Beer for My Horses

Amy had a friend from Colorado in town for the weekend, so it was me and the girls for a few days. They do not share my love of hockey or horse racing, and in turn, I do not share their love of shopping and gossip, which means I spent a lot of time down in manland. My basement is dark, cool, has a 42" plasma, a leather recliner and a refrigerator stocked with beer. It is so chalk full of testosterone that if Lance Armstrong watched a game with me, his second testicle would probably grow back. After spending Saturday night holed up in manland watching the Pens fail to get anything going, I was ready to get out of the cave.

Sunday morning, the sun is up and the temperature is perfect for a day at the track. I bid adieu to the ladies, jump in the truck and head out to watch the ponies for the afternoon. John Denver had it right when he said "Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy" and "Country Roads take me home, to the place, I belong, West Virginia". The tunes are loud and the wind is whipping through my slightly damp locks, as I hit the gas and point my vehicle for the Mountaneer state. Just over the state line I feel my IQ drop and I suddenly get the urge to rape Ned Beatty, but I suppress that tingling in my pants and enjoy the winding two-lane country roads. I smell money, unhealthy food and horseshit, the track must be close.

I park and start my two mile walk to the racing area. I second hand smoke two packs of Marlboro Lights on the way in, and have a smart ass exchange with a 90 year old security guy. I see the track entrance, but it looks like he is blocking the door, so I ask him how I get to the track and he says "It's right there". No shit grandpa, I was asking you if I could get in this way or if I had to go around. No worries, in seconds I am outside, I have a beer in my hand and the second race has 15 minutes to post.

I know almost nothing about what to look for in a horse, but I wander over the staging area and size them up anyway. I try and decipher the program and all of the hieroglyphics on the page. The horse ranking, the weight it will be carrying, its win/loss record, when the last time it took a shit, how it does when a Hispanic rides him vs. an Irish guy, you know, the basics. I abandon these strategies and go with just the name. The 11 horse is "Bigger and Better Deal". Perfect. I used to watch this movie on HBO back in the day called Hardbodies, and the main character's pick-up line was to dialogue chicks with the BBD, aka bigger and better deal. Then the track announcer comes on, scratch the number 11 horse. WTF?

The first bet of the day, I go simple; $10 on the 9 horse to place. And down the stretch they come...come on 9, come on 9...Results are official 10, 4, 9. You suck 9! Damn, I missed by one spot. This is pretty much how the next couple of races go for me. I bet to show, and they come in fourth, I bet to place and they come in third. Finally, in the fifth race I catch a break. Of course the favorite for that race was scratched, leaving my horse with the best odds to win, meaning I would rake in a huge payoff of $1. You can't get anything these days for a dollar. Not true, you can have one of these tasty KFC snackers. (Sorry for the obligatory product placement)

It's getting hot, like Alabama hot, so I grab a hot dog and some shade, before the sixth race. The track is an awesome place to people watch. You got your horse people in pressed wranglers, who know the trainers, the horses and study the field with expertise. Then, you got your middle-management, cigar smoking wannabees who think they're at the fucking Kentucky Derby. On their arm is usually a trophy wife in a sundress and a large hat, smiling with that vacant Stepford stare. Next up, are the rednecks who missed the memo on dressing for their size. They brag about betting $2 on a horse to show. Don't spend your $.60 in winnings all in one place. (Like I'm one to judge after my big $1 payoff) You also see a bunch of old folks who look like they took a wrong turn at the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, and decided to stop for a second and watch all the pretty horses. Finally, you have the hardcore gambling guys who have 15 different bets on every race. When they lose, it looks like they're in the middle of a ticker-tape parade. You throw all of these folks into a yahtzee cup, shake 'em up and then let them roll out over the track area.

I decide that the sixth race will be my last of the day. I place my usual $10 bet and hope for the best. All I want to do at this point is watch the race and get back to town, but of course there is a long delay as a horse is injured at the gate. Looks like it will be stable to table for that unlucky bastard. I almost decide to pack it in and eat the bet, but I stay just to see what happens. Good call, because my philly finally comes in, and I make a whopping $7.

The day on the whole is a mixed bag, but I'll take it. I walk back through the slots area, which looks more like an old folks home than a casino. Everywhere you look, you see the blue-hairs slumped over in front of flashing lights, mindlessly putting their retirement savings into the machines. Back in the truck, the windows go down, the tunes go up, and I'm back into full on open road, Easy Rider mode. Smooth sailing back to the International House of Estrogen or IHOE.