OUR NATION’S BICENTENNIAL & A MULE NAMED LEROY

The year was 1976 and the country was in the grip of bicentennial fever. In honor of this momentous occasion, two men, Chuck Waggoner and Randy Scheiding, two horse-loving salesmen from the Midwest, decided to organize The Great American Horse Race. This race was unlike any other. The animals and riders would cross the United States, from Frankfort, New York, to Sacramento, California, a distance of some 3,500 miles through 13 states.

The route incorporated some of the Oregon Trail, the Pony Express Trail, and even the Donner Party's doomed journey. The pace, though, was new—3,500 miles over 14 weeks, farther and longer than any organized race within memory. 

On May 31, 91 teams, nearly 200 horses, stood at the start line, well-muscled specimens from around the world. There were Arabian stallions, the acknowledged favorite to win, Irish thoroughbreds, Icelandic horses, Appaloosas, a Russian Orlov stallion… and Lord

Fauntleroy, Leroy for short. 

Leroy was the mount of Virl Norton, a steeplejack from San Jose, California. (That means he earned a living climbing tall structures to repair them.) That’s Leroy on the right of Norton. Leroy and his backup mule, lady Eloise, would challenge expectations and a lot of fancy horse flesh.

The racers were accompanied by friends and relatives, about 750 in all, who would drive to the day’s destination with supplies and wait for the racers to arrive. They would do the shopping, the cooking, set up the camp, etc. Norton had a team of one—his 16-year-old son, Pierce, driving a 1971 Dodge pickup with loose steering

The race was designed on a 35 miles per day schedule. With mandatory vet checks every 10 miles, it was named by some as the slowest race ever. And it was grueling. Not to mention expensive. Though the event was plagued by money problems, with staff quitting and riders staging a mutiny to try and get the organizers replaced, the race went on. Some horses went lame and riders switched to their backup mounts. And some of those went lame, too. Even Lady Eloise suffered an injury and had to be retired from the race. She was replaced by Norton’s other mule, Deacon.

Yet, through it all, Norton and Leroy continued. They would linger in towns along the way, posing for pictures and giving rides to the children, then make up the time by skipping water stops. If another team had trouble, Norton and Leroy would stop to help. Still, when they reached Kankakee, Illinois, only 800 miles into the race, they were in the lead. Norton hadn't planned to be in first place that soon, but the lead only grew as he and Leroy they walked through prairies, deserts, mountains and town, all the way to California.

They were the 31^st team to cross the line, but, though the organizers had to tally times and penalties before a winner was announced, Leroy already knew the race was his. As he crossed the finish line he let out a victious “hee-haw” in celebration.

When the final count came through, it was Team Mule by a landslide, with 315.47 total hours in the saddle. In second came an Arabian with 324.6 hours with penalties – he’d gone lame and had to ride the final leg in the trailer. When Waggoner and Scheiding announced the top ten, it was a who's-who of thoroughbreds, with two long-eared exceptions: Lord Fauntleroy, five Arabians, one Appaloosa, one Irish Connemara—and Deacon, the other mule.

The $25,000 purse had been won  by a mule. When a few of the riders accused Norton of cheating, he said he’d wire the money to a bank in New York and they could ride back and get it.

Lord Fauntleroy, the Great American Horse, lived out his days in a green pasture near San Jose, California, a fitting end for an animal who pulled off a very American dream.