You Can't Be Twenty At Churchill Downs, Son

After a whirlwind 30 hours in Louisville, I am exhilarated and exhausted. Sunday night I came home and went to bed at 8:30 p.m., giggling about one of many silly things that had happened during my journey with Jim and Perry to the Derby. Pictures below this post.

Once I arrived at the gate at LaGuardia airport Friday morning, I met up with Jim, who passed along word that Perry's flight had been rerouted and that he would only be arriving 30 minutes before us, and thus would not have time to go to the store to pick up the supplies we needed for Churchill Downs. Fortunately, however, we landed in Indy 20 minutes ahead of schedule and were in Perry's rental car, ready to roll at 11:00 a.m. Oaks day at Churchill was already underway, but there was still time to catch Rachel Alexandra in her race, scheduled for 1:26 p.m. We zoomed down I-65 in search of a Walmart, but didn't find one until we reached Southern Indiana, near the Kentucky border, and less than 10 miles from the track. Unfortunately, we had run into traffic and even without the 20 minute stop to pick up cheap folding chairs, beer, ice and a cooler, we would have been too late to see Rachel. We missed her by half an hour. And it turned out that she lost by a head to Unrivaled Belle.

We parked in the University of Louisville football stadium parking lot, carried a beer or two with us for the 15 minute walk over the bridge and to the Churchill Downs gate. If there is an open-container policy in Louisville, I'm not aware of it, though there were plenty of police directing traffic. Friday is Oaks day at Churchill Downs on Derby weekend, and attendees were dressed in pink in support of Breast Cancer Awareness. Lots of women in pink and black dresses, with pink wide-brimmed hats were enjoying the absolutely gorgeous sunny, 85 degree day. It was almost too warm, with several people willing to trade breast cancer for skin cancer. One kind woman sitting next to us offered us her sunscreen. At one point, it was so hot, a man in jeans tried in vain to buy another man's shorts.

We added our recyclable containers to the collection forming on a barricade outside Gate 3, paid $40 cash (for which we received neither commemorative ticket nor hand stamp) and descended into the tunnel that separates the wheat from the chaff. While I am certain that there is a hierarchy among those in the grandstands and suites, for our purposes Churchill Downs was separated by those in the infield and those with seats. Denizens of the infield are the great unwashed: blue-collar folks with families, college students and others unable or unwilling to pay hundreds of dollars to sit in the grandstands and suites. The view isn't great, but the atmosphere is spectacular. The infield is massive with some paved paths criss-crossing through and around wide swaths of green grass and light brown dirt. In the center, there is a fairly large permanent restroom structure, which I never entered, surrounded by temporary food, drink and souvenir vendor stations, some no bigger than a couple of tables put together under a canopy, and others that looked like parked RVs, doling out generic fare such as funnel cakes, sausages, pizza and beer. The only items that appeared to be unique to the location were the mint juleps and the lillies, the official drink of Oaks day. It promised to be a long weekend, so I decided one ceremonial alcoholic drink would be sufficient before moving onto light beer (no microbrews here- only the big boys). Since it was Oaks day, I opted to save the mint julep for Derby day and ordered a lilly, which was a rather fruity, dark red concoction with an indistinct alcohol and a raspberry floating on top. Juleps were decidedly stronger, with a sugary sweetness paving the way for the smooth bourbon resting in the bottom of the glass, and a large stalk of fresh mint sticking out of the rim. Each drink came in its own commemorative glass. You can't bring your own glass to Churchill, but they are happy to supply you themselves. Lillies ran $9 while juleps cost $10. Beers were $7 for a 16 ounce can. Nothing like the comforts of New York-priced beverages to make me feel at home in Kentucky. A far cry from the legendary days of being able to bring in your own kegs.

Drinks in hand, we searched for our spot near turn 3, where we would be able to the horses jockeying for position just before the homestretch. We found an uninhabited plot of land within sight of the large screen that showed the betting odds and racing and settled into our new folding chairs. From this moment, around 2:00 p.m., until the last race of the day around 7:00 p.m., Jim, Perry and I would engage in a repetitive ritual of doping the racing form, debating the best horse and the best bet (not the same thing, as I so cruelly found out), sipping beverages, chatting with neighboring celebrants- many of whom were well-versed in Southern hospitality and charm, glancing at the betting boards to see the changing odds, making our way to the betting windows and then getting back to our makeshift camp in time to watch the race on the screen until the horses whizzed past on the third turn and then turning our attention back to the big screen to witness the exciting conclusion, and (in my case) cursing the bastard horse who had failed to make my early retirement dreams come true.

Scouring the racing form is a tricky business and as much objective information as you are given, there is plenty of room for interpretation, error, and the capriciousness of an animal that would probably rather be gnawing on hay than racing around in an oval on dirt. The biggest horse evaluation argument between Jim and Perry (both far more qualified and experienced aficionados than I) was the relevancy of time. Perry would point to a horse finishing a previous mile and an eighth race in one minute and 47 seconds and another horse finishing the same length in a different race in one minute and 49 seconds and conclude that the first horse was faster. Jim would counter that a horse (and jockey) only goes as fast as it needs to in order to win, so the jockey may have pulled up the horse toward the end of a five length victory in order to save some energy. The trouble, however, is that unless you've watched the race, there is no way of determining whether the horse slowed down on purpose or not. So, it's a gut feeling, or, at best, an educated guess based on the trainer's style, the jockey's reputation and common sense. In any case, I tended to ignore the times as well, instead focusing on how often the horse won or was in the money and how far off the lead he or she was, as well as what kind of competition the horse was in for previous races. Whatever I tried, however, didn't work. I pulled an 0-fer on Friday.

Some races were for maidens (horses that have never won a race) or horses that have never run a race. Sure, there are workout times and breeding and trainer information to go on, but if it were simple, the bettors would be rich, the track would go bankrupt and horse racing would cease to exist. Then there are those like me (and I suspect I am not alone), who sometimes opt to bet for value rather than the winning horse. Horse X is a 3-5 favorite? That's no fun. What about Horse ZZ, listed at 15-1? Now, cashing that ticket in would be fun! Until the favorite wins and you suddenly feel that picking up an $8 payout on a $5 bet isn't so bad.

The big race of the day was the Oaks, which Rachel Alexandra won last year before moving on to race with (and beat) the boys at the Preakness. Blind Luck was the 6-5 favorite. Of course, I did not bet on her, and she won in a photo finish over Evening Jewel (one of many horses I considered and backed off of throughout the day). A truly fantastic race with a come-from-behind victory for Blind Luck and a dramatic wait for the official results. From where we were in the infield, we could see very little actual racing, but what we could see was phenomenal. We're standing track-level and can hear the thundering of the horses coming up stretch and heading into the turn and in a blink they're gone and it's back to watching on the screen.

After the final race, we leisurely strolled back through the tunnel and out the gates to the parking lot, wiping sweat from our pink flesh and planning the night ahead. Jim had recalled an area of Louisville that he had been to before, called the Highlands, which is a street with Irish bars pressed up against residential houses. We settled into Flanagan's for a well-earned dinner, which was rather unfortunately served on paper plates. The beer, however, was cool and refreshing and we popped across the street to Molly Malone's for a nightcap, expertly slipping through the layers of bouncers collecting cover charges, before retiring to our shelter across the river in Clarksville, Indiana.

The America's Best Inn and Suites earns its name in the same way that Miller High Life is the self-referred Champagne of beers. Our room featured floor-to-ceiling windows with a giant crack down the middle of it, cobwebs above our beds, mattresses covered in plastic that roared like a crashing wave whenever you turned over, and a breakfast buffet featuring chocolate chip cookies and Ho-Hos. And still it was $120 a night. Hotels and motels closer to Churchill Downs were going for over $300 a night. Fortunately, we didn't spend much time in our room.

Saturday morning the rain came down. Hard. It had rained all night an wasn't letting up. Despite getting up by 7:00 a.m., we felt no urgency to get to the track by 8:00 a.m. to claim a spot. We drove to the Cracker Barrel near the track and were surprised to find no wait for a table for breakfast. We got a prime parking spot in the football stadium lot and traveled over the bridge again, bottles of courage in hand at 10:00 a.m. While we were tempted to pack beer into our folding chair cases to sneak in (we weren't patted down at all on Friday), we decided against it to avoid delays with security or possible expulsion. I felt strangely vindicated when my chair was strip-searched upon entry and there was nothing in it. Truth had set me free and it made me feel old.

The rain had turned the infield into a mud pit overnight. Far more people were there on Saturday than Friday. Far more college students. Most people were covered in ponchos rather than the festive dresses, suits and hats traditionally associated with the Derby. And the shenanigans were instant. It didn't take too long before people mounted the double row of port-o-potties, stumbling and bumbling from one end to the other while crowds gathered to hurl cans and bottles (some full) at them. Jim even saw a folding chair fly across. It might have been my folding chair, which was rudely taken from its spot while I was up placing a bet. Innocence felt lost. Later, as we were gathering our belongings to leave, I discovered that my collectible mint julep glass had also been snatched. Thankfully, Perry kindly offered me his, restoring some faith in humanity.

The running of the urinals is a curious ritual. The runner often injures him or herself, falling on top of the port-o-johns, being trampled by those running behind them, getting nailed by thrown objects, or being slammed to the ground by waiting police officers at the finish. And yet, people continued to do it all day long. Others preferred to roll out their slip n' slide tarps or wrestle in the mud as the rain poured down. I stood around and watched and took photos, bemused by it all, with zero interest in partaking.

Meanwhile, races continued to be run, even on the wet dirt. Races scheduled to be run on turf moved to the more stable dirt for the safety of the horses, but wreaked havoc on handicapping efforts. I came into Derby day with a new strategy of trying to bet on the horses I thought would win, no matter the odds, rather than trying to catch lightning in a bottle with a hare-brained exacta or trifecta scheme, which had failed me on Friday. Right away I nailed the first two races and was feeling good about putting some money into my pocket rather than the other way around, even if the bets were small. Unfortunately, the luck stalled from there, as I only won one more race the rest of the day. With over 90 minutes between the 10th race and the 11th race (the Derby), I still was unable to pick a winner, as Jim and I decided that Lookin' at Lucky was the best horse in the field and had the best chance of beating a disadvantageous post position on the rail. Furthermore, the favorite was being offered at 7-1 odds, which was just too good to pass up. The skies had cleared and the sun came out just as the horses were being paraded to their gates, just to taunt those of us who had endured 8 hours of rain while the rest of the world watched comfortably on their television sets. Unfortunately, Lookin' at Lucky never recovered from two early bumps and finished sixth, while Super Saver rocketed to the win.

Disappointed, we looked around us and the carnage we were standing in. Plenty of people had passed out before the Derby and never saw the race. Their friends woke them up as tents and canopies were broken down and carried out. There were still two more races to go, but most had had enough. We placed one more bet on the 12th race and, losers again, left through the crowded tunnel as teenagers poured in to help clean up the wreckage. They must have been from some volunteer organization because they were much too cheerful to be on cleanup duty on a Saturday night.

We returned to our parking spot, where we tailgated for awhile, waiting for the traffic to clear. Here, we had the most fun moment of the trip. It involved parallel conversations too complicated and inane to describe here, but which had us doubled over in laughter. Just the three of us, on the bumper of a car and a beer in hands. This is what the trip to Louisville was about. Yes, we reveled in the open air sunshine on Friday, not a care in the world, privately taunting those who were spending their Friday at work, while we were seated comfortably with a cold beverage at our lips, chatting with strangers and watching beautiful animals race by with the hope of winning big. And yes, we enjoyed thrusting ourselves in the middle of over 155,000 people on Saturday to watch the biggest horse race in the world. But, there was something about the infield that left me feeling hollow.

All the youthful exuberance, the running of the urinals, the mud wrestling, the beer funneling, none of that was mine. I watched as an outsider, perhaps looking at some extreme version of my younger self. I'm married now; I have a child who is turning one tomorrow. I have no desire to push the limits of sense and safety. Two months ago, I found myself at a beer garden in Queens with Perry and Jim, catching up and monitoring the Kansas-Northern Iowa basketball game in the background. We turned our backs for a few minutes and our pitcher of beer was gone. Trustworthy-looking neighbors pointed out the culprits. We confronted them and they denied it with a menacing sneer. I wanted badly to fight them, to stand up for myself and to assert myself as a man. Instead, I quickly calculated the sequence of events that would follow my first punch and decided that dragging my wife and baby out of bed to get me out of jail or the hospital wasn't worth it. And so I walked away toward the subway headed for home, a beer or two earlier than planned, alternating between feelings of incensed rage and utter confusion.

Later Saturday night, after the rain, after the Derby, after the laughter in the parking lot, and after another disappointing dinner in a different Irish bar in the Highlands, we sat at our table, exhausted, winding down with half-full cups of beers we would never finish. A two-person cover band set up their equipment and began to play. The sound was awful and what resulted was perhaps the worst rendition of a Neil Young song I had ever heard. Through the pained warbling, though, I heard this:

"It's so noisy at the fair
But all your friends are there
And the candy floss you had
And your mother and your dad.

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that
you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon."

I am not a too-old twenty year-old, as Young was when he wrote this song, but I am a thirty-four year-old husband and father, and my fun is different now. The experience at the Derby was a blast and I am thrilled and thankful for the opportunity to have gone. While the races served as a setting and the plot, it was the characters of Jim, Perry and myself that I enjoyed the most.