My best friend and I - think Oprah and Gayle King; think Thelma and Louise (well, maybe not Thelma and Louise; we haven't shot anybody) - work hard for our money; Jennie works two jobs and picks up sewing projects on the side, while I have four clients, whose projects keep me up 'til all hours of the morning. One day last summer, simultaneously, we decided we'd had it.
"Let's go to Saratoga!" Jennie said. And I, who hadn't traveled more than twenty miles away from home in the past year, said, "Absolutely!" She needed some work done on her car before she left, so on the day of the races, I picked her up at the repair shop and we stocked up while it was being serviced, eating massive quantities of food at Timoleon's, a nearby mom-and-pop eatery with the best coffee in the county - bacon and eggs, over medium, home fries, wheat toast with butter, juice and, of course, the coffee, Jennie's black - there's some kind of an Edgar Cayce thing behind her decision to drink black coffee - mine with lots of cream and mucho sugar, arguably no longer coffee after I get done with it. After our early morning feast I dropped her off again at the repair shop, ditched my own car at my apartment building, met up again, and we were off to the races!
What a great day! Mid-August, a bright sunny day, traveling through rural Vermont to Saratoga, New York - and the traffic was horrendous. We didn't care. We weren't working, we were headed to the track to see all the pretty horses, and we just relaxed and enjoyed the ride. About thirty miles outside of Saratoga, I fell in love with a dilapidated old house that was for sale - then couldn't find it again on the way back. It's just as well; the place was undoubtedly a black hole into which you poured money, never to see it again. But it did have ambiance.
Jennie, who'd made this trip many times before, somehow missed a turn, and we ended up driving through the city of Saratoga - a gem of a city, seemingly sparkling white in the sunlight, with broad streets and parks, and happy people walking along the sidewalks. "I could live in Saratoga!" I said, awestruck. Later on, I researched the city on the Internet and revised my assessment. ("If I got rich, I could live in Saratoga!")
We did make it to the track, parked in the free parking - which gave us the opportunity to walk a mile back to the track, past all the stables in the process - and headed for the front gate. A five dollar entrance fee, and we were in! We weren't dressed for the upper levels of the grandstand - there's a dress code I wouldn't have been able to meet for at least the last ten years - so we stuck it out with the masses. Midweek - I believe it was a Wednesday, and the place was packed. First stop, the beer stand, for Jennie's one and only cup of Bud (I'm a teetotaler; booze doesn't make me happy, just sleepy) and then to the fence. We'd missed the first two races, but quickly got into the swing of the betting process (two to place on number two - such a sport!). Jennie was betting for her brother Jon ("bet on gray horses or number two's") and actually ended up in the plus column for the day; I lost a grand total of eight dollars, having won $2.70 on a place bet then miscalculating on Gryffindor, betting to win instead of place. I had a nice moment with a ten-year-old boy when I was explaining to Jennie that Gryffindor was the house that Harry Potter lived in at Hogwarts - the kid grinned, apparently appreciative that an old broad like me would know that particular fact.
I had another nice moment with a strikingly handsome, trim man with a full head of white hair. He looked to be in his early sixties, but very fit; he also looked like a pro, someone who knew his way around the fifty dollar window. We both lost; but there was definitely a moment, there …and not an aging, balding, bearded New Age ex-hippie in the joint! I decided there was definitely something to this "going to the track in the middle of the week" thing.
The place had a carnival atmosphere - a New Orleans jazz band was playing, food and drink abounded - lemonade stands next to hard lemonade stands - and people, of every description, age, and economic level, all mingling, relaxing, having a good time. We must have put at least five miles on our Nikes, walking from the racetrack fence to the paddock where they displayed the animals before each race, to the betting lines, and back to the fence. We indulged in foot long hot dogs, (soft) lemonade, and plenty of spring water - you have to keep hydrated at the racetrack in August - and then left having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, leaving worries behind. (I mean, what can you do about any problem in your work or your personal life when you're at a horse track in Saratoga - with no cell phone? As a matter of fact, I only saw one individual on a cell phone the entire day, someone obviously someone foolish enough not to understand that you go to the track to get away from the rest of your life….)
After a leisurely drive through the Berkshires and another massive meal in western Massachusetts, Jennie dropped me off at my house, with the promise that we'd do it again next year. I'm looking forward to it. "If winter come, can Saratoga be far behind?"
Next year I'm buying a racing form.
Aldene Fredenburg is a freelance writer living in southwestern New Hampshire and frequently contributes to Tips and Topics. She has published numerous articles in local and regional publications on a wide range of topics, including business, education, the arts, and local events. Her feature articles include an interview with independent documentary filmmaker Ken Burns and a feature on prisoners at the New Hampshire State Prison in Concord. She may be reached at amfredenburg@yahoo.com.