The cameras cut away, looking for something, anything else to show, but it was hard to justify even a shot of the winner of America’s greatest horse race as Eight Belles lay on the track in the last few moments of her life with both her ankles broken.

Her death was abrupt. There was none of the lingering hope that accompanied Barbaro’s injury just two years ago. There will be no get-well cards, no banners. Bundles of flowers, perhaps, but to where? For what?

Had she run herself to death? Ruffian did, running in a match race against 1975 Kentucky Derby winner Foolish Pleasure. Ruffian was a brave filly, a serious runner, and she was winning when her ankle shattered. She tried to keep going. At the risk of over-anthropomorphizing her, it seemed as if she couldn’t believe she was losing, as if she couldn’t believe that she could no longer run. And again in 1990, Go For Wand, running in the Distaff at Belmont Park. She broke her ankle at the 16th pole, fell, dismounting her jockey, and got back up to try to finish the race.

Eight Belles had certainly given the race everything she had. Coming out of the turn onto the stretch, she came up around the outside of Recapturetheglory. She ran with her head sort of cocked to the right. Big Brown had already cleared the pacesetters and was on the stretch. She seemed to drift into Recapturetheglory, Gabriel Saez steered her clear and she drifted back out, and then she got free of the field and had her eyes on nothing but Big Brown. Big Brown was running like a champion, and he’ll be one for sure. There was a moment at the top of the stretch when she gained on him, and the gap closed, and it took my breath away. Then Big Brown found something else, he went to the well and proved that all the noise coming out of his barn had been true — he’s the real thing. Eight Belles was watching him run away, trying to catch him. She would not give up. It seems a foregone conclusion that she ran beyond her own limitations.

But you can’t blame a horse for running. Running is what horses do. Certainly you shouldn’t criticize a horse for running as well as Eight Belles did.

Nor should we blame the trainer. We should not imagine that Eight Belles wouldn’t have broken down if she’d raced against fillies. Nor should we imagine that fillies are the weaker sex, or that they have a proclivity to break down. Thoroughbreds break down, all of them. I don’t think it is gender specific.

Ruffian and Go For Wand are admired for their lionhearted determination, and their amazing talent. Like Barbaro, they became symbols. They became heroes. Their names were picked up as rallying cries to improve the sport and make it safer for horses.

But of course we don’t need any more rallying cries. This tragic club didn’t need any more members. We don’t need the Barbaro Memorial Fund to become the Barbaro & Eight Belles Memorial Fund. Breakdowns don’t need another symbol.

Bill Nack wrote an article in Sports Illustrated in 1993 and estimated that a horse breaks down — either in racing or training — for every 22 races run.

These horses are not symbols. The breakdowns aren’t televised. They haven’t won the hearts of anyone outside of the shedrow. It is an absurdly high number — thousands of horses a year.

In 2006, after Barbaro’s breakdown, I wrote that I hoped that Barbaro’s calamity would continue to inspire attention. And the things that we, the racing fans, wanted done are already getting done. The tracks are being resurfaced — Churchill Downs is still dirt, but many tracks have switched to artificial surfaces that are safer and better for the horses. After Saturday, I’d be amazed if the switch wasn’t mandated.

I said in 2006 that I am not a vet, and that although my understanding of the drugs coursing through the blood of our thoroughbreds is neither subtle nor detailed, perhaps these drugs should be re-examined. I hoped that the industry would continue to tighten the rules for drugs that have been approved and those that remain illegal. It seems that moves in this direction have been made.

Certainly we should continue to ask that breeding be somewhat reformed; perhaps we can return to thoroughbreds bred to run, bred for stamina. Today’s quick sprinters, bred for the auction ring to repay investment quickly in short races, are built of glass.

Yesterday, I stood in a Virginia field, hills rolling out in every direction, all the trees in full leaf. I had old familar faces all around me, and, ridiculously, yet another mint julep in my hand. We were at the finish line for the Bull Run Hunt Point to Point races, tailgating. It was a fabulous day, blue sky, children everywhere, beautiful horses, but in the back of my mind the question lingered: Should we even do this? Should we participate in this — breeding and racing horses? The horses came around the turn toward the finish line, and I watched an old friend of mine, Sara Frederick, up in the irons, hands up over the withers of her horse as she pushed him towardsthe finish line. Her horse was running hard, up hill over the grass. She won, and for one transcendent moment I forgot all the trouble, all the mess that is horse racing. There was nothing but beauty, speed, and grace.

mwatman@nysun.com