For Thursday, March 19, 1998 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 710 words

A horse runs through it

Susan and I drove to Bay Meadows last weekend. I had never been there before. I've only been to the horse races during the fairs. I don't seem to have much luck in picking winners.

A friend of ours, former teacher Ali Beaton, got four tickets to the elegant Turf Club from her daughter's grandmother, who works there. We couldn't pass that up. We grabbed a man for Ali and made a foursome.

What struck me the sharpest, and late in the evening, was the clear division between accommodations for the higher-paying customers. We came in on the ritzy side, and I didn't gain any perspective on how the majority of the patrons were living until much later.

We had Club House tickets, which meant we had our own entrance at the farthest lobby. This included an invisible stamp on our right hand. With this stamp we could pass by the guards at the paddock, enter into the "general admission" section, and be permitted a retreat back at any time.

The Club House has a comfortable, casual feel. In one corner is a deli. A full bar spreads across one side. Across the other side is a string of no-wait betting windows. Outside, along the track, is a spacious, above-ground viewing area. We were comfortable, but we didn't know how comfortable.

We went upstairs to the Turf Club, using our free tickets, and things got even better. With admission we received another invisible stamp on our left hand, a table with white tablecloth overlooking the track, a waitress, and our own closed-circuit television. With a flip of the channel we could see live races going on around the world.

Just behind us were the private, private, private rooms. That is up another notch, a notch for which we didn't have any free tickets.

Our waitress brought us microbeer and informed us that we didn't have to eat the $20 buffet at the Turf Club to keep our table. The admission tickets guaranteed that the table was ours for the evening. We could leave and return as often as we liked, so we took a stroll down the main corridor. It was like rooming across the hall from Kate Winslet aboard the Titanic.

We ventured downstairs to slum in the Club House and eat their fine corned beef.

About two hours into the evening, we crossed the paddock ramp into the general admission area. I hadn't even considered that it would look differently.

The first thing I noticed was that it considerably more crowded: people moving in every direction, seldom standing still, each with his hands full of racing forms, bet lists, bets, beverages and buns. I felt the crowding again at the betting window, waiting behind a dozen people. We went outside to watch a race and found ourselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder and nose level with the track. We had to back up to see clearly. The floor was littered with thousands of bad bets.

After two races we retreated across the paddock runway to the Club House, and breathed relief. We had room to move again. Now we understood our privileged positions, across the tracks. We knew how nice we had it. We no longer took the empty seats for granted. We no longer slighted the idle bookmaker. We stopped to admire our clean restrooms.

When we returned to our reserved table upstairs at the Turf Club we were newly thankful for our closed circuit television and maid service. We appreciated the quiet and the cleanliness. We thanked the waiter who brought the thermos of hot coffee from the core of our souls. We tipped heavily.

Beyond the class struggle ran the horses. They ran past everything. They ran the show. Their bestial beauty and speed is what draws people to the races. That, and money. We bet $5 a race for nine races. We were wrong eight times. The time we were right, I studied the horses more than the odds. I saw that numbers 1 and 7 looked ready to explode. Number 1 seemed the jumpiest, so I figured 7 would outlast her. Bingo.

That theory never worked again for the rest of the night.

Ali and our friend seemed to enjoy themselves. They did a lot of laughing and tearing of tickets. Then we drove home.