while the death knells for racing are sounding all around them, the horses keep running their hearts out, and those who are lucky enough to watch keep experiencing rare moments of transcendence. Another Triple Crown title beckons, as elusive as ever. I, for one, hope that never changes. I'm headed to my desk now, to work on a novel, even though the conventional wisdom holds that fiction is dead, and Kindle is king, and publishing as we know it is over. Well, I'll bet on books anyway. And I'll bet Super Saver to win on Preakness Day. I'm a romantic that way, I guess. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for a really good story.