Racing at the Edge of the Universe

by Mark Cramer 
In travels across the USA to visit the outer edges of the American racing solar system, I found that racetracks such as Penn National, Charles Town, Fairmount Park or Albuquerque allowed the visitor more intimate contact with the game, perhaps because the owners of horses and those who bet on them were not so different. 

At Charles Town, I could walk up to an owner and ask, “What do you think of your horse Hale Mary in the sixth?” And I’d usually get an answer, along with a smile. I doubt I’d get the same result with the Aga Khan, even though he’s known as a nice guy. 

These small tracks have their local idiosyncrasies, such as the former Milton’s Family Restaurant in Albuquerque offering “The Loser’s Special,” dinner discounts for players who brought in their losing tickets from the track. But still, these out-of-the-way tracks used the same style past performances as Santa Anita and Saratoga, and the pari-mutuel connectivity kept them within the larger system. 

I looked for other fringe places, like racing at Salisbury and Brighton in England. But even the diminutive purses for local maiden races did little to bring the hard-core players in contact with the rest of the game. At Brighton, I was granted the honor of choosing the best-groomed horse before one of the races, with the “lad” (groom) winning an award. Had I not followed the proper dress code, my services would not have been requested. The male lads (there are also female lads) wore suits and ties, as if their own grooming had to be in synchronicity with that of their horses. 

With its near-50 tracks, Britain is too small to contain a parallel racing universe beyond the mainstream. Even the Gosdens and Stoutes have horses running in maiden races with a purse of 3000 pounds. Such races are well-covered by the Racing Post. 

I was searching for tracks with a more communal ambiance, where the sport of kings would become a generalized party for all comers. I figured that many of France’s 240 operating race tracks might be found beyond the racing galaxy as I knew it. Some of these small tracks have only four or five racing dates per year and avoid spiraling out of existence only by belonging to larger associations of regional race courses. 
What I have found thus far, after having visited my 27th French track (shooting for 240), is that local idiosyncrasies are alive and well. For example, at Orleans, perched on a bank above the wild and beautiful Loire River, the horseplayers use the toilets in the jockey room. At the urinal, you can ask the guy next to you if he especially likes any of his mounts for the day. 

Arriving on a Sunday at Senonnes-Pouancé, bicycling through rolling fields into a small town, I was taken aback to not see a single soul on the somber streets. Was this one of France’s abandoned villages? But a few minutes on, approaching the track, suddenly the sensory deprivation was healed, with the smell of horses, the shouts of children and the colors of codeless dress surrounding the honky-tonk grandstand. You could even hear the mooing of the cows munching beyond the far turn. The entire town and region had emptied out to converge at the track, with its long downhill stretch, for an afternoon of racing. 

My most recent excursions are indicative of this jagged edge of the racing universe. 

Argentan, to the west of Paris, is a town some of my friends had never heard of, but quaint nonetheless. No need for the bicycle this time since the track was only a two-mile spirited walk from the railroad station. 
A big event followed the seventh race. The track announcer had been reminding the players to deposit their losing tickets in a box, with their names and addresses jotted on the back of each ticket. Prizes were handed out to those whose tickets were drawn. 

Here was a case where it was entirely legitimate to stuff the ballot box and the folks who had lost the most had the best chance to win. If you wanted to make a 10-Euro bet, you could buy five 2-Euro tickets, thereby increasing your chances in the drawing, that is, if your horse lost. 

Like most of these French rural tracks, Argentan railbirds are so close to the action that they’d better watch out for clods of turf in their faces. 

Following the final race of the day, I noticed that a trainer was working three horses on the track. In fact, after the first gallop and walk, the horses went back out for a second gallop. They were working in heats. 

I showed him my press pass, so he wouldn’t think I was hunting for a tip. He told me that one of the three, Grey Frost, was slated to race at Fontainebleau in ten days and that he’d already won twice at Fontainebleau. 
I asked if working in heats could be tough on the horses. “No”, he said, “because it’s ten days before the race, and we don’t gallop them as fast as the Americans.” 

That night at home, I checked Grey Frost’s race history on my computer. As it turned out, he’d raced only once at Fontainebleau and finished a distant 14th of 16 runners. They had already posted the mutuel payoffs by the time he’d reached the finish line. 

I then checked back at the results of this trainer’s horses that afternoon at Argentan. In fact, he’d had seven runners without a win and only one had managed to finish in the money. I have thus learned to not bother asking questions to trainers in a bad funk. 

For my next outing to Amiens, to the north of Paris, I resolved to talk to the horse people either before the races when they were still optimists, or better yet, after they’d won. 

As with Argentan, the track at Amiens is only a two-mile-plus walk from the station. A four-mile round trip seemed like cheating after having cycled hundreds of miles to other tracks. However there was so much to see in this small riverside city that I ended up walking about 10 miles, especially through the Amiens version of the bayou. 

This city is replete with canals from the Somme River. Produce from these bayou island gardens is sold locally along the river front. Luckily I’d taken the early train and it was a “semi-nocturne” race card beginning at 4:30, so I had the time to explore. 

I still managed to get to the track a couple of hours early, in order to chat with the horse people arriving at the holding barn. (French tracks do not have a backstretch residence for horses.) In particular I wanted to take a picture of a horse named Rouge Sang. He had won both of his Amiens races but been blanked everywhere else: a powerful stat. 

I had wanted to talk with his rider Delphine Santiago for a long time. Her story was one of great courage. In 2003 she’d taken a horrendous fall, with multiple injuries leading to a complex spinal operation. Most observers thought her career was finished. “I fell in the wrong direction,” she once said. 

I wanted to find out what kind of person would get back on a racehorse, knowing there would be a second level of “injury” when most stables would be afraid to give her mounts. Today she gets 7% winners, quite admirable since she mainly rides in fields of 14 horses or more. Above all, as a father, I wanted to learn how her family reacted to her plan of getting back into race riding following the excruciating injury. 

I found Rouge Sang getting his bath at the holding barn. After the bath, her lad took her out to walk and to “pose” for a photo. The horse looked great, a good backup for my empirical horse-for-course evidence. 
Remembering the mis-interview at Argentan, what I needed for a frank talk with Delphine Santiago was for Rouge Sang to win. 

Well, he got off well, pressed the pace, and then moved into overdrive to capture the win. I must say that following her winner, Delphine Santiago was just as thrilled, if not more, as Olivier Peslier winning with Goldikova! 

“Just let me watch the re-run,” she said, “and then we can talk.” She was embraced by the owner of the horse she had just beat: a human exacta. 

I told her I only had one question. “As a father, more than as a journalist, I’d like to know about the reaction of your immediate family, especially your parents, when you decided to continue riding? 

“Instead of answering myself,” she said, “why don’t you come with me? You can ask my parents directly. They’re here, eating fries. Show me where they sell fries and we’ll find them.” 

I took her to the grandstand restaurant. She introduced me to her mom and dad, along with others in the entourage. They stopped picking at their fries and sausage, waiting for my question. 

“Did you encourage your daughter to continue her jockey career after her terrible ordeal?” 

“Pas du TOUT,” the father said (“not at ALL”), while the mother, shook her head vigorously in agreement. The expression on their faces relived the horror they had been through, before and after Delphine Santiago got back in the saddle. 

Madmoiselle Santiago lives for the competition. The word “passion” is an understatement when it comes to her love of riding. I accompanied her as she took her entry sheet to various people she knew in the grandstand, asking them about the horses she’d be facing in the eighth race, her next mount. Judging by her questions, she seemed to have memorized the past performances of each horse in the field. 

The “semi-nocturne” Thursday race schedule had allowed parents to pick up their children and come directly to the track. Players could stroll into the weighing room without being asked for their turf club pass. Owners, trainers and riders mingled with the crowd. 

Night had fallen. A passenger train streamed by, just past the far turn of this right-handed track. In the distance beyond the backstretch I could pick out the lights of the immense Amiens gothic cathedral. The poplar trees surrounding the oval had become mere profiles, and the bright orange from the pumpkin garden by the grandstand had faded. 

I had a train to catch, but I did not want to leave.