When locals are asked why they endure six months of winter to live in Chicago, three answers are commonplace: 1) Chicago is a "livable" city (this is not a populace that longs for New York) 2) Midwesterners make good neighbors (unless you live in Ferguson) and 3) there's no better place on earth in the summer (and by earth, the locals mean the Midwest).
All of those realities are all on display as the 1:28 Metra train comes to a stop in the Arlington Racetrack, yards from the main entrance to the track.
Two of the best tracks in the land, Arlington and Del Mar, boast front-door service by rail. It's as fine a way to arrive at the track as I've encountered, though admittedly my request to borrow a submarine for Pacific Classic Day has yet to be approved by the Navy.
Everyone on our Metra train was in a good mood, and everyone gets off at the track. It's an exciting reality, even if 90% of the riders are about to beeline it to the nearest beer line in lieu of making a stop at Arlington's gorgeous paddock, which is just inside the eastern gate. It's a shame because the paddock is a must-visit locale at most racetracks, and Arlington is no exception.
In the paddock the horses are found in their last moments of calm, before getting saddled for the race. Trainers can be overheard giving incredibly succinct instructions to their jockeys ("he wants the lead Luis, just do what you do"). It's also where horseplayers refine their last minute picks based on which horse has their ears pricked, or is unexpectedly wearing wraps on their legs for the first time.
After three decades going to the track I have my own doctrine which governs visits to the paddock: don't bet on horses that are perspiring an alarming amount; ignore everything else.
I'm not an equine vet. Let's not pretend otherwise. I can't tell how sound or fit one horse is in comparison to another. Besides, evaluating a horse based on their presence in the paddock is like evaluating a college football player baed on their pro day: should the way a horse looks moments before the race trump the lifetime of past performances I have in the racing form?
I vote nay.
The beauty of this stance is that I can spend a nominal amount of time evaluating the horses, and a lot more time people watching. Oh, the people watching.
On Million Day you get the young and the old, families with picnics mingling with collegiate party goers. One group wears big hats and formal attire as if they were at the Derby. The next wears tank tops and jean shorts, as if it's their lone attire for the weekend. Anything goes.
My girlfriend and I have quickly made friends with a kindly, talkative local who is betting on Adelaide in the Secretariat -- one of the Grade I races preceding the Million -- due to a personal connection: it was the name of a deceased friend who would have turned 100 this year. I'm betting on Adelaide because he was one of the best 3 year-olds in Europe before shipping across the pond, and I think he's going to annihilate this mediocre group of natives.
Adelaide wins, but just barely, after running far too wide in the stretch. European races are run on courses with right-handed turns while we opt for counterclockwise in the States. Occasionally horses don't fare well due to the variation, and while Adelaide had run once before in the States without incident, his second effort wasn't so smooth. I'm lucky to escape the race with a W.
My girlfriend and I celebrate Adelaide's victory with a cocktail, though the bartender is openly questioning my drink of choice -- rum with oj and a splash of ginger ale -- in a good-hearted manner. It's the sort of banter that you expect and appreciate at Arlington.
Heading into the Million i'm down a little money on the day, but I've staked a large claim against Magician, the defending Breeder's Cup Turf Champion. When a horse wins a renowned race like the Derby or the Breeder's Cup they are candidates to get overbet in the future. Such is the case with Magician in my opinion, and I'm additionally concerned because he ran in Europe's biggest race of the summer three weeks prior to the Million. It's tough to run a great race with that short of a turn-around. Especially one on another continent.
I need either Real Solution, Smoking Sun, or Up with the Birds to win the Million. If they do I'll cash my second winning Pick 3 of the day. If Magician or either of two longshots win, I'll be down a little.
As the horses approach the starting gate I notice a guy standing next to me wearing an Arc t-shirt. The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe is the most prestigious race in Europe, run every year in October at Longchamp, just outside of Paris. A dutiful Midwesterner, he's quick to tell us about his trip with friends to Longchamp and how much they enjoyed it. He says it's close enough to Paris to take the Metro, a reality which has me inclined to pencil in a trip for an October in the future.
As the horses turn for home in the Million it's evident I am not going to win my bet. Magician and longshot Hardest Core are engaged in a two-horse race, having left everyone else behind. Hardest Core was running in allowance races on the east coast as recently as June, and now he is dueling with the Breeder's Cup champ. As they approach the wire, it's evident Hardest Core is going to win the Million and elevate his worth by a factor of 1000.
It's the kind of story that makes you glad to be a part of horse racing. Most experts would have questioned this horse's potential a few months ago. Now he has won the Million and is worth a boatload at stud. Rudy Ruettiger comes to the racetrack.
My pockets are $85 lighter as we leave, and I'm a little annoyed I didn't include the two longshots in the Million. If I'd have spent another $12 to include them in my Pick 3, I would have won $500. But that's horse racing, and like everyone else, I'm still in a good mood on the way out.
We've had a few drinks, made some new friends, and the 6:28 Metra is right on time to carry us back to the city after a picture perfect day or facing. On days like this, living in Chicago make a whole lot of sense. An impossible amount of sense.
If only I could say the same in the winter.
