On June 9, 1973, a sweltering Saturday afternoon at Belmont Park in Elmont, New York, a sea of more than 69,000 racing fans braced for a moment of history. A sense of suspense crackled in the air, the kind that only appears when the stakes are unimaginably high—because this wasn’t just another race. This was the race. The final jewel of the Triple Crown. And all eyes were on a massive chestnut colt named Secretariat.
The starting gates clanged open with a thunder of hooves. “And they’re off!” roared track announcer Chic Anderson, his voice as much a part of racing lore as any champion’s silks. Right from the jump, it was clear that this wouldn’t be a one-horse procession—not at first, anyway. Another brilliant colt, Sham, who had finished second to Secretariat in both the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, burst out with equal intensity. It wasn’t just Secretariat’s coronation yet. For the first few seconds, the 1973 Belmont Stakes looked like a showdown—a real “match race.”
Through the first turn, Secretariat and Sham ran as one. Neck and neck, stride for stride, muscles coiled and unleashed like springs made of iron. Sham, fierce and unwilling to fold, edged slightly ahead by a head. For a moment, just a heartbeat in time, it was anyone’s race. Anderson’s call echoed across the stands and through the television speakers of millions watching at home. “They’re on the backstretch and it’s still Secretariat and Sham, nose to nose!”
It was all so cinematic—two champions hammering the dirt in rhythm, galloping like two titans in a duel. It was exactly the kind of drama the racing world lives for. But in horse racing, as in life, balance can be shattered in a moment. And that moment came quickly.
As they entered the long backstretch of Belmont Park—a stretch of track where stamina and heart matter more than speed alone—something changed. Secretariat didn’t just pull ahead. He unleashed. It was as if a rocket had been strapped to his hindquarters, and the throttle was being pushed, gradually, but unstoppably, to full.
First, he edged in front by a half-length. Then a full length. Then two. Sham, so full of fire just seconds earlier, tried to respond. He dug in. He surged again. But Secretariat wasn’t running the same race anymore. It was no longer about beating Sham. It was no longer about winning. It was about running. Flying. Galloping into the kind of immortality that lives forever in highlight reels, memory, and myth.
Five lengths. Seven. Ten. The distance grew almost absurdly fast. Sham began to fade, and fade hard. His early burst had cost him dearly, and as Secretariat accelerated, Sham found himself not just passed, but buried by the field. He would finish last that day. And Secretariat? Well…
The camera crews scrambled. The old-school 1973 television rigs were designed to keep races in frame, not breakaways. But Secretariat wasn’t just ahead—he was leaving the other horses in the dust so completely that the camera had to zoom out, way out, to fit him and even one other horse in the same frame. It was like watching a world-class sprinter run in a kids’ fun run. Only Secretariat was no lightweight athlete. He was 1,200 pounds of prime horseflesh, hooves pounding out history with every stride.
Chic Anderson, no stranger to big moments, found himself narrating something truly uncharted. His voice climbed in awe and disbelief. “Secretariat is widening now! He is moving like a tremendous machine!” Those words have become legend, preserved in racing history not just for what they described, but for how perfectly they captured the surreal power of what the world was witnessing.
And what the world was witnessing wasn’t just a dominant win—it was the most dominant win in the history of American horse racing. The lead ballooned. Fifteen lengths. Twenty. Twenty-five. When Secretariat rounded the final turn into the stretch, the rest of the field was so far behind they looked like an afterthought. He galloped solo down the final stretch like he owned it—as though the entire race was a mere exhibition of his capability.
By the time he crossed the finish line, the gap wasn’t just remarkable—it was almost inconceivable. 31 lengths. That number, that staggering measure of dominance, remains untouched. It’s more than a margin. It’s a monument.
But what made this victory so transcendent wasn’t just the numbers. It was how it happened. Horses are herd animals by nature. They don’t like being alone. They run best with company, with a challenge nearby, a companion at their shoulder. It’s why so many races tighten in the final stretch—because most horses slow without another animal pushing them.
But Secretariat wasn’t like other horses. In that moment, in that mile and a half at Belmont, he rejected his nature. He didn’t want to stay with the herd. He didn’t need a challenge. He didn’t want company. He just ran—and ran harder, faster, and farther than any thoroughbred ever had on that kind of stage.
To break away from the field is rare. To do it with a Triple Crown on the line—when the weight of pressure, history, and expectation is suffocating—is unheard of. But that’s what Secretariat did. He ran away from his rivals, from the crowd, from the record books, and right into legend.
There’s a kind of silence that follows greatness. A hush not of reverence, but of shock. At Belmont Park that day, as Secretariat thundered across the line, there was a beat where no one quite knew how to react. Then came the roar—ecstatic, disbelieving, joyful. People cried. Grown men hugged strangers. Trainers, owners, jockeys—veterans of the track—watched with open mouths. They knew what they had seen. They knew they’d never see anything like it again.
Secretariat’s time for the mile and a half that day was 2:24 flat—a record that stands to this day. It’s not just unbeaten. It’s untouchable. Horses have tried. Jockeys have hoped. But no one has come close. That time is carved in stone. It is a ceiling no one has breached, a ghost that haunts every Belmont field since.
And yet, maybe the most enduring image of that day isn’t the stopwatch or the margin. It’s the image of Secretariat on the far turn, alone, running not against Sham or the others, but against limits. Against biology. Against probability. It’s the image of him accelerating when every other horse was tiring. Of a champion deciding that good wasn’t enough. That domination wasn’t enough. He wanted to soar.
In the years since, Secretariat has become more than a racehorse. He’s a symbol. A benchmark. A mythic figure in American sports. People who don’t follow horse racing know the name. Children read about him in school. His story transcends the sport. Because what he did that day—what unfolded in the 1973 Belmont Stakes—wasn’t just a win.
It was proof that, every once in a while, something truly extraordinary happens. Something no one can predict. Something no one can quite believe, even when it’s right in front of them. Secretariat’s Belmont wasn’t just a race. It was a miracle on four legs.
And it all started with one simple phrase.
“And they’re off.” 🇺🇸🐴
