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Now the rest of the story. It started one night, 1874, on the horse ranch of a Hungarian sportsman named Ernest von Blaskowicz. That was the night the mare was foaled. Surely the most unattractive example of miniature horse flesh in the history of equine breeding. The owner wondered what on earth could have gone wrong. The foals, sire and dam were English bred, were substantial horses. But their offspring was the ugliest thing anyone in the stables had ever seen. A knobby kneed, spindly legged, short neck mare, colt and ugly horseling von Blaskowicz offered her for sale. Nobody was even slightly interested in the homely, ungainly little filly. And so the owner, with more than a touch of sarcasm, named the foal Kinsham K I n csem, which in his native language meant my fortune, bad luck, that sort of thing. He couldn't possibly have guessed the rest of the story at June of 1876, as a two year old Kensham entered a race. What? She won, she won. Nobody was more surprised than her owner. He never tried to sell her again. In fact, two weeks later, Kensham was entered in another race. And again she crossed the finish line. The winner, the winner. Imagine this. You know they could never even get Kinsham up to the line for the start. They didn't have gates in those days. And this ugly mare would lay back there standing lazily behind the starting line. And no matter how harder jockey would try to encourage her, she would refuse to move up with the other horses. Some instinctive sense of inferiority it's been suggested. Only when the starter would give up and finally give the signal. Only when the field was off and Kinsham could hear the sudden pounding of the hoofs on the turf. Then she would take off after the others and catch him and pass him. One day Kensham was entered to run against the winner of the German Derby. This was the continent's biggest race of the year. Kensham was still grazing when the field broke. Then her ears went up. She pulled herself together like an accordion. And then with a great push from her skinny hindquarters, she launched herself in pursuit of the field. Her break was grotesque, but her stride was smooth. Into the first turn, Kensham cut around the trail enders on the outside into the far turn, up the back stretch. Suddenly these near side spectators who couldn't see knew what was happening from the screams of those on the far side who could. Kensham was fighting for a hole. The front runners were crowded. When the fleet footed Hungarian two year old suddenly cut off at the rail and then forced their way to the front. And finally in the stretch, with that knobby kneed, Miracle pounding farther out front with every stride. 10,000 eyes. And shortly after, 10 nations knew there had been a champion like this never ever before nor since. For Kenshin won every race she ran as a two year old, then as a three year old, fast track or sloppy track, professional bookies finally refused to accept bets on her at any odds. For to this day, none has ever beaten, none has ever equaled Kensham's lifetime record in 54 major races before she was retired. She One everyone. That is the official record which stands unequal to this day. With this footnote, which never appeared in any record book, the ugliest horse that was ever born became the greatest horse that ever lived. And now you know the rest of the story.