A Rolling Stone
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- 21 hours ago
- 3 min read
Hope all of you enjoyed the turning of the calendar and stepped into 2026 with your curiosity intact.
I recently took a moment—rare for me—and watched A Complete Unknown. Timothy Chalamet portrays a young Bob Dylan wandering into early-1960s New York, armed with nothing but a guitar, a voice, and the audacity to become someone people didn’t quite know what to do with. His rise was meteoric, yes—but not joyful. Not easy. Because success, you see, is rarely about achievement. It’s about expectation. About the uncomfortable moment when the world decides who you’re supposed to be and grows irritated when you refuse to comply.
Dylan wasn’t troubled by fame. He was troubled by the leash that came with it.
Which brings me—inevitably—to handicapping.
We are told, collectively and relentlessly, that the correct way to see the world is the way it’s always been seen. Same figures. Same angles. Same biases. Ten years ago. Twenty years ago. As if time itself had the courtesy to stand still out of respect for tradition. It doesn’t. It never has. And it takes a peculiar kind of courage to let go of what you’re expected to look for and instead follow what your instincts—your gut—are quietly insisting.
Ask yourself: how does it feel now?
Figures, tips, biases—old friends, all of them. But friends can lie. Figures are man-made, and anything made by man deserves suspicion. Timing inconsistencies. Questionable run-ups. Interpretations treated like gospel. An 89 versus an 86—three points that evaporate into a length, a step, a breath. I once heard a seasoned handicapper announce a two-point regression like it was a geopolitical crisis. Breaking news. Except it wasn’t news at all. It was noise.
Horses are not machines. A sharp horse can outrun numbers. A compromised horse can collapse despite them. This is not revelation—it’s reality.
Tips, of course, are far more dangerous. They masquerade as generosity while quietly draining a man’s will at the windows. A whisper begins with an owner’s pride, passes through friends eager to sound important, and by the time it reaches you it has gathered more distortion than truth. Like a rolling stone. Tips are everywhere. You are still alone.
And biases—ah yes, the mirages. Usually spotted just after a favored horse disappoints. “I wasn’t wrong,” the mind insists. “The track was.” One race, a short-priced favorite hugging the rail, and suddenly we’re declaring geological phenomena. Golden rails. Dead paths. The truth is far less romantic. Horses are taught to finish inside. Speed naturally gravitates there. Sometimes the horse is simply… not good enough. An explanation we avoid because it offers no alibi.
The track isn’t deeper inside. That’s one of the more imaginative fictions we tell ourselves.
Some horses love the rail. Some despise being crowded. Some prefer daylight and space. That’s not bias—it’s personality. Individuality. The very thing we too often ignore.
Which is why I keep saying this: you must learn to see again.
Most handicappers look, but they don’t observe. They gravitate toward the loud ones—the animated, dancing, performances in the paddock or post parade, they make you notice. Pulse equals promise, they think. Through my window, loud is a warning. I prefer the plain ones. Asleep at the wheel. Ears up. No theater. Just business. The kind that doesn’t announce itself.
I remember what I see. I carry it forward. It’s there if you read beyond the rating.
Workouts? Another arena of misplaced confidence. “He worked fast.” Naturally. Time is all most people see. Two horses: one in 1:01.2, the other in :59.2. Nearly everyone turns toward the stopwatch and away from understanding. That reflex—that conditioning—is exactly what needs to be undone.
You can’t learn something new if you’re clinging to what you think you already know.
The game has changed. Permanently. And the only question worth asking is whether you’re willing to change with it. To let go. To stop playing the role you’ve been assigned. To think differently.
Because if you can—truly can—you might just discover what Dylan did.
That's the resolution for 2026, escaping that leash, then you'll be like A rolling stone.