Dick Taylor's Decades as a Harness Horse Trainer We recommend that you view these images in full-screen mode. Every morning, as he has for more than 65 years, my grandfather rises early, hitches a filly to a harness and jogs her around a dusty track. With one leg dangling from the training cart, he clutches his stopwatch and holds the reins tightly. He works her up slowly, building up speed, and hopes that one day she will finish in the money. He feels. He counts. He listens. Richard "Dick" Taylor - my mother's father - was a young man who made it through the Depression and World War II when he began this daily ritual as a small-time breeder and trainer on a modest farm he had started in Central Indiana. Back then, fields surrounded the track. Today, stately suburban homes with manicured lawns creep up to the fence posts. But he keeps the sprawl at bay, living life on his terms and with his horses. "There's something about a horse," he likes to say, citing Winston Churchill. The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man. Before the big tracks and casino money took over the sport, he was immersed in the world of county fair racing for Indiana-bred horses and their trainers. He found modest success in nearby states, raising champions that were victorious in Chicago and Lexington, Ky. Sometimes he trained for other owners. But his own horses, his patience and careful training - as well as his attention to maternal bloodlines - brought him success that outstripped his small operation. It's no surprise he's a character. He is tough, with a quick temper that brooks no foolishness. Yet he can also be quiet and polite, warm and interested in others. Like many who endured the Depression, he doesn't spend much. On his farm there isn't a broken harness or busted inner tube that can't be saved and pressed back into service. His politics are liberal, he reads widely and pores over The New Yorker each week. He keeps a diary filled with short entries that repeat in a kind of rhythm: the filly's fastest mile, the bills that were paid, the relatives who called. Sometimes the entry reads: "Vic arrived." When I was a child, the horses, the races, even this tall, quiet man scared me. Later, I was fascinated by him and his world. I even moved to the farm when I was 25, thinking I would learn how to groom horses and become a trainer. We were two stubborn bachelors - one old and the other young - and after a few cold months I moved on to other adventures. After years of working here and abroad as a documentary photographer, I returned to the farm two and a half years ago. Photography is about time, and I wanted to hold on to some of it with him. I wanted to have a way to always remember. My grandfather is older. There have been fewer good seasons. But he keeps going on that dusty track, even if he is quietly frustrated by the physical limitations of his 84 years. He doesn't talk much of the future. Yet he starts every spring like he did this year, with the promise of speed and soundness. He only wants to run fast, get out clean at the top of the stretch and blow by at the finish. After all these years, he has stuck to his credo: To know more about a horse tomorrow than I do today. Find Lens on Facebook and Twitter.