Saltwater in the Bluegrass (27 page)

Authors: Cliff Kice

The Lexington Airport, directly across from the entrance of Keeneland Race Track, was busy. Private and corporate planes were landing every few minutes, along with the occasional commercial flight finding its way down from the cloudless sky. The smaller planes were being tied down and secured for the day, while the passenger planes were serviced and boarded for continued service. Passengers who were staying for the day’s events made their way across the busy road, walking between the designated markings or riding the buses that had been brought into town and assigned by the transit authority for the occasion.

The track, softened after the morning workouts, was continuously being groomed. Large tractors pulling v-shaped, spike-shaped discs worked their way around the track, while workers in the stable area, trainers, owners, and jockeys were going over scenarios for the day’s events in preparation for the seventh race, the Bluegrass Stakes. Tradition continues to be a large part of the Bluegrass nostalgia. Racing day in Kentucky is reminiscent of days past, starting early and continuing until long after dark.

Many people from the outlying area had come early enough to visit other attractions in the Lexington area, such as the Kentucky Horse Park, Red Mile Harness Track, and the American Saddle Horse Museum. Or they might just drive around the scenic area, looking at the many horse farms and ranches and the thoroughbreds, either too young or too old to race, simply grazing in the fields. Keeneland racetrack is different from the other races. No one calls the race over the loud speakers. The trumpeter walks out onto the track before the race and blows the call to the post through his fourfoot-long silver trumpet, the horses are brought to the gates, staged, and then the gates open, and the horses are off. The only fanfare comes from the spectators.

Binoculars are common tools around Keeneland, taking you quickly back a hundred years into the past. People watch from the stands. They pay close attention to the colors of the silks and the horses to tell you which horses are in the lead on the back stretch. It is not until the horses are once again in close view, as they make their way around the third turn heading for home, that a person can actually make out which horse is which. At this point, it’s down the front stretch to the finish line.

Texi and I arrived at the track
around twelve fifteen in my Corvette. Texi’s friends, KK and Paula, were right behind us in Paula’s new Mustang convertible. It was a cute, economical, little car, but not much top-end power. The two girls had followed us from Louisville.

We arrived and parked down in the northeastern lot near Versailles Road. The paved lots were nearly full when we arrived. Even so, we found a spot. They still had grassy knolls in the back of Keeneland marked off with orange construction tape where late arrivals would be able to park.

We worked our way in through the crowd.

We bought our tickets, bought a
Post Magazine
and program, and within ten minutes had made our way through the turnstiles of the gates and were inside standing in line for refreshments.
Charlie and Jenny had spent
the
night up in Lexington at Jenny’s place. They arrived at the racetrack about forty-five minutes before post time. Once inside, both scurried through the crowd, buying programs and a couple of beers as though they were seasoned veterans. Within minutes, they found their way out past the paddock area and were standing beside the outer fence of the track along the last turn. They were talking about who they were going to bet on in the first race.

Lamar Jr. had always been fashionably late in everything he did. For some odd, unforeseen reason, today he made it on time and was at the track before the first race. Maybe the inheritance had finally brought him out of his deep delinquent ways and polished the rough edges that had been covered in cobwebs for the last few years. This was a custom in timing that Lamar Jr. had vigorously refused to call habit in his everyday life, until now.

He met up with his Uncle Charlie and Charlie’s friend Jenny Jenkins, who he had met on several other spontaneous and events. She was Belle of the Southern Ball, ten years Charlie’s junior, but Lamar Jr. knew they were growing closer all the time.

The only problem was, she did not know it and probably never would.

Charlie, Lamar Jr., and Jenny had talked a few days back. The three had made plans to meet here at the track, drink some good beers, bet on the horses, and have a few laughs before Charlie left. A good drinking companion is how most of the members in the family pictured Charlie. During the casual, unexpected events Charlie would just appear. He would just show up and declare himself. Like it or not, he came to the parties and social gatherings when he wanted. Other times, the family never knew where he was.

Kristina and Sally were also at the track and already showing off their new Kaye Marshall hats before the start of the first race. Both ladies were walking around the paddock area, admiring the feedback they were getting from the men in the area. They graciously accepted accolades and compliments from those interested, while compassionately returning the “I’m-not-available-but-you-can-rentmy-smiles-for-the-day” looks. Their show was merely intended for the many rich and famous gentlemen who were here for today’s races and attentively looking. It was a game of “all show and no tell.” It was a game they had played many times. Kristina and Sally would sneak up on any rich sap in the crowd and quickly overtake his disregarded for uncontrollable feelings. A day of fun, frolic, and passion, at his expense, of course, and then leave him standing alone in the evening sunset, wondering what had happened and where they had gone.

Milford Langston was in Stable BB on the backside of the track. He was getting Cost Me Plenty ready and talking to Jonathon Arcaro, his jockey, and Jim Irvin, his trainer, about the featured seventh race later in the day.

The race was scheduled for a four fifteen post time. Cost Me Plenty was posted in the program to win at two-to-one odds. The feeling around the track was that by post time, he would probably go off more along the lines of three-to-two.

There were nine horses in the field for the Bluegrass Stakes, and Cost Me Plenty had pulled the fourth gate.

Milford could not have been more pleased if he had picked the gate himself. It was not the ideal third hole, but it was in the middle of the gate, and that’s all you could hope for.

Six I & L horses were running in six other races today. Milford had left them to be handled by one of Jim’s assistants. All the focus and energy was put on Cost Me Plenty.

Today’s race was his for the taking. It was necessary that he have a good showing in today’s race in preparation for the Kentucky Derby, only a week away.

The first race was now
underway.
The crowd at post time had grown to just short of sixty-one thousand. The back lot of the track was still filling as cars and trucks continued to turn into Keeneland from Versailles Road. Standing room only was now being posted at the gates.

It was considered a privilege instead of a necessity in the grandstands and lower bowl areas. The track was filled near capacity. Ten thousand people were now being sent into the overflow area at the corner of turn number one, right off the grandstands. The day was going to be hot. Temperatures would reach into the high eighties. The concession lines were long. The bathroom lines were even longer. Food was plentiful, with barbecue, hotdogs, hamburgers, and burgoo being served at every turnstile. Drinks were wet, cold, strong, and much needed in the heat of the afternoon. The majority of the people in attendance were smart enough to have sunscreen on. Many wore baseball caps or hats to off the bright sun.

With more than sixty thousand in attendance, in a party atmosphere, it was typical for at least five percent of the people to be complete idiots. Those drunk, shirtless, pathetic excuses for human buffoons who can no longer taste the alcohol in the handful of drinks they’ve already sucked down. Those already burnt with a lobster glow hours before the sun starts to set, people around them saying, “Man I wouldn’t want to be him in the morning.” Or the ever-popular negative comment heard in situations like this, when people start laughing and pointing and say, “Look at that dumb-ass! What an idiot!”

It was not long before Texi and I ran into Kristina and her friend Sally Cartwright. Not long after that, Kristina spotted Lamar Jr., Charlie, and Jenny walking around with a few of their friends. Before we knew it, Texi and I were being introduced to the whole Ingram clan, friends, and acquaintances, or at least to the ones at the track.

Texi and I had come to the racetrack with a couple of her friends. Now we had a dozen or so people mingling around, somewhat together. Some were in the wiz line, some in the bar line, and others were in the concession lines. Those of us still together were talking about everything in the world except the upcoming races. Why was I here? Where was I from? Where was I going? Would I be staying long? Was I enjoying myself? All of the usual, curiosity—without elaboration—questions from people I had just met. Some of the folks in our group were acting as though they needed to know my answers right this minute. Others could give a ripe. It reminded me of the “throw back shell beach parties” we had back home.

Grace, strength, muscle,
power, force, ability, and speed. All these words and more could be heard in high-pitch yells coming from the crowds in the stands, in imperative descriptions, as people watched and described the images displayed before them. The spirited excitement of joy and pain coming from the voices as patrons screamed their approval of the efforts their horses and jockeys were making as they came around each turn.

People were standing, watching, describing, and pointing. It was almost mesmerizing, the intense manner in which these beautiful thoroughbreds glided across the groomed track. A symphonic, staged, stampeded rage.

These thoroughbreds were known for their strength and endurance. Within seconds, they would exploded in a tornado of power and hoof prints, horse shoes tearing through the track, sending the dust and dirt flying through the air behind them as they continued on their way towards the finish line. Manicured mixtures of dirt and sand, once silent, were now torn to bits by the vibrations, the roar, the thunder, and the upheaval these magnificent animals made as they ran by. Within the blink of an eye, the ground would go from settled to disarray, from still to disorder, as the horses in unison rounded the third turn in a frenzy of trained exhaustion.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. As the horses passed the finish line, the roar of the crowd suddenly dwindled down once again to calmness. The three tractors would make their way back onto the dirt and again begin the routine of pulling the v-shaped, long-spiked machinery around the oval track, grooming the track for the next race of the day. It was a continuous act that would occur after every race.

Within minutes, the track was back to its state of complete harmony, waiting for the next stampede of thunder that would, within the half hour, be controllably released on the field.

Some people, the lucky few that glowed with the excitement of holding a winning ticket, jumped up and down and grinned, knowing they would soon be turning in their ticket for money.

Most people were simply resolved to the fact that there would be more races to come and maybe they would win one of those. Others were angered by the lack of luck or depressed by the loss of more than they actually had to lose.

Losing tickets floated in the air, torn into pieces in disgust. Then they would gently make their way back to the ground. A chance to win now over, soon to be swept away by the cleaning crew and discarded.

Now it was on with the next race.

I continued to be reminded
by
my office guru, Texi, that I was having too much fun.
We had been friends through rain and shine for a very long time, and Texi knew my
weaknesses. She knew that I was into fun, a lot of it, along with sun, cold beer, and friendships. Texi knew that I would never change from being a big kid at heart, but then again that was okay. This emotion was cool because I did not want to change. I found myself
intrigued by the joy of the moment and the fun that I was having.

It’s sort of like the kid that did not want to leave the carnival, even though his parents were tired. It wasn’t that he was agitated by their overbearing control. He simply hadn’t seen everything or done every single thing that was there.

Earlier in the day, between races, Texi and I had walked around the grounds of Keeneland.

“Everything okay,” Texi asked, as she clicked her compact lid closed, dropping it into her bag.

“I’m fine. What do you mean?”

“Are you sure? What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You seem sort of quiet,” she said, “like you’re in another world today.” Then she gave me a wink, and taking my arm for a brief second, we walked the landscaped grounds outside paddock area.

“Texi, are you coming on to me?”

“In your dreams, lover boy, certainly not. I was just wondering how my best friend was doing. You okay?”

“I’m fine, really. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” she asked.

“If you are…?”

“Well, I’m not. Trust me, Jimmy. If that ever happens, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

“So what is it?”

“Nothing in particular. Buddy, the beach, the boat, home, being here,” I said.

Texi hesitated. “You sure it’s nothing?”