How Rachel Alexandra Helped Me Break My Saratoga Maiden

I broke my Saratoga maiden this weekend. At the end of a six-hour jaunt from Toronto, I arrived in the town of Saratoga Springs and was immediately overwhelmed by horse racing nirvana. Driving down Broadway, I witnessed Rachel Alexandra banners, citizens wearing horse racing paraphenalia and the Daily Racing Form was available on every street corner. Horse racing was featured on the cover of all the local papers and the hot destination in town was the racetrack. Finally, a culture that lives and breathes the Sport of Kings.

Walking into the track, I was surprised to see a large crowd gathered for a Friday afternoon card. Who are all these people and where have they come from? Thousands of punters wandered the premises of Saratoga talking excitedly about Rachel Alexandra's upcoming appearance in the Woodward. Seeing my media badge, complete strangers would come up and welcome me to the track. Men and women of all ages hovered around picnic tables in "the backyard" handicapping races.

Ernie Munick entertained the punters in the backyard


For weeks leading up to this trip, my host Teresa spoke of watching races from "the backyard". It took a while for this bit of slang to take hold. The backyard is not an expansive rear-facing lawn of some mansion on the backstretch, but instead a park complete with picnic tables, live music and televisions located behind the grandstand away from the racing oval itself. Many fans will not even bother with the front side of the track preferring to enjoy a day in the park, contentedly wagering and watching the races on television.

Seth Merrow smiles in the paddock at Saratoga under the watchful eye of the backyard patrons


A first day at the races ended successfully on a last race exacta and I rushed over to Siro's to celebrate with a post-race drink. The crowd was a mix of fans, turf writers, trainers and owners. A live band was playing and the bar was buzzing with the language of horse racing. Walking from the bar to my friends with a round of drinks, I stumbled through snippets of conversations. "Pick four...Rachel...Linda Rice...opening fractions...bad trip...," mumbled the gathered gamblers. The only sport that mattered featured athletes who snacked on carrots and ate peppermints for dessert.

Rapid Beat is one of the many, happy equine athletes stabled at Saratoga


Later that Friday evening, I went to dinner with a large group of new friends at the Stadium Cafe which is a sports bar featuring framed jockey silks for decoration and HD televisions blasting live horse racing as entertainment. I ordered a Saratoga Special (cheese burger, Saratoga chips and a Saratoga lager) and tried to absorb the events of the day. It was as though I had entered an alternate universe where horse racing mattered above all else.

I rolled off the couch Saturday morning at dawn and headed over to the racetrack. Fans were lining up to get into the racetrack to watch racing from the backyard. Everyone was smiling. Every third word was "Rachel" and everyone was wearing a "Rachel Alexandra" button. Men and women wore pink in support of the history-making filly. Horses were working out on a foggy main track as the sun rose brilliantly taking the chill from the air.

A fog swirled across the track early Saturday morning


On the backstretch, trainer Kiaran McLaughlin watched his horses go through their paces from a raised stand. Nick Zito zipped by on a golf cart. "The Chief" nodded a polite "hello" while standing with friends near the coffee shop. Exercise riders and handlers clad in vintage horse racing gear dined on breakfast sandwiches and laughed with their friends. Horses snorted and whinnied. Birds chirped, bloggers Tweeted and every third person was walking a dog. Photographers wandered the backstretch in search of the next big picture. Everything looked like heaven with horses through a vaseline lens.

Trainer Dom Galluscio was one of many friendly faces on the Saratoga Backstretch


First race post-time closed in and the track filled to capacity. Each race ending was one race closer to the tenth-race Woodward. Linda Rice versus Todd Pletcher and Ramon Dominguez versus Alan Garcia mattered less and less. Was it going to rain? What odds will Rachel end up at? Can Bullsbay catch the filly? Why isn't Calvin Borel winning races at this meet? I hope she wins. I hope she wins. I hope she wins.

The tenth race arrived more than five hours after the first race ended but it felt like only minutes had passed the anticipation was so overwhelming. The bell rang marking 17 minutes to post and the pressure cooker that was Saratoga heated up even more. Sam The Bugler stepped onto the dirt track and played Billy Joel's, "She's Always A Woman To Me" as the crowd began to whistle and cheer for the big filly to arrive. I was tucked underneath the rail at the finish line holding my camera amazed at what was unfolding around me. Fans pressed up against the fence calling out Rachel Alexandra's name. A man with a Southern drawl heckled the salty group of Grade One winners with, "You're gonna get beat by a girl!"

One by one, the field walked by the gate positioned at the starting line of Saratoga's mile and an eighth track. The tension was unbearable. Apparently it was tense for Rachel Alexandra too as the filly threw Borel off her back into the dirt. The crowd hushed. Rachel stayed calm. Borel climbed back into the irons. The crowd cheered. Disaster averted. Into the gate they go. Locked and loaded. They're off!

Track announcer Tom Durkin, assuming the role of narrator for this fairy tale race, bellows out names at almighty decibels. Rachel is in the lead. The field flails behind her trying to keep up. With good reason, the filly zipped the first quarter in 22 and change. A worried Durkin booms, "There will be no free ride for Rachel Alexandra, they're making her work for every step today."

Too fast Calvin, too fast!

Durkin covered all the angles, calming the crowd at the half mile marker by announcing, "Calvin Borel has managed to slow the pace down a little bit." The filly turned into the stretch and Durkin, urging the heroine as much as the jockey, yells, "Calvin Borel imploring his filly for more!" Macho Again squeezes past Bullsbay and arrives at Rachel's flank silencing the crowd. "They're coming down to the finish, it's going to be desperately close," screams Durkin. "Here's the wire...Rachel WON!"

Bedlam. Absolute bedlam ensues. "She did it," yells a man in the crowd. People are hugging. Photographers are snapping a tableau film of the events. I see Dominic Terry, Rachel Alexandra's exercise rider, standing on the track in tears. "Why did it have to be a photo finish," Terry asks no one in particular.

A crowd of admirers congregate around Rachel Alexandra


The losing horses stride back to their handlers gassed from the efforts of the race. A roar from the grandstand as Rachel Alexandra and Borel parade in front of their fans. The clapping is infectious and continues like a Mexican wave as the filly heads towards the winners circle. Borel waves his arms and points at his filly all the while hooting and hollering. Jess Jackson wanders onto the track and Borel plants a kiss on the owner's cheek. Kisses for everyone in range. Fans swarm the winners circle for a look at greatness.

A quick shower along the rail for Rachel Alexandra and a long walk home to her stall on the backstretch serves as a victory parade for a filly who lifted her game to a level we weren't sure existed.

For the remainder of the day, fans walked around the track like witnesses of a spaceship landing. Did this really happen? Did you see that? I can't believe it.

It was a miraculous sporting event, marked by the bizarre crowning of a champion in front of a crowd cheering for only one team. Trainer Steve Asmussen, owner Jess Jackson and jockey Calvin Borel all lauded the talents of the big filly. Even the losing jockeys shook their heads and tipped their caps to the newly crowned champion.


* * *

The next morning sun rose over the Saratoga track. Trainers trained, hot walkers walked and grooms groomed. For turf writers, the beat goes on. The Fall campaign at Belmont looms. I drive the six hours back to Toronto in bittersweet bliss. It's over but the memory will live on. As I drive, I make plans to return next summer for more Saratoga moments. There may never be another Rachel Alexandra, but it dawns on me that being with the people drawn to the Spa was the best part of the experience.

Trainer Kiaran McLaughlin keeping a watchful eye


The infinite cycle of the-next-big-thing leads me to believe a future exists where some youngster will approach me at Saratoga and ask if a certain new horse is better than Rachel Alexandra. Maybe, maybe not. What I do know is that I have yet to live a racing experience greater than what I enjoyed at Saratoga. Thanks for the memories Saratoga, keep 'em coming.

Thanks for the memories Saratoga...