A Day at the Races

                                     A Day at the Races

         We were assembled at the Spring Run club house, at 8 A.M on a foggy Saturday morning. Fran and Gerry Bussey had organized an expedition to the Gulf Stream Casino and Race course in Miami. 

About 40 adventurers boarded the America Charter bus and we set off, in the mist of a foggy morning, for Miami. The swirling mist of the fog drifted around us as we made our way south for Alligator Alley and our run across the state. Conversations were desultory. Most of us were still shaking off  a groggy early morning rise. Mary and I had forgone coffee this morning, practicing what we call “water discipline” on a long bus-ride. To wit, what doesn’t go in, doesn’t have to come out.

The ”Alley” had a steady stream of traffic flowing in both directions. Every Saturday, some 10,000 cruise ship passengers disembark in Miami and Ft. Lauderdale and then head across the state, home-ward bound. They are replaced by an equal number of arriving cruise ship passengers. The vehicular traffic can clog up like a swollen artery.

In the area of the Micosukee Indian Preserve, in the Everglades, we stopped at a way station, for rest room breaks and a ten-minute leg stretch. Then, we reboarded the huge land cruiser and headed on into the confusion of traffic in the greater Miami area. The large wind mills and raised highways of the east coast announced our arrival. The traffic thickened like a herd of long horn cattle that sometimes wanted to move and sometimes wanted to just mosey. The driver did a good job of navigating this swarm and we soon arrived at the Gulfstream Casino and race course complex. A large Trojan horse stands over the main entrance. We drove around to the bus parking area where we exited into the welcome sunshine of a 70-degree day. It had taken almost three hours to get here and we were eager for a walk around the area.

A street of high-end shops and restaurants led us into the covered archway that was the entrance into the casino and racetrack area. The first level of the complex holds a number or bars and shops. They surround a small colorful oval of track, closed in by tiers of open seating. 

We were to learn that before every race, a string of contestants were led around the oval by trainers, for public inspection before entering onto the racing track for the event. We took the elevator up to the second level and found that the Ten Palms dining area opened up at 11:30 A.M. With time to kill, we walked over to the casino and sat down at a Video Poker terminal. Wagering considerable sums, like $.25 per hand, we manipulated the colorful electronic monster into surrendering a vast stash of 50 quarters. After cashing out, we walked over to the Ten Palms dining facility, our pockets bulging with newly won lucre.

The Ten Palms facility is a series of tables placed in several ascending tiers, all facing a huge picture window that looks out onto the three racing tracks beneath us. Two of dirt, one of sod. A television at each table apprised us of every race and all of the odds and results. We had purchased racing forms on the way in and were busily perusing our choices. We had also obtained the picks of a few “touts “ (tipsters) from the facility web site. They listed the four top choices in each race that had a good chance of winning.

The waiter and waitress supplied us with drinks as we contemplated what we would do, eat first or study the programs. Food won out. For $55 each, we had access to an enormous array of food in a lengthy buffet. Salads, cheeses, seafood soup, and piles of shrimp all led into delicious selections of turkey, steak and a whole array of vegetables. The food, excellent in quality, was enough to feed the Chinese Army on maneuvers. Beyond that, lay a huge platter of fresh salmon, a pasta station and a whole array of chocolate brownies, fudge and mousses that caught our attention. You would need to add the North Korean Army on maneuvers to finish off this gargantuan repast.

While enjoying our first pass for lunch, the arena was summoned to attention for the raising of the American flag and the playing of the National anthem. It was nice to see everyone respect the custom.

We made our calculations, Followed the tip sheet guide and bet a huge bet of $2.00 on the favorite to place. Outside, a trumpeter, in English riding gear, raised his horn and played the accustomed summons to a race. Ta ta ta da da da da da, he warbled on the horn.

Each of the fillies was led by grooms into a green starting facility, consisting of eight metal gates that would snap open at the start of a race. Anticipation was building in the crowd. Suddenly, the gates snapped open and we heard “They are off.”  A crowd of multi-colored horse flesh jumped onto the track. The bulging muscles of their fore quarters stretched taut as they reached for distance. The sleek hind quarters dug into the turf, throwing up clod of earth as they sought speed and purchase. The jockeys, dressed in colorful silks, sat astride these surging mounts, stood in their stirrups urging their mounts on.

As they rounded the first turn, it was an amorphous mob of charging equines, each striding their best to carry their riders home. Into the back stretch, we watched on a large t.v screen in the center of the field, as  the mounts jockeyed for position.

The last “club house turn” started the various contenders into spurring their mounts into greater speed. The watching crowd saw the developing race and started to murmur loudly, imprecations that would speed their pick on. “C’mon you bag of oat eating flesh. Get a move on.” Other oaths were more specific. They all hoped that their cheer would help speed the chosen horse to a better finish.

As the mob of horse flesh made the turn into the home stretch, the crowd came alive. Beating their programs onto the rail of the track, they urged their pick onward. The noise levels rose as everyone stood up to watch the finish. First, the three-horse surged into the lead, Then, the seven-horse ran by him. Everyone groaned. The thrill of the chase and the energy of the contest flowed through the watching throng.

The mob of horse flesh surged by us and across the finish line. The T.V screen showed who had won the race by a nose. The winners danced in glee, smiling at their good fortune. The losers tore up their tickets, threw them to the floor and sat down dejectedly, vowing to do better in the next race. We had been successful and raked in the princely sum of $1.20 on our bet. It added to the store of lucre we had won in our casino excursion.

After the race, the grounds crew sprang into action. Three large tractors dragged York rakes around the track. The large tines of the rake made even furrows and smoothed the surface for the next race.

Each of the next five races followed a similar pattern. We used the tout sheet tips to pick a favorite, placed a two dollar show bet and then wandered out front, to watch the parade of horse flesh march by us in the small viewing oval. It was a fun afternoon. The buffet was available to anyone with a prodigious appetite and drinks were easily summoned. We repeatedly wagered the considerable sum of Two dollars on favorites and won most of the next four races. Our stash of hard-won lucre now totaled seven dollars.

After the race on sod, a small band of workers walked around that smaller oval stepping on the upraised turf to smooth it out. It was a tradition we had used at Polo matches, when between chukkers, the audience is invited out to step on the raised turf to ready it for the next race.

It was approaching 3:30 P.M. in the afternoon and the sixth race. We paid our tab, made a final bet and sat outside in the bleachers to watch our last race. Our seven-horse, Whirlaway,  thundered through the finish line. We hollered in celebration at his success as we raked in another dollar, now delirious with our pecuniary good fortune for the day.

It was sunny and 83 degrees out as we made our way back to the waiting bus. It was time to go home. We boarded the land chariot and set off for Estero, on the West Coast. The traffic was less and the driver put her foot to the accelerator, hoping to get home early as much as we did. The aging cargo, full of good food and a few drinks soon fell asleep, as we cruised across the everglades. We saw very few gators. A knowledgeable source said that  the saurian monsters might be away up North at a convention in the Kissimee area. We did see a raft of Egrets. They must have had a successful nesting season, for they were strung thought the branches of the slash pines like white Christmas ornaments.

The huge land cruiser roared westward into the increasing glower of the setting sun. We arrived in the Naples area at 6:30 P.M, a pretty fast run across the Alley. Soon after, the bus pulled into the Estero Complex on Coconut Road. We got off the bus, thanked Fran Bussey for her organizing efforts and drove home , tired from the long day and happy to be back.

What we had now was a wonderful stack of memories, of another excursion, with a great group of people. We had both the experience and the memory to look back upon. We were much richer for the experience.

                                                      -30-

                                                1,676 words)

                                           Joseph Xavier Martin