A DAY AT THE RACES

I have always been a fan of horse racing. There is such a thrill to being at the rail near the finish line when those glorious animals come charging around the corner, barely in view as they fan out and start the race to the wire. You can feel the ground start to shake and the crowd getting louder and louder as they near the finish line. By the time they are just feet away, the bass-pounding of the hooves and the ever-growing crowd noise creates a deafening roar. The horses are a blur as you attempt to see the number of the leader, hoping against hope it matches the number of the ticket you’re holding tightly in your hand. If those numbers match, there is an amazing adrenalin rush, and you turn to high-five the nearest face with the same look of euphoria. It is a high that can be had for as little as one euro.

Ireland has always had a fondness for horse racing. There are records of chariot races at the Curragh dating back to the time of Christ. Irish horses and trainers can be found on nearly every race card in Europe, and one-third of all entries at British tracks are Irish-bred. They and their Irish trainers are appreciated abroad, but celebrated greatly at home, with over 1.2 million Irish in attendance at both jump and flat festivals in 2023. Attending a premier race was on my list of things to do this summer, and when I learned that the prestigious 2000 Guineas race was to be held this past Saturday at the venerated Curragh race track, I started making plans.

Although the Curragh is only an hour and a half from Portumna by car, a car is something I don’t own (see the previous post for reasons), so I would have to take public transport. This would involve a bus from Portumna to Ballinasloe, a train to Dublin, another train to Kildare, and then a shuttle bus to the Curragh, travel time four and a half hours. For most, this would seem too much, but I find there’s always a story on the buses and trains, so I wasn’t put off. I figured if I didn’t stay for the entire card, and if all the transportation routes ran on time, I could be back home thirteen hours after setting out.

On Saturday morning I was up early and out the door. At the bus stop next to St Brendan’s Catholic Church I ran into my Brazilian neighbor and her daughter who were off to Malaga for a few days of Spanish sun. During the ride to Ballinasloe, she filled me in on what she’d learned about Ireland and the Irish in her six years here, as Pat the bus driver made intermittent stops. Each time, he greeted every new rider on the sixteen-seat minibus by name and a smile or a joke. At one point, a well-appointed elderly lady got on and Pat greeted her in a similar manner.

“Now, Pat”, she said, “I’m only going into Ballinasloe to do a little banking, and I don’t want to miss the bus back, so when you do your turnaround, I want ye to swing by the bank and wait for me if I’m not out front.”

“Well”, says Pat, “Shur, it will be a good twenty minutes before I’m back to the place where I’ll be droppin’ ye off. I’m sure you can make it back by then.”

The old woman didn’t think Pat quite understood her directive, so she basically restated her expectations of Pat following her newly designed route.

“I hear ye, missus”, said Pat, “but ya know I have a schedule to adhere to. Now I’ll be at that booshtop (Galway for ‘bus stop’) at 10:15 and I’m certain you’ll be able to make it, too.”

She gave Pat the hairy eyeball for a few seconds, then shuffled back and took a seat, but it was evident this was far from over.

When she was about to get off, the well-dressed woman stood in the doorway and said, “Now Pat, there is not another bus back for three hours, and if I’m not able to return to this stop in time, what you have me do with myself for all those hours?” This did not seem to be a rhetorical question. 

“Well, you could shop, now. Isn’t the sun shining’? Or ya could sit outside at Bistro 18 and take in the passersby. Ach, there’s loads to do in Ballinasloe.”

The grand dame was not in the least amused as a few snickers came from those within earshot. “This is unacceptable, and you WILL be reported, Patrick! I am leaving now, but you best be at the bank if you know what’s good for ya!” With that, she lifted her chin and stepped imperiously off the bus. 

These small buses linking Portumna to larger towns and larger buses are a great source of entertainment and gossip. They are small enough to hear most things, and if you have a driver like Pat, much can be garnered from these rides. I have learned more about what’s happening in Portumna while driving away from it than I ever have from hanging out inside of town. I love my time spent in these cramped little vans.
The next three legs of the trip to the Curragh were relatively uneventful, but the sun that was shining in Galway was giving way to dark clouds as we churned through the midlands on the way to Dublin. By the time I stepped off the shuttle bus at the race track, the winds had picked up and the clouds were low.

The weather did not seem to damper the crowds enthusiasm, and I was surprised to see how many well-dressed patrons there were, even amongst us public transport people. Suits and ties were the order of the day for the men and boys, and dresses for the women. What was different from a big race in America was the lack of ostentatious hats. Here, the crowd dresses to blend in, not to stand out.

On the shuttle to the track, a kindly, rather inebriated gentleman sitting next to me asked if I had purchased a program yet. When I said no, he handed me the day’s copy of the Daily Mirror, and suggested that I follow the picks of the paper’s handicapper. He had done well by the gentleman the previous day, and thought he might bring me luck as well. This was much appreciated, as the €20 entry fee would take a good chunk of the €100 I had allotted myself to spend for the day. Besides, reading a racing form has always been difficult for me. My brother-in-law David could read the racing form like a Talmud scholar reads the Torah, but it was all Greek to me. I would just as soon follow the suggestions of someone who knew a little about the horses.

The first race had already been run when I entered the track, so I spent some time taking in the crowd. This seemed an outing tailor-made for stag and hen parties, of which there were many. Nearly every hand seemed to hold a drink and there was much raucous and bawdy language, but it all seemed to be just mates enjoying themselves and letting off steam on a day off. Many had taken shelter inside the new grandstands where the noise level was distorting, so I went outside where the bookies were taking bets and the horses were being paraded in the paddock. None of the horses running in second race jumped out at me, so I deferred to the handicapper’s suggestion and bet a €5 exacta reverse on the numbers 1 and 7. This means that if the first two finishers are the 1 and the 7 in either order, I would win. As it happened, I didn’t, so it was back to crowd-watching.

Betting in Ireland is much different from in the States. There, you might bet a horse listed at 5-1, but the actual odds aren’t set until all bets have been made, so your odds may increase or decrease once the total tally has been counted. Not so in Ireland. Here, the odds on the board when you place the bet are the odds you will receive if you are a winner, regardless of how much or little money is bet after your wager was placed. Hence, the bookies all in a line are constantly checking their neighbors odds and changing them accordingly.

In the third race, I stayed with the handicapper’s tote and my horses came in a winner with €27.50 profit for my €10 bet. The fourth race was a loser, so I decided to sit out a race and do a little more people-watching.

As I looked about, I noticed a disturbing trend in the hairstyles of the young men there. For full disclosure I should state that from 17 through 22 I wore a ‘Jew-fro’ and walked around with a hair pick in my back pocket that had a black power fist as a handle. That said, I don’t think even my culturally-appropriating and terrible style choice young self could have been talked into wearing the nouveau mullet that I saw everywhere at the race course. And if it wasn’t the mullet, then it was a variation of the cuts of Moe and Shemp Howard of the Three Stooges, a bowl cut and then shaved sides all the way around. They were everywhere on the lads in attendance.

When the fifth race rolled around, I followed the paper’s 1-2 picks, and this time I hit the jackpot for my €10 euro bet with a €163 payoff. When the race I came for, the 2000 Guineas, came around, I stuck to my €10 limit, and although the race was glorious and exciting under the low clouds, it didn’t produce a winner for me. As my time to leave was approaching, I made one last wager and it too was a winner, bringing in another €123. All in all, one of my better days betting the ponies. The long trip to the Curragh
had been worth it.

The trip home featured heavy rain, train delays, and drunken senior seatmates on the train, but the kicker was when I arrived in Ballinasloe, I walked out of the train station to find the last bus to Portumna had left 15 minutes earlier. The €60 cab ride home was annoying, but as planned, I was back home and in bed 13 hours after setting out. Another wondrous day of new experiences.