Zenyatta falls short in 'quest for perfection' but legend is intact

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You are pretty hard to please if you treat one of the greatest races of all time as an anti-climax. Freeze the moment, deep into that final, shuddering effort. The moment when it became obvious to the fans, screaming and shaking as they were, that a physical capacity consummating generations of horse lore – the giant, sprawling stride of Zenyatta – would reach the end of the spool either one step before the winning post, or one step beyond.

This was what they had really come for, this fleeting, exquisite agony. Not for the winning line itself, with its coarse release from uncertainty. There will always be a pay-off, one way or another, in the Breeders' Cup Classic or the seller at Wolverhampton today. But it was these searing spasms of hope and dread that flavoured the moment with eternity. Whatever happened now, whatever the different spans of the 72,739 lives that briefly converged at Churchill Downs on Saturday, for a moment at least they all knew themselves gloriously, enviably alive. As an immaculate autumn sky bled away, the dusk air cold but electric, here was the race of a lifetime.

Unbeaten in 19 starts, Zenyatta had prompted the publicists to bill her toughest assignment (and almost certainly her last) as "the quest for perfection". Her failure to catch Blame, however, did not so much diminish the legend as complete it. It was the flaw deliberately sewn into a Persian carpet, by the weaver whose skills might otherwise seem so divine as to contain intimations of blasphemy. In taking her theatrical running style to insuperable extremes – detached by some eight lengths at the first bend – she showed how miraculous it was, that she had never previously left it too late.

Perfection, after all, has no earthly use. You cannot conquer flaws if you have none. That's why, in messianic tradition, the divine becomes mortal. What was unquestionably Zenyatta's most celestial performance was also the one that introduced her to failure. Last year, when she won this race on home territory, in California, Mike Smith had said that his mount was "sent by God". On Saturday, the poor man sobbed uncontrollably as he reproached himself for what felt not so much a defeat as a desecration. Even the name of the colt who beat her, Blame, seemed to mock him. But he should comfort himself that those who now think less of Zenyatta could never have loved her properly.

It was not the jockey's fault, anyway. After plying her trade largely on synthetic tracks in California, Zenyatta was having dirt kicked into her face for the first time – her previous experience of the surface had been in small fields – and she plainly considered the novelty an unpleasant one. Admittedly, she had also lacked focus in the early stages at Santa Anita last year, but this time she reached the first bend so far behind that she instead seemed to be reprising the ludicrous race that undid so much good work in the final reel of the Seabiscuit movie. Smith was certainly not complacent, urging her forward, but those whose attention had been seduced by prime-time, mainstream curiosity in Zenyatta must have felt that they had been sold a pup. At that stage, she was 30 lengths behind the tearaways up front.

She had certainly matched her billing in the preliminaries. Stimulated by a frenzy of cheering and flashbulbs, her familiar habit of prancing and pawing obtained a frenetic, nervous quality. Zenyatta could tell something was up, big time. She danced and skittered every step of the way, as she was led from the barns on the back stretch, past the stands, through the tunnel into the paddock. And it was this theatricality that was her undoing, so distracted was she early on.

As it was, her improbable surge down the stretch was only foiled because she had to drop gear switching for a run. Blame hung tough, holding out by a head, the pair clear. For the first and only time, Zenyatta would be ushered away with the other beaten horses, their heads bowed, flanks heaving. Blame's rider, Garrett Gomez, demonstratively saluted her as she was led past him, but that was not enough to stifle some childish boos as he proceeded to the winner's circle.

Smith bravely consented to a press conference only minutes later but could not suppress his grief. After decorously complimenting Blame, he faltered and then broke down as he reiterated that Zenyatta should have won. "She's my everything," he said. "It hurts more than I can explain, just because it was my fault. I believe she ranks up there with the greatest of all time. If I'd have won this, you could arguably say she was. To come up a nose short is just - it's too hard."

The thought irresistibly suggests itself that Zenyatta's first mating, once retired, should be with Blame himself. With her giant physique and extrovert character, she founded her career in the egotism of a herd leader, and submission to her only conqueror would be a corollary approved by Nature. More of a gentleman, perhaps, is Gio Ponti, who followed her home last year and this time escorted another great mare to an unprecedented third Breeders' Cup success in the Mile.

For the European raiders were yet again indebted to Goldikova, their only other winner being Dangerous Midge, who gamely exploited Workforce's defection from the Turf. Whether the French mare might stay in training remains to be seen, but she certainly looks better than ever, her acceleration this time seeming almost mechanical. It did not take long, however, for everyone to be reminded that brilliance is never routine.

Goldikova has been beaten six times in 21 starts, but it is Zenyatta who has always offered the greater sense of the hazards that accompany a mighty, independent, female spirit. After she flashed through the photo-finish beam with Blame, palpably inches too short, a shivering, crepuscular silence suddenly suffused the inflamed atmosphere. Night was stealing across the huddled knolls and woodland beyond, enveloping ochre, gold and russet in the same gloom. We knew, now, that she was not invincible. She was better than that.

Turf account

* Chris McGrath's Nap

Mount Juliet (2.05 Wolverhampton)

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* Next best

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* One to watch

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* Where the money's going

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