preakness weakness

A friend and I drove to the Preakness Stakes near Baltimore on Saturday. I had been looking forward to a pleasant day at the races, watching as ponies swished their tails and ladies in white elbow gloves sipped mint juleps. Tiny jockeys sitting with their feet high in the stirrups would gaze into the bleachers to salute us, and we would wave our kerchiefs daintily and remark sideways, “I do believe this could be the year for Flyin’ First Class!” And screaming – there would be lots of screaming, and jumping up and down as the horses thundered past, colored mantles flying in the sun.

As we neared the racing complex, we stopped short of vehicular manslaughter when a group of college students stumbled onto the highway in front of our car, wheeling an open cooler of Natty Ice. As we screeched to a halt, one obviously intoxicated girl stopped in the middle of the lane and peered at us through the windshield with a look that I would only describe as “piercing,” had she been able to focus her eyes for even a moment on any one spot. Or perhaps “glacial,” if not for the wide swaths of under-boob sweat seeping visibly through her Juicy Couture tube top. It was then that I began to feel uneasy.

We cautiously drove on, past aggressive ten-year olds standing on private lawns and brandishing hand-painted signs that advertised “Parking – TODAY ONLY $45.” Men wielding rickety shopping carts like a shirtless army of Sherpas offered to haul our beer/lawn chairs/friends-who’d-already-passed-out the quarter mile up the hill to the gates. As we hiked back to the grounds, I marveled at the emergence of this sweaty cottage industry around the margins of such a once-aristocratic sport. The sound of a Sparks cracking open snapped me out of my ruminations. My companion took a swig of the malty orange beverage and thrust the can into my hand. We drank with resolution.

We entered the race grounds in time to witness several cops escorting out an angry and sunburned spectator. Someone’s girlfriend weakly held back a similarly red-faced male who shouted after him, “That’s right, b*@%$! I know what time it is!” We found ourselves standing before what looked like a refugee camp. The war over, thousands of crushed beer cans and chicken bones only remained, scattered like casualties. We came upon our other friends as night ships to the lighthouse – beacons shining across a dark sea. With legs folded under eyeletted dresses and wide-brimmed hats shielding their fair faces, they obliviously munched away at brie and baguette as if picnicking at the Tuilleries. I dropped to the felt blanket in relief and tried not to think about the vomit-dappled grass below.

The afternoon passed. The horses ran by every twenty minutes or so with people getting up to sway and cheer vehemently for nothing in particular. By the time the main race rolled around, a fight had broken out nearby, ending with the loser back-boarded and carried away, apathetic security looking on. At one point, we ventured to the other end of the field to a shanty town of porta-potties, posing for photos on the way with the most ridiculous among the crowd. I sleepily flicked through the evidence on my friend’s digicam as he drove back to DC. My favorite is a shot of me flanked by two “brahs” in matching yellow tees that read “Bangin’ chicks at Preakness ’07.” I’d never been so happy to be home.