What anyone who has actually been to the event that is the Kentucky Derby will tell you about that event is that the actual racing of the Kentucky Derby is but the briefest of moments in the entirety of the thing. Everyone pauses to observe the race, but the party has been going for days at that point, and will continue long into the night and onto (in good weather) brunch patios the next morning. The Derby race is very much a black truffle in a heaping dish of revelry, tradition and excess; small in terms of size, potent in flavoring the whole thing, and rich, decadent, sumptuous.
The common wisdom among locals is that Friday is the day to visit Churchill Downs, that most storied of American horse race tracks, and leave the track on Saturday to out-of-towners and the ultra-rich. Friday features the annual racing of the Kentucky Oaks, the lesser famous but equally charming sister to the Derby, and to the casual observer who only pays attention to horse racing the first weekend in May (the running of the Derby is traditionally held on the first Saturday in May), the one could easily substitute for the other. In the years we have been in Louisville for the Derby weekend, we’ve always gone to the infield on Friday for the Oaks, and find the time superbly spent.
Once through the eastern-most gate, you are herded down into a long low tunnel that crosses beneath the track, giving you a sense of just how wide a swath the turf and dirt surfaces actually cover. As you emerge from below, you are greeted by the sight of throngs of young men and some young women, probably high school age or just beginning college, desperately trying to be older than they are. The boys are usually clad in ill-fitting pink dress shirts and shorts patterned with tiny images of animals, which does not help their case. ‘I am An Adult, definitely not a teenager’ they project, ‘look at how I am smoking this cigar at a race track, and I will probably drink alcohol in public; look how much of An Adult I am doing Adult things.’ The girls look naked, their legs and arms exposed, the pinks and peach of their clinging dresses (tradition dictates that something pink is worn on Oaks day) revealing as much as they cover. They huddle together, unsure how to stand, or how to engage the preening boys. The air is thick with self-congratulation, cigar smoke, and perfumes of the most basic construction; one is not wise to linger, as the potential transformation into to keg-standing Brah seems imminent, and may be catching.
Further in, there are tents and low buildings, most of them hawking any manner of overpriced beverages, overpriced foods, useless (and overpriced) souvenirs; these are largely ignorable, save the location selling ice, racing forms, and the betting windows, to which any visitor ought to make at least one trip. The place is packed with people, some well dressed, some decidedly not. A sort of controlled chaos unfolds around; it’s noisy, but not deafening, and crowded, but not pressing. Almost everyone is having a good time. Police are patrolling, but everyone (at least at this point) is well behaved. To your left, a gigantic screen shows footage of people you’ve never heard of talking about hats, or horses, or who knows what else. You keep walking.
Towards the westernmost edge of the infield, there is a dip in the topography, essentially a large grassy ditch that must collect rainwater during big storms, but now is the site of children running and tagging and squealing. On the other side of that dip, there is a large grassy expanse, and here you find a patch that seems firm and right, and you finally, thankfully, set up your things. Blanket down first, then open the folding chairs, and then you dislodge all of the hidden bottles of bourbon. These bottles could be hidden any and every place; in your socks (true story), in the back of your folding chairs, in purses, beneath sandwiches, in the rolled up blanket. Outside booze is not allowed, and supposedly, the guards at the gate search personal belongings; only hopefully they didn’t search too hard, if at all, and now, you can enjoy delicious beverages without the bitterness of paying exorbitant prices for them.
You definitely brought mixers if you brought bourbon, you hopefully brought cups, and if you thought it out beforehand, things to snack on. Someone is sent to get ice and racing forms. It is useful, also, when preparing for a day at the track, to bring a pen to make notes as to which horses you want to bet on and what bets you’ll make on each. I always seem to forget, but thankfully somebody else always seems to have one.
The next several hours are some of the most pleasurable of the year. Louisville in May can have the loveliest weather anyone could ask for, with blue skies, light breezes, agreeable temperatures. A seemingly endless supply of bourbon and lemonade softens the edges of everything; the conversation meanders happily from the races to any topic one can think of and back again. Bets are discussed; box this trifecta? Do you think number 6 will place or show? What are the odds on number 14? It is a language specific to horse races, one that must be dusted off and relearned every year for these two days, and then forgotten again. The names of the horses are endlessly entertaining; how could you not bet on a horse called I’ll Have Another? What kind of name is Tencendur? And of course, the parade of people is always fascinating; here a family with adorable children out for some time in the sun, there a pack of young men in their late 20s impeccably suited and laughing, further off a couple with dreadlocks and overalls they have cut into jean jumpers with short shorts, their underthings peeping out. There is simply so much to see, one wishes the time would pass more slowly, so you could savor it longer.
And what of the races themselves? They’re exciting of course, and if you’ve bet (and you should, at least a little), you might win some money. The horses are beautiful, and watching them run reveals why someone might’ve decided to start horse racing in the first place. The day as a whole, though, is about much more than just horse races, and odds are, if you’re paying attention, you’ll find it equally as beautiful.
————————————-
The Galavanteers 