In case you missed it, catch up with the last post: Jesus, McCarthy, and Belief
Reflections on last year’s meet to mark the current spring races.
Occasionally, something delightful appears in our lives, and we ask in bewilderment, “You’ve been here the whole time?” Though we shouldn’t be surprised. There are ninety billion galaxies in the known universe and the human eye can see about 3 miles yet most of us can’t see under our own noses. One such experience was my first trip to Keeneland, Lexington Kentucky’s beloved horse track. Opened in 1936, the track has long since become ingrained in local tradition. Hall of Famers and Triple Crown winners have trod its grounds.
Since moving to Lexington, we had wanted to go, but this intention was only a weak magnetic force. Things that are yet to be known are usually yet to be desired, at least not ardently enough to overcome the weekend schedule. And, since the races only run for a few weeks each year, our window was narrow. It wasn’t until our friends invited us, the gentle nudge we needed, that we happily drove across town.
We parked on a nearby grassy hill, charmingly called “The Meadow,” that functions as Keeneland’s free parking lot. Tailgaters milled about, weaving between cars and heralding friends across the field. A few portable grills sizzled and the flashes from non-discrete flasks signaled passing planes that they were over Kentucky. Our friends, seasoned veterans, led us toward the gates. They were the Sherpas of our small expedition, carrying a small purse and four season passes. As we sauntered up, I tried to sweep away any expectations and go wide open. I tried to veil my ignorance with imitation and let the event wash over me.
We plunged into the paddock.
Our group, like the bow of a ship, cut little waves through the surrounding colors and fabric. There were men in glossy suits and checkered blazers. Ubiquitous rustic-chic hats were afloat on the crowd. Peacocks strutted for attention, and fraternity boys in their unspoken yet meticulously adhered to uniforms spoke a strange dialect between grunting and English. The bolo tie made a good showing. There were questionable choices of attire alongside sharp sartorial decisions. Hustlers chain-smoked cigarettes. Rich men smoked expensive cigars. Poor men smoked cheap cigars. The crowd seethed and buzzed and hummed. There was nowhere to go because everyone was already there. Paradoxically, in becoming someone else for an afternoon, they became themselves. The horse track may be the best available field of study for Western anthropology.
We moved up to the fence and watched the horses turn slow circles. The muscles bulging from their legs and shoulders were like fresh guitar strings, stretched taut and responsive. The handlers calmly charmed the animals, soothing them in steady, rhythmic turns. Owners and trainers watched from under the sycamores. The branches stretched across the paddock and threw black shadows on the browning grass. My eyes darted from the program to the horses. I smelt a rich mixture of cologne and manure and the yellow smell of autumn. One of Hemingway’s characters saw a racehorse and said, “I felt all hollow inside he was so beautiful.” I knew what he meant.
We read their names aloud, glossing the effect. I hadn’t a clue what to look for, but in another sense, I felt that I’d somehow recognize it when I saw it, as if some primal knowledge would break through my ignorance and disclose an inherited secret. I expected the old man inside would awaken at the shaking of buffalo robes. I received my first lesson in handicapping from our friend: don’t pick a white horse. Weeks later, I stumbled on the same advice while reading Virgil. He writes in Georgics that “the worst of all [horses] are whites.” Advice that spans hemispheres and millennia is usually a good baseline. Suddenly, one horse quietly left the circle, beginning the deliberate caravan toward the track.
Our group followed. For a moment, I forgot what year it was, but the screens quickened me back. They were everywhere, digital excess in a space that needed nothing else. I bought a paper racing guide in protest and refused to place my bets at the digital kiosks. Cash bets — my friend agreed — were the proper way to play the ponies. I received a quick lecture: win, place, show, trifecta, exacta box.
I double-checked the odds, rehearsed my dictation, and got in line. You feel almost grand approaching the teller, and then with a hilarious dignity, you announce a two-dollar bet. It’s hard to understand why small bets make such a difference, but they do.
We plunged back into the slow migration to the track. The four of us wedged in a little spot by the rail. I rechecked my wagers for the third time and perched to see the procession.
When the horses launched from the Post, I understood. It all came together at once. The dull thud of hooves and the crowd’s swelling cheers suspended everything in mid-air, like the long arch of a home run hanging the outfield. The names came over the loudspeaker like spells cast by a confused witch. The drunks were vaguely oblivious and a friendly-looking dad lifted his son onto his shoulders to see.
I soon learned that a finish evokes an amalgam of cheers and sighs. If the favorite wins, everybody nods in affirmation: we knew it. If a long shot wins, a scattered few throw their hands in the air, looking wildly about and double-checking their tickets. If the front-runner doesn’t even show, the crowd exhales in a collective moan. It’s a peculiar feeling, resonant to losing a twenty to the dealer’s blackjack. It’s more personal though. You can’t help but be disappointed for the horse, which is a silly but human response. All losses are extirpated by the ceremonial tearing of worthless wagers.
Any sadness (and there is very little with a two-dollar bet) is soon forgotten on the trip back to the paddock. The rhythm between track and paddock is like a starting pitcher who’s got his stuff, not too fast but never lagging. There’s enough time to get food, discuss what went wrong, watch the endlessly interesting crowd, check in on the horses, and make another bet. I soon fell into the cadence. Charmed. Mesmerized by a tradition.
By the end of our afternoon, I broke even, at least that’s the way I’d like to remember it. While we left, I planned my return. It didn’t take long. I was back in a few days. No one could come with me, so I drifted around the grounds alone and in the rain. I watched and wagered and wiped the water from my hat. It was a meditative afternoon, more reflective than the first trip. As I walked out of the gate, I wondered at this new and complex thing.
Edward Abbey once wrote that “language makes a mighty loose net with which to go fishing for simple facts.” I felt most of the experience rush, unencumbered, through the thin cables of my mind. With time and exposure, I might catch a few more facts, but the majority will vanish around the track’s corner, their gallop hidden from articulation. Certainly, another trip is in order.