A world away from hitting the finish line of a classic race in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans, the dream is reborn.

In the quiet of a gray winter morning, when the earth throws its warmth off into the cold air and envelops fields in a shroud of fog, it begins. A van door slides open; a stall gate unlatched; hooves rhythmically hit ground; workers struggle to position their wards and renew the cycle of life.

Hours earlier, in the blackness, the fruits of last year’s labor appear–wet, impossibly fragile, irresistible. Beautiful babies rise up from the straw, find their first meal under mom’s watchful eye, and carry on their backs the hopes of so many. Could this be the one?

The generations of the Thoroughbred are entrusted today to the breeding farm. Unlike the beginnings of life in the wild, the goal is to create as controlled an atmosphere as humanly possible. To do so requires dozens of workers expert in trades as diverse as medicine and muck. It requires also an investment of millions of dollars in land, equipment, and labor. And an emotional investment that will reap moments of joy and despair