Rachel's new website

Have you seen Rachel Alexandra's new website over at NYRA.com, Rachel's Sandbox? The blog is being written by my new acquaintance, Jenny Kellner, who dishes about Rachel's arrival at Belmont, the buzz on the backside, and the lead-up to the Mother Goose Stakes. With videos, pictures, and up-t0-date information, this is the next-best thing to being at the track Saturday to see the great filly run in the Grade I Mother Goose Stakes.

If you're lucky enough to attend this race, know that there's a Rachel bracelet giveaway when the doors open, and women get in free. I wish I could get my hands on one of those bracelets!

Zenyatta is racing Saturday, as well. Unfortunately, it's in a different state. She'll be going for her second Vanity Handicap at Hollywood Park. My article about the "virtual match race" will be linked here tomorrow.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part IV

The last two races on Friday were the Hill Prince Stakes and the Brooklyn Handicap, both graded races, where the former of the two was downgraded in status after being taken off the turf. I was looking forward to seeing Affirmatif live up to his hype, but I wasn't sure how well he would perform on not only a dirt track for the first time, but in the river of slop the Big Sandy had become by post time. All during the post parade and the race, rain pelted down and can be seen in my photos like some sort of hovering translucent snow. It made for some great photographs, don't get me wrong, but it was not a fun condition to shoot in.

Unfortunately for Affirmatif, he was destined for second place, putting in a good effort against a colt that had run previously on the dirt and had been targeted toward his first turf start. Maybe his connections better rethink their gameplan. Here's my photo of Despite The Odds roaring down the sloppy track of Belmont with the sparse grandstands in the background. I found it depressing so few people were at the track on Belmont Eve. It's nothing like Churchill Downs the entire week of the Kentucky Derby. And I'm not blaming it on the rain. It's possible fewer people were in town because there was no Triple Crown on the line, but I'd be willing to bet Derby week is just some other kind of animal you don't see anywhere else. (All the more reason, I keep telling myself, why I should just move to Louisville...)

The Brooklyn Handicap also produced an upset, in a horse that beat only one other in his last time out: Eldaafer. This is what happens in the slop sometimes; the additional distance of 1 1/2-miles probably contributed to this wild card factor, too. I was hoping to see Fierce Wind make a comeback, after showing promise as a three-year-old and having been laid off for ten months after the Florida Derby, but he hadn't won since March of this year and didn't show up again here at Belmont. The horse I actually thought might win was Barrier Reef, but he was scratched before the race. Unless I'm paying attention to the post parade, sometimes I don't notice a horse never made it into the race until it's all over and done with. You kind of lose track of things when you're shuttling behind the scenes.

Anyway, the excitement of the connections was contagious in the winner's circle. You can't help but get carried away by other people's enthusiasm when their horse wins a big stakes race like this. My favorite shot of the day came when one of the connections of Eldaafer, a lady who might've been an owner, grabbed jockey Jorge Chavez and kissed him on the cheek. Someone stepped right in my line of vision for the kiss, but the shot I got afterwards turned out pretty comical, like she was some over-exuberant aunt grabbing her nephew's face for a big smooch. All in all, it was a productive day at the races for me.

While I was off getting muddy and wet, with water soaking my jeans almost up to my knees (I wish I was exaggerating), my husband ventured up in the press elevator to pick up a couple of press party invitations Jenny was saving for us. He came back with the news that although the party invites said to dress "casual," he asked Jenny what would be appropriate to wear and she had replied, "Don't dress up or anything. Just don't wear jeans."

Hmm... I don't know what "casual" means in most circles, but jeans definitely is my idea of casual. And since we had not packed our bags to New York with the knowledge we'd be attending any sort of soiree, we decided a quick trip to the mall was in order to look appropriate. In record time, we dropped off our muddy clothes at the hotel, then found the mall (thanks to our Internet access on our BlackBerries), zoomed inside, tried on clothes, and walked out in spanking-new outfits suitable for "casual" fare.

The party was at the posh Garden City Hotel, probably the fanciest hotel in the area, in the trendy Ultra Lounge. We walked in looking like we actually belonged, for once, and didn't immediately recognize a soul. That ended up being just fine, because I was starving, and they had a spread fit for a king while I looked around for Bill or Jenny.

Did I mention I like party food? There was bruschetta, and toppings galore to stack your own hord'vors, and all kinds of meat, dips, fruit, and unidentifiable nibblings that tasted amazing. They also had this cheesy macaroni that was out of this world, plus lamb and roast beef. And there was an open bar. Since I had been delicately chastized for not drinking the night before in Bill's presence, I decided I'd better attempt to drink something. I decided to try an Old Fashioned, in honor of one my favorite three-year-olds of that year. Turns out, I prefer watching the horse to tasting the drink. Bourbon is definitely not for me. To save me from holding a drink I wouldn't touch the rest of the night, my husband went to the bar and asked for a "girly drink with little alcohol," and was presented with a coconut rum fruity concoction that was almost as good as the Lillies on Oaks day. At least I made the attempt.

One of the first people we recognized at the party was Mine That Bird's trainer, Chip Wooley. We were immediately crying "unfair," because he was dressed almost exactly as he does on race day, with a black cowboy hat, jeans, and a jacket. I guess his idea of casual is the same as ours. He looked as if he was having the time of his life, grinning from ear to ear, just seeming on top of the world. People were coming up to him and congratulating him left and right, and so we did the same. He was so friendly. Bob talked to him a little bit about New Mexico, and I hovered on the fringe of the conversation, though I couldn't hear most of it. They had a live singer (who thought he was Billy Joel) and very loud music blasting in the room, which made conversation pretty difficult.

We also saw D. Wayne Lukas at the party, as well as jockey Stewart Elliott (from Smarty Jones fame), who was sporting a white motorcycle jacket that was driving a harem of girls wild. Being the socially awkward artist that I am, I let Bob do most of the talking while I took everything in and stuffed my face with party food.

We finally found Bill Nack and Jenny about a half hour into the party. When I showed Bill my drink, he actually hugged me. Chalk it up as my good deed for the day. A lot of small talk and mingling ensued, as well as an incident where the chef serving the lamb gave Bill a dirty look for dipping his slice of meat into the gravy (in his defense, he hadn't bitten into it prior to the dipping); we also spent a good amount of time talking with a writer for the Daily Racing Form, and spying on the writer of the Indian Charlie rag. In the background, a widescreen TV played each Belmont Stakes ever recorded in history over the screen, from start to finish. When the conversations started to die down, I wished I could've heard the racing calls. Races just aren't the same without racing calls.

Overall, the night was definitely exciting, but I'm more into the intimate nights out where you can actually hear the person next to you talking. It was just another experience I never thought I'd have, crashing a press party with a slew of big-name trainers, owners, jockeys, and press. Just another moment of this crazy Belmont week where I kept feeling someone was going to turn to me and say, "Wait a minute, you don't belong here." It was strange; in a way, I felt like I didn't belong there, but in a very real way, it felt like I was around my people, that I had, in fact, become one of them.

The older I get, the more narrow my focus becomes on where I belong in this world. Something about the world of Thoroughbred racing is very familiar to me, a place where I can feel at home, no matter how extraordinary the circumstances. I didn't grow up around horses in the flesh, or even attend my first race until I was in the twilight years of my teens, but racing is something you don't have to experience in person for it to get under your skin. It's about appreciating that common love, and I've found that people from all ranks are grateful to you for being a part of it all, whether it's a horse owner, a bettor, or another photographer. It's one of the unsaid wonderful things about this sport, that love and camaraderie.

"I shouldn't be here": A Belmont Story. Part II

It took me a few hours to upload all of my shots back at the hotel, and to dry off from the morning rain and mud. Once I returned to Belmont, I put my press credentials to use for the first time during racing hours.
The last time I'd been to Belmont Park, I was seventeen or eighteen years old. It was the first time I'd ever stepped foot on a Thoroughbred racetrack, and when you could say I broke my maiden by watching my first live race. I distinctly remember the first time I took in the immensity of Belmont's 1 1/2-mile oval, which was nothing short of the same breathtaking awe one experiences upon seeing the Grand Canyon. This was the site of the most famous race in history, where the mighty Secretariat blew away his competition by a jaw-dropping 31 lengths to become the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years. I envisioned his ghost jogging around the final turn, Chic Anderson's timeless words echoing in my head, "Secretariat is widening now, he is moving like a tremendous machine!"

I didn't get to see much but turf races that first day, but I was there long enough to get into trouble. Gawking at the paddock, nobody stopped me as I meandered up to the Secretariat statue and snapped away with my Canon automatic, and only when I began to walk through the tunnel next to the parading horses and got a dirty look from a groom did I realize I was probably not supposed to be there. I still can't believe nobody ever kicked me out.

I had very much the same feeling as I walked past the security and into the paddock with my press credentials, only this time, I had a renewed respect for it all. It amazes me how only five or six years can make you forget. Yes, I remembered the enormity of the track, but I had forgotten how gorgeous Belmont is. I see it on TV every year, but to be there, among the archways of ivy, and in the presence of the historic paddock, is to be transported to another time. It may be 2009, but it may as well have been 1969 (in 1968, the first grandstand was demolished and rebuilt into what stands today). Maybe I was too young to appreciate it all, or possibly it was too much to take in at once, but the sheer green of Belmont is overwhelming and even nurturing to the soul.

I took pictures inside the paddock of horses being saddled and taken down the tunnel to race, and for the first time, stepped into the winner's circle and into what I call "the gutter" to take a finish line photo. Honestly, I had no idea where I was going, or if what I was doing was against the rules. I pretty muched looked at what other people were doing and followed their lead. There weren't many photographers present on the Thursday before the Belmont Stakes, and not many people at the track, in general. It was still raining in a steady mist, just enough to make you soggy and annoyed (But really, it was hard to be in anything but bliss and awe in the position I was in--I hardly noticed how wet I really got). Standing in front of the fence separating the fans from the track was pretty amazing, even though it was just a maiden claiming race. It was like easing into a lifestyle you had in a former life, simple and practiced without having to think much about it.

After the race was over, and I'd gotten my feet wet both figuratively and literally, I decided to finally give Bill Nack a call. I had no idea what I was calling him for, exactly, but since he'd given me his cell phone number and had been so friendly, why not try to meet up with the living turf legend? Maybe I could at least offer to buy him a drink, now that we were finally in the same town.

He answered my call almost suspiciously at first, "Who is this?" and when I told him who I was, he actually chuckled! Maybe he didn't even know what he was going to do with me exactly, but he said he was working and I should call him back in an hour. I got some food in me in the meantime (ahh lovely reheated Sbarro pizza, how you save me), and after the hour was up, I called him and he said he'd meet me downstairs where I was, in the paddock.

That's pretty much when my trip shot off into the stratosphere of "what the hell is going on, and how did I get into this situation?"

Bill came down and greeted me like an old friend, and walked down into the heart of the paddock with me to check out the Secretariat statue. The statue had been involved in a freak accident only a week before when a horse got loose and somehow ran into it. Reportedly, only the base had been damaged, and Bill began inspecting it for any hints of trauma, as if checking over a precious Mercedes after an accident. The traditional blanket of carnations in honor of the Belmont Stakes was covering the base of the statue, so there was really no telling if any damage was visible. And then, almost comically, Bill asked if I'd take his picture in front of it. I'd been secretly trying to figure out how to take this shot without him realizing it all during his inspection, and gladly obliged.

I don't really remember what we chatted about during that time, I was and always am so humbled to be around him, I'm sure whatever I said was little more than small talk. I'm pretty much worthless in conversation with most people, I admit. I have no knack for sociability; I'm your patented mumbling writer/artist-type.

Anyhow, inexplicably, Bill decided I was worthy of a tour of his stomping grounds, and swept me up into the elevator marked "PRESS ONLY." He proceeded to take me up to the press box, which is located at the topmost part of the grandstand, where I was blown away by the posh view of the sprawling track. He then began introducing me to every other person in the room, from Dan Liebman, the editor-in-chief of The Blood-Horse magazine, to Tim Layden, the Sports Illustrated writer who penned the recent cover story of Mine That Bird's Kentucky Derby victory, "Did that really happen?" What made me really feel humbled is that he introduced me to Liebman as "An up-and-coming equine photographer" and had him give me his business card to submit my pictures to. While I didn't know the first thing to say to Liebman, except for "Thank you, I love your magazine" (LAME, I know), I found some sort of words to put together to gush to Layden over his article.

Bill showed me what he called his favorite thing in the press box, a complete collection of American Racing Manuals. Inside each is a complete racing record of all the noteworthy horses, Eclipse winners, you have it. I told him that's what I needed to answer The Blood-Horse's And They're Off! trivia question about Carry Back (which I guessed right, but didn't win the drawing of, thankyouverymuch). Bill is fascinated with statistics and numbers, a regular fiend of trivia. Go figure, if you've read his Bible on Secretariat, that's a given.

I asked him when would be a good time to cross the track to see Ruffian's grave in the infield, and he directed me to go before the races started tomorrow. I could tell he respected the fact I wanted to see it up close, but this day, he didn't seem like he wanted to revisit her story much. He did reveal to me the press box was where he watched Secretariat's Belmont, and how after the race was over, he was running down the stairs, shouting to one of Big Red's naysayers, "I told you he could go over a mile and a quarter!" What a view that must've been of those long 31-lengths; the best view in the house, really.

We were up in the press box for hours, watching races proceed beneath us and talking, among other things, about the historical fiction Civil War book he wanted to write, Barack Obama's mark on Washington D.C., and how he wished the person who instigated torture to P.O.W's would be revealed. This is the sort of conversation that crops up once you run out of horse racing anecdotes. Bill Nack has a lot of convictions about politics, and a good head on his shoulders when speaking about it. He also admitted he was often yelled at by his wife for throwing things at the TV, like when Bush and Co. said they probably made a mistake for invading Iraq.

On our way out of the press box, Bill introduced me to Jenny Kellner, an award-winning journalist and media specialist for NYRA. Though they never said how many years they've been friends, it's clear Bill and Jenny are very close. Bill said if we're not busy, we should join them for drinks at Waterzooi, a restaurant famous for mussels. How could I refuse?

After a hug and a kiss from Bill, I left Belmont Park that day feeling like I'd walked into some strange alien body, and it was all a dream. It was about to get a lot more surreal that night, when "some people getting together" ended up being an intimate dinner with Bill, Jenny, her husband, my husband, and I, sharing mussels, mozzerella, and a mousse over talk about the business, Cormac McCarthy, the AP, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Hunter S. Thompson.

The highlight of the night was Bill's precise recitation of the last page of The Great Gatsby while we sat around the half moon-shaped table and ogled in reverie. You see moments like this in the movies and say to yourself, "Nobody does that. That never happens in real life." By God, it does when you're surrounded by award-winning authors who knew legends of literature. Hunter S. Thompson actually typed out Gatsby's novel to learn how to form beautiful sentences. Bill told us a story about Hunter's sense of humor, how he found ridiculousness, black comedy in moments that were supposed to be serious and foundation-shaking; he also told us about the mounds of drugs he would take and barely seem affected by them. Of course, Hunter opperated on drugs, so it's possible nobody ever knew what he was like when he was off them.

I found out that Jenny was the person who was looking to buy my picture of Curlin I took in last year's Stephen Foster. Strange how things come full circle. At the time, I had been credentialed by nobody and had no idea what to tell the intern who asked me how much I wanted for the photo to run in an ad in the Daily Racing Form. In desperation, I had contacted Charles Pravata, a photographer I have deep respect for I knew through Flickr. He told me he would charge no less than $200 for three-day usage in print, so that's what I asked for. Obviously, that price was too high for NYRA. Jenny said their going rate for one photo is $100. Damn. The sad thing is, I'd told the intern I'd negotiate, but being an intern, the kid obviously didn't know what that meant and the deal never happened. Jenny and Bill exchanged a glance at this. In this moment, I suddenly felt like in a way, I belonged.

The night ended late for me, who was barely getting by on my measely four hours sleep, but I could've stayed for hours more with that great conversation. I discovered Bill likes wine, and one of his rules for drinking is to never drink alone, or while he's working. He was disapproving of my un-alcoholic beverage that night, but he was gentlemanly about it and didn't pressure me about it. They gave me a second chance to redeem my faux pas the next night: Jenny invited us to the press party on Belmont eve.

I found myself once more asking myself the phrase that would become the mantra of the trip, "How did I get here?"