The Sweet Siren of Saratoga

The first time I set foot on Saratoga's hallowed grounds, the place was eerily empty. As soon as I landed in Albany, I hopped in the rental car, made a beeline up Highway 87 and drove straight to the track.  What else do you do when you've flown across the country to visit Saratoga Springs?  I certainly wasn't going to wait until tomorrow.

The race day was long over.  Once inside, I encountered no one.  I'm sure somebody was there, but I couldn't see them.  It was as if the track had closed years ago, and I had snuck in through a hole in the fence to see the old place.  Tomorrow, I would have to share Saratoga with everyone else, but for now, it was just me and a track as old as the Civil War.  I walked among the discarded copies of the Daily Racing Form, the picnic remnants, the empty beer cups, the chairs on top of tables and took it all in.  

It felt right that we should meet this way, without all the distractions and the buzz.  A rainbow appeared on the horizon, as if the track were telling me:  All those stories you've heard about the magic of this place are true.  I'm no ordinary racetrack.

The next morning, I awoke at 6 a.m. and headed back, lured by Saratoga's siren.  That, and the smell of bacon.  I knew breakfast at the track was an essential part of the Saratoga experience, and I wasn't going to miss it just because I had jet lag. Horseman Humphrey S. Finney once said, "Mornings at Saratoga are the best that nature has to offer.  If there is anything better than having melon, scrambled eggs and coffee on the clubhouse porch while watching horses work, I haven't found it."

Me either, Mr. Finney.  I couldn't believe how many people were there so early.  The races were six hours away.  The moon was still out.  But the Saratoga sky was so perfectly blue and clear, I couldn't imagine being any place else. 

After breakfast, I took the tram to the other side of the track and got my first look at life on the backside.  Part of the beauty of Saratoga is that you don't need a press pass or a badge or an inside source to see areas that are off limits to the public at most tracks.  

It makes you feel more a participant than a spectator.  It makes you feel welcome.

From the backside, I watched two-year-olds learning how to break from the gate.  I soaked up every detail of horses taking flight.  I studied the trainers studying their equine athletes.  I walked over to Siro's and listened to Steven Crist and others handicap the races.  Saratoga had grabbed a hold of me already, and it wasn't even noon.

I strolled through paddock area, stepping between the families picnicking on the grass. I chatted up the locals and listened to their stories. Before I knew it, it was post time. I had gotten so swept up in the Saratoga morning, I had forgotten to do my own handicapping.  No matter.  I didn't come here just to play the races.  I can play the races anywhere.  I can play them from home.  I flew 3,000 miles because I wanted to know why this place called to me like no other.  I wanted to know this town and its people, its farms and its charms.  Over the course of a week, I experienced it all, concluding with (what else?) The Travers.  I left the next day, begrudgingly.  But I knew Saratoga would one day invite me back.

It's late July.  Thankfully, her siren calls again.