My Race for the Roses

By Jack Davison

Kentucky Derby day at Churchill Downs is said to be America’s original, extravagant springtime sports party, with a horse race at the heart of the spectacle. The ‘durby’ as the American pronunciation goes, is also commonly referred to as the run for the roses because the winner is awarded a garland of red roses. The roses will eventually wilt and deteriorate in the aftermath of the race but the greatness of the winner will be everlasting. This year marked the 136th running of the Derby which is also the most important leg of the triple crown – ‘The Preakness’ and ‘The Belmont’ being the other two – and I was itching to see what all the fuss was about.

Since I arrived a little over two weeks ago, ‘the Durby’ has been on the tips off all tongues. From the farriers to the construction workers, the stable lads and the bartenders, everyone pitches in their two cents worth. In that sense the Kentucky Derby could be likened to the Grand National. For some time the Kentucky Derby had been perched high on my to-do list, but the torrential rain did enough to dampen my enthusiasm and the lack of any obvious and affordable public transport to Churchill well and truly drowned my Kentucky Derby dream. On top of that I was hesitant to try and navigate my way to Churchill Downs in my recently bought car (still not altogether sure about calling her a car), which cost the princely sum of three hundred bucks, and it is just as well that I didn’t because the old girl spat out the dummy this morning and left me stranded, in the bucketing rain, a mile from my house. I certainly didn’t sign up for this kind of weather and it had better improve – fast!

Anyway, instead, I made my way to Keeneland racecourse to join in the massive Derby party that goes on there every year, on the first Saturday in May. I couldn’t believe it when I found myself at the back of a huge queue of traffic, entering the racetrack, one would have been forgiven for thinking that the race had been relocated to Keeneland judging by the huge crowd that descended, which was well in to the thousands. I persevered and finally, after one hour of moving a couple of feet at a time, managed to park in a muddied car park which was still a fair distance from the racecourse complex. The place was buzzing as I entered and I found it strange that most people were dressed as they would had they been at the Derby itself. There was a real party atmosphere at the track, the huge screen, positioned in front of the stand, being the focus of crowd’s attention. You may be wondering why in God’s name, would half of Kentucky flock to the wrong racecourse, in the pouring rain, to watch a race on a big screen, but that in itself is testament to the huge, national celebration that the Kentucky Derby is. Nowhere else in the world, would this happen.

As the huge trombone sounded, everyone, either drunk, sober or hung-over (that’s me, by the way) rose to their feet and the exuberant crowd let out a huge, hair raising cheer as the signal to go to post sounded. My money was on a horse called Dublin – would you believe it? Here was a horse who, not only happened to be named after our capital city but was also bred at Dromoland Farm, where I am currently working. Talk about a sentimental bet! Unfortunately for Dublin and my plans to go out on the town that night, Super Saver, improvised his own fairytale, as he galloped to an impressive victory, on the sloppy dirt surface. Watching the big screen it was enthralling to see how animated the jockey, Calvin Borel, was after he passed the winning post. Borel had won the Derby the three times out of the last four years but he celebrated, like no other jockey I’d seen before. The crowds at Churchill and Keeneland were feeding off his ecstasy and it was at this point that I began to think of any other race anywhere else in the world that captures the imagination of the public to the same extent; put simply, there is none.

By Jack Davison