Pimlico Race Course. Baltimore, Maryland. Preakness Day. Late afternoon after the 11th race, well before the 12th and nearly two hours before Journalism wins the Preakness itself.
Take a walk.
Start in the paddock. Yes, it's loud, confined, a touch kooky, but it's Pimlico's paddock and when it's full of Preakness horses it feels like an NHL locker room before game seven. Champagne drinkers toast on the right, just outside the women's jockeys' room, lead ponies chill in the skinny stalls, a security guard slides the metal pipe back to let you out. Say thank you. Go left and up the ramp to the clubhouse. Same place it's always been, clean and dirty at the same time. Make a lap. People line up to look through the windows into the paddock (it'll be 20 minutes before the horses get there), others gather in pockets near central pillars, still more watch small televisions, a few cash tickets at the mutuel windows. Make a loop and go out the way you came.
And now head past the paddock again. Stop and talk with some Falls Road Running Club members, vow to come back for the Tavern Run on Super Bowl Sunday. There's the photo room. Legends used to develop film and make prints of other legends in there. It's all computerized now, but the feeling remains. Imagine how much Jim McCue is going to miss that place.
Hello, grandstand. Dodge the guy selling black-eyed Susan drinks in souvenir glasses, bend right, then left. To the right, the floor slopes up to the doors to the track apron, which then slopes down to the track -- one of racing's great phenomena. Betting windows line the left side. The floor shines, still. How many times has it been buffed? Televisions hang high. Four people sit on a straight plastic bench; others cluster on a circular wooden seat around a pole; still more gather on plastic chairs linked by metal frames. Somewhere, a used-to-be-new tote board flashes lightbulbs. Pass the ice-cream stand, which also sells iced coffee for $5. Head for the Hilltop Eatery sign in all its mid-century modern glory. A padded office chair looks out of place at a round-top table, but shouts comfort. Resist the urge.
The path narrows. Head under the Division 3B sign. Ponder what that means, for a second anyway. For reference, you're about a furlong from the finish line, headed toward the top of the stretch.
And whoa, everything is different. Welcome to the OG part of an old-school racetrack. Though you're inside, there's a breeze to your left and another in your face. To the right, signs warn "Limited Access. Closed to Public." Those passageways used to send patrons to seats in the wooden grandstand over your head, where fans of Venezuela's wonder horse Canonero II stomped and banged and sang their horse to victory in 1971. People haven't sat up there in years. The building stands, but nobody goes in. All the action is underneath or out front.
The mutuel bays appear devoid of human tellers, but self-serve machines get some attention. Do they work? Signs from a bygone era advertise "Programs, Racing Forms, Tip Cards." Fans walk in all directions -- coming, going, looking, seeking, talking, snapping, vibing. Some drink. Some eat. All look sharp though the attire spans silk-screened suits and cutoff jeans, silk blouses and Tom Matte Colts T-shirts, fancy hats and backward O's caps (you know they fired the manager today?). A SWAT officer walks by, like he stepped out of a Rambo sequel. Somebody asks for a photo.
The grandstand ends. Step outside into real daylight and everything changes again. To the right, infielders access the tunnel -- more departures than arrivals at this point. To the left, calm but stern Baltimore Police Department officers stand behind metal bike racks. To their left, anger bubbles over in one guy. He wants in, doesn't have the right ticket, keeps on talking. An officer who worked the last "wild" infield, says to nobody, "This is tame, believe me."
Beyond the people, on a sandy uphill horse path, 10 horses wait. They'll contest the $250,000 Dinner Party Stakes shortly. Imagine their thoughts. "Most races generate less hubbub than a library at midnight . . . why all the commotion for this one?" Fort Washington will win for trainer Shug McGaughey, whose assistant Anthony Hamilton used to be a Preakness partier. Now he's part of the reason for the party.
Leave the horses, tell the cops you won't repeat anything terrible, and wander in front of that old grandstand toward the finish line. This must be what sailing past a decommissioned lighthouse feels like. Once important, the oldest portion of the Pimlico grandstand offers little more than shade and people use it all as the shadows creep toward the track. To the left, folding chairs are scattered like leaves in October. Vendors hawk cans of Stella and Guinness, raspberry White Claws and whatever else floats in tubs of icy water. Keep walking, turn around when you hit a dead end at a bar and duck inside the newer but still old grandstand. Ride the escalator up, turn left and venture outside.
Welcome to the second floor, home of fresher air, more shade, box seats that haven't changed owners in decades. It's the 150th Preakness. One of the first people you see sports a Preakness 100 tie. "Can't you see Dad grabbing this that year?" says the wearer. Talk the state of media with a radio guy. Talk the state of racing with a horsewoman. Pose for a photo. Laugh at the absurdity of a musical act giving a concert while facing away from most of the people at the event. Keep walking, stay outside despite ushers opening doors, dodge punters returning from the windows with their tickets. No, you don't need a black-eyed Susan. Say hello to some Kentuckians, turn left, walk through the Preakness horsemen's boxes and turn right down the staircase to ground level. Make a right, go through the doors, down the slope away from the track, left, left again and -- once the guard slides back the pipe and you say thank you -- you're back in the paddock.
The walk took 30 minutes and 12.83 seconds, and felt like forever.
Thanks, Pimlico. For everything.
