Where the Turf Meets the Surf

[dedalus_1947]

Where the turf meets the surf
down at old Del Mar
take a plane
take a train
take a car.
There is a smile on every face
and a winner in each race
where the turf meets the surf
at Del Mar.

(Johnny Burke / Bing Crosby / James V. Monaco)

“Have you noticed that there are a lot of attractive women at a racetrack”, said Greg as he gazed across the crowded pavilion.
“Yea”, I said nodding, “They’re dressed up and they look great. Next year, I have to bring Kathy”.
“It’s not like going to a ball game. The women here look like they’re at a combined resort, cruise ship, and casino. It’s bizarre, but it’s nice”
We were in the Del Mar Racetrack grandstand, looking at the people below and around us. Sitting in the “Stretch Run” section of the stands, we could also look across the finish line to the men and women strolling through the infield section of the track. Jim, three of his six sisters, and their invited guests (old family friends from their neighborhood), were grouped and terraced in the seats below us. He had invited us to join his annual pilgrimage to one of the crown jewels of horse racing. Every summer, he, and a spontaneous collection of family and friends would drive down to Del Mar, California, for a day (and sometimes a weekend), at the races. He had been doing this for about eight years. I had joined this party on two other occasions, and Greg once. This year, when Jim offered us the tickets, we jumped at the opportunity to get together, despite our natural antipathy for gambling, and our (almost) total ignorance of the science of handicapping and betting on horses.

I hadn’t seen Jim since Christmas, when he came to my mom’s annual Christmas Eve Party. He had not joined any of our last “Amigos” reunions (Tres Mujeres, Rosarito-Ensenada Bike Ride) since our Pioneertown adventure (Sons of Pioneertown). I probably would have let the matter lay, except for a gentle reminder by my wife, Kathy. One day, as I was telling her about Greg’s response to a blog I had written (The Long and Winding Road), she casually said, “You know, if you don’t call Jim soon, you will have gone a full year without speaking to him”. This remark gave me pause to think about the fragile nature of friendships, and how easily (and naturally), friendship can be stretched, thinned, and dissolved, by time, indifference, and inattention. After spending so much of our lives together in high school, college, and as young bachelors, Jim, John, Greg, and I no longer met, hung out, or socialized on a regular basis. We have very distinct professions, separate social acquaintances, different family obligations, and we live far away from each other. If one of us did not occasionally (and intentionally), reach out, communicate, and initiate a reunion or get-together of some kind, it would never happen naturally. So, a few days after this conversation with Kathy, I called Jim to find out what he was doing and to arrange some midway place to meet.

If Greg, John, and I can be characterized as a Seer, Soldier, and Scribe (Tres Mujeres), then Jim would be the Scientist. He has a compulsively analytical mind that instinctively studies, computes, and manipulates data, numbers, events, and people. My invitation to “get together, someplace between Canoga Park and Bellflower” was simply too abstract an idea for Jim to process. He told me that he would consider my proposition, and call me back with some concrete suggestions. Two days later, he called to offer me two available tickets for his annual trip to the Del Mar races. Although she would have loved to have gone to the races for a full weekend, Kathy passed on the notion of an arduous drive to and from Del Mar, all on the same day. She suggested, instead, that I invite Greg, who lives in San Diego. She proposed that I take the train to San Diego, drive to Del Mar with Greg, spend the night in his condo, and, then, return home on Sunday. Greg was all for the idea, when I called him, and the train and racetrack adventure was set.

Railroad travel is a fascinating form of transportation for me. I rarely travel by railroad, so trains hold a special allure for me. Besides being extremely comfortable and relaxing (especially compared to airplanes), they evoke black and white, cinematic images and memories of my youth. Trains were the settings of mysteries, drama and adventurous encounters. The Union Pacific, Southern Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe: these were call-names of iconic railroads I heard, or read about, in books, songs, and movies. These names summoned up pictures of the “Super Chief” traveling along seacoasts, and through mountains, deserts, and rolling farmland. Although, one no longer hears the “clack-clack-clack” of iron wheels on steel rails in the sealed, double-decker, air-conditioned coaches, of the modern Amtrak Pacific Surfliner, as it speeds along the tracks; I still see children standing in awe and waving as it rumbles by them.

Kathy dropped me off at the Los Angeles Union Station at about 6:45 a.m., on the morning of July 29^th. Even at that time of the morning, a surprisingly large number of passengers were arriving and entering the vast building on Alameda. Younger passengers came quietly with backpacks and bags, while older arrivals carted their luggage on long-stemmed handles. The “click-click-click” sound of the tiny plastic wheels on tiled floors, echoed off the vaulted ceilings and mosaic walls, and appeared to awaken the fabled station from its evening slumber. My timing was impeccable, and I orchestrated a steady progression of actions in sequential order: purchasing my tickets, queuing up at the gate, walking through the tunnel under the tracks, boarding the Surfliner, and leaving the station at 7:30 a.m. The longest wait was the line for tickets; everything else went quickly and smoothly.

Leaving the train yards of Union Station is a unique experience, if one pays attention. The tracks run along the underbelly of downtown Los Angeles: by the County Jailhouse, with its stark, gray towers, and accordion, barbed-wire walls; through the bricked housing project called “Dogtown” by its longtime Chicano residents; and under the countless bridges that span the L.A. River, connecting East Los Angeles with downtown. Once out of the city proper, however, I lost interest in the monotonous scenery of back alleys and the rear of industrial warehouses, and turned my attention to other things. I had planned on spending my time on the train working on a story I was writing about the Venice Strand, or reading a book I brought along. Although I managed to do both at various times during the trip, both activities were interrupted by the conversations, and interactions I overheard from individuals who were seated in front and in back of me.

Normally, I am extremely annoyed by these types of verbal intrusions into my solitary traveling experience. These people can ruin entire trips (especially if they are sitting next to me), if I don’t succeed in ignoring them, or changing my seat. Kathy’s brothers and sisters consider this occurrence to be their particular family curse for some long forgotten sin; to be in a theatre, plane, or train, and find themselves sitting next to, or near, someone who speaks long, loudly and rudely, or feels obligated to engage them in conversation, for long periods of time. On this occasion I listened, off and on, to the conversations of three particular passengers, and found them surprisingly amusing. The first guy looked a little like the character Newman in the Seinfeld Show, and he sat with a group of three younger people at a card table arrangement in front of me. The second individual sat behind me. It turned out that he was a stowaway who boarded at Fullerton, and was ejected at Irvine. The third was a “Mr. Know All” type of person, who replaced the stowaway, and finished the trip to San Diego.

Newman was a tall, portly, balding, middle-aged man, with a loud and expansive voice, who appeared to be in the “entertainment business”. I never discovered exactly what he did “in the business”, but he dropped enough celebrity names in the course of his monologues to cast a billion dollar, star-studded movie, or three new T.V. series. Newman was doing all the talking, and, obviously, trying to impress all three members of the group (an attractive, 30-ish woman by his side, and a teenage couple sitting across). I assumed, at first, that they were a typical family unit, with a father who was trying to fill in the blanks of his recent absences from home. It was what I was not hearing, that intrigued me. I did not hear his “wife” chide him or try to rein in his braggadocio, and his “children” were not verbally encouraging or dismissing his pretensions. I began to wonder if they were actually listening. The one time the teenaged boy mentioned some topic about the comic book convention they were attending, Newman was all over it. He knew this writer, and that producer, who would also be at the convention. He disliked comics, himself, he said, preferring more existential literature, but he recognized their growing popularity, and wanted to be part of the trend. On and on he went with a pompous soliloquy about the Comic book Convention (Comic Con) in San Diego. I finally concluded that Newman was not the father of this group, but the date of the older woman, and was taking her, with her daughter and boyfriend, on a day trip to the Comic Con. Soon, everyone in the Newman party was silent. Eventually, he, too, stopped talking.

I never saw the stowaway who sat behind me. I first heard his voice when he boarded at Fullerton and asked the passenger behind me for permission to sit next to him. He had a clear, resonant, friendly voice, with a subtle southern accent. Over time, I imagined that he was male, 5-10 or 5-11, in good physical shape, single, and about 45 years of age. I could never tell if he was black or white, which made for interesting speculations, given the topics he spoke on. He was very jovial, animated, and quickly engaged his first seat mate in conversation. He sounded like a regular traveler, and when a young, African-American conductor came by to check tickets, the stowaway quickly recognized him and engaged him in animated conversation about his name and family. When the friendly conductor left, the stowaway resumed his conversation and began talking about train travel and promoting the benefits of commuting. He told his companion that he rarely drove to work anymore, and that he also took regular train trips on the weekends to explore the various stations and cities in Southern California. He seemed especially familiar with the San Diego run, and he even poked fun at the female conductor making exaggerated, energetic, and flamboyant P.A. announcements before and after each stop. The conductor was also warning passengers to expect a capacity train, and not to hoard seats.

His seatmate disembarked at the San Ana Station, and the stowaway was exposed soon after by a new conductor. The new official was a stern-looking, middle-aged, African-American woman, and she was not distracted by the stowaway’s engaging charm. She politely asked for his ticket, and then harshly told him that his weekday commuter pass was not valid on this train. The gig was up, and the only retreat for the stowaway was to apologize for believing that his weekday pass was good on weekends. The conductor ignored his excuses and bluntly told him that he would have to get off at the next station. The stowaway sounded so embarrassed and repentant after speaking with the conductor, that I was sure I would not hear another word from him. But as soon as another passenger filled the empty seat by his side, he was at it again. His new companion was a college freshman taking his first train trip to San Diego to see the Comic Con. He was very interested in what the stowaway had to say about Amtrak, train schedules, prices, and the cities on the way to San Diego. This naïve freshman seemed to energize the stowaway to disclose more personal information. I learned that the stowaway left the United States to work in Saudi Arabia after graduating from college in the 1980’s. In those days after the oil crisis, salaries were high and bonuses even better for expatriates who went to work in the Middle East. They lived on a converted military base, and were discouraged from visiting the local towns or mixing with the Arab citizens. Foreigners had to wait 6 months to apply for driver’s licenses, but that did not stop the stowaway from buying a car and driving illegally. He described traveling to the Red Sea, drinking, picnicking, and swimming in that inland ocean which was always warm. I was captivated by these stories of the Middle East, and Asia, and was sorry to hear the stowaway say that he had to leave when we arrived at the Irvine station. I never saw his face, but I’d remember his voice anywhere.

The third passenger replaced the stowaway right away, and what he lacked in charm and storytelling ability, he made up in endless talk and overwhelming information. Mr. Know All was an older college student from the state of Washington who was attending school in Irvine, California. He had a high pitched, whiny voice that never paused, even though he stuttered constantly. He had an opinion about EVERYTHING, and he insisted that his information was absolutely reliable. By the lack of response or commentary from his freshman traveling companion, I eventually imagined that Mr. Know All had gagged and strapped him to his seat while he lectured, and stuttered, adnauseam, on a variety of subjects from Irvine to San Diego. Mr. Know All, claimed that by going on-line and finding deals, he managed to buy a one-way train ticket from Seattle to San Francisco for $18.00, and for two dollars more, he could have gone all the way to Los Angeles. According to Mr. Know All, anyone who paid full price for train tickets was a fool. He admitted being a State of Washington booster, who annoyed his California friends by constantly pointing out the benefits and advantages of living in the Pacific Northwest (which begged the question, “What are you doing here?”). He was shocked to learn that the Junior College system in California demanded $40.00 a unit, when Washington only charged $20.00. However, despite his formal protests about the price gouging, he paid the tuition and enrolled. As the train passed the Del Mar racetrack, he noted that it had been built by Bing Crosby, and that horseracing was a virtual monopoly controlled by a cartel of track owners who never competed with each other (not that all monopolies were bad, he pointed out; Microsoft, a Washington-based company, for example, benefited all consumers). The one time his freshman seatmate interrupted the monologue was to ask about his portable Global Positioning System (GPS) device. This opened up a whole new area to explain. Mr. Know All was never without his personal GPS, because he wanted to know where he was at all times, especially when hiking and exploring. Before purchasing his model, he had researched the technology and concluded that Magellan was the best product available. He could drop it, drown it, and dirty it up, but his Magellan GPS would always tell him where in the world he was. He also explained how GPS worked; how it was originally developed and maintained as a top military secret for years, how locations are triangulated by circling satellites, and how Ronald Reagan commercialized the technology when the Russians threatened to expose it. Oddly enough, about the only thing Mr. Know All did not talk about was the Comic Con (probably because his companion might have had something to say about it). At the Old Town station I called Greg by cell phone and alerted him to my arrival. In my hurried actions to collect my reading and writing materials, I lost contact with Mr. Know All and his listening companion. I never saw what they looked like, or where they went.

The San Diego train station is at the southwestern tip of the downtown area, near the airport and the U.S. Naval Reservation, and it resembles most of the other stations I passed on my southern journey. It is a picturesque, solitary building, with two stately towers, alongside a single train track. None of the stations south of Los Angeles exceeded this one building, one track limit. In fact, Union Station in Los Angeles was the only terminus that had multiple tracks, off-loaded passengers in a massive train yard, and required a long walk to the station complex. Not knowing where Greg would be, I followed the exiting crowd and walked toward the front of the train. There I caught sight of my San Diegan friend. We met at the intersection of the tracks with Kettner Blvd, and walked the short distance to his condo.

Greg has lived in and around the San Diego area for the last 30 years. He originally worked as a teacher and administrator in Encinitas, while living in Escondido. Paradoxically, he purchased this small bachelor condo, in the middle of a developing downtown area, after accepting his first job as Superintendent of a small elementary school district outside of Sacramento. The Spartan condo provided him with a good investment, and the ability to stay in touch with family and friends in the San Diego area, while working up north. He never expected it to be ground zero for the building explosion that occurred in this section of San Diego, at the turn of the century. He is now surrounded by countless high-rise hotels, condominiums, and apartments, and within walking distance of a marina, downtown, the airport, train station, convention center, and ballpark. He lives in a bachelor’s paradise.

After dropping my overnight bag at his place, we walked to a nearby outdoor café for coffee and muffins, to breathe in the crisp morning air, and to catch up on the latest news of family and friends. As we talked, a continuous procession of people trooped past us. What had been a fleeting topic of conversations on the train was now a visible, mass migration of humanity. Hundreds of young people were walking and chattering along Kettner Blvd. They came from the train and trolley stations, parking lots, and from the nearby hotels. They came casually and comfortably dressed in jeans and shorts, except for the occasional, formally dressed superhero, Klingon warrior, and barbarian princess. They were all enroute to the San Diego Convention Center on W. Harbor Drive and the Comic Con International. Neither Greg nor I were enthusiasts of this annual convention, but each of us was able to contribute information that the other did not know. Greg told me that the Comic Con was the largest convention that the city hosted (which was quite a feat in this convention town), and that its fans pretty much dominated the town from Thursday through Sunday. I had been hearing about this convention for years. My two brothers, Eddie and Alex, had come to a few, and I knew Prisa’s boyfriend, Joe, was in attendance this year. They, along with my son, Tony, had also described it to me on a few occasions. It was the “hajj”, the pilgrimage, which true comic book aficionados must make at least once in their lifetime. The Comic Con had grown from its origins as a regional convention of comic book publishers, writers, illustrators, and fans, into a billion dollar, show business phenomenon. The Comic Con was now a mixture of Cannes, the Sundance Movie Festival, Hollywood, New York, and Wall Street, all rolled into one convention. It had evolved from a pulp media gathering into an international business convocation that included executives, investors, and producers of movies, television, advertising, art, and culture. The Comic Con was HUGE, but it could not escape its original, comic-fantasy roots: adolescents (and former adolescents) still dressed up as Spiderman and Starfleet officers, and brought their comics to be autographed.

“Do you want to go see it?” Greg asked as I finished my coffee.
“Absolutely”, I replied. “How can we be in San Diego at this moment and not see the Comic Con phenomenon?” 
We melded into a crush of people and joined the movement down the street. The excitement was electric among the pedestrians, and the anticipation crackled between them as we came closer and closer to the convention center entrance. I crossed to the other side of Harbor Drive to take photographs, but quickly returned to the friendly and positive aura of the crowd. The entrance to the Convention Center looked like the Los Angeles International Airport on the eve of Thanksgiving. It was impossible to move in any direction except with the momentum of the crowd. One stream of people flowed north, while the other flowed south, along the extended entry way of the mile-long center. We walked along, laughing, snapping pictures, and saying good morning to the faces walking with us and by us. At the southern tip of the building, we crossed to the opposite side of the street to get a different perspective of this event. I’d been to the San Diego Convention Center on other occasions, but I had never seen it totally filled, and sold out, the way it was on that day.

 

On our walk back to the condo, Greg pointed out other points of interest: the “tenderloin” section of downtown, Petco Stadium, a rickshaw girl who looked like Paris Hilton, and the Martin Luther King sidewalk park containing many of his memorable quotations. We stopped at Greg’s local pub for a quick beer and to organize ourselves for our trip to Del Mar, and the 2:00 p.m. post time. Neither of us are gamblers, and we know nothing about horseracing. It kills me to lose money. I feel like I’m pouring money down a drain when I put quarters in a slot machine, or place bets on a table. I’ve only enjoyed gambling on two occasions: once in Lake Tahoe, during a state education convention, when I was guided through the intricacies of craps by another principal and friend; and the first time Jim invited Greg and me to Del Mar. On both occasions I knew nothing about the game I was playing, but I was having a great time and money was not important. Greg actually won money on that first visit to Del Mar. Jim’s younger brother Jerry talked him into putting $10.00 on a racehorse combination that “couldn’t miss” and he was right. That bet turned a $200 profit for Greg, and it was evidence of the hot streak that Jerry rode into a winning day at the races. By the time we left the pub, we had a mild buzz and a four point plan for the day: enjoy ourselves at the races, have a few beers, learn a little more about betting, and hope that Jim or Jerry was lucky.

Everything and everyone in and around the Del Mar racetrack vibrated with optimism and excitement. Traffic and parking guides gave big welcoming smiles as they pointed us in the correct direction, racing sheet vendors promised big winnings for only $2.00, and long-legged college girls pleaded with their fresh-faced dates to stop at the fraternity parties situated in exclusive areas along the walkway. We postponed our questions and comments about these strange sights and sounds, and trusted that the wave of humanity we rode would deposit us at the right place. It was invigorating moving in this lemming-like migration, going from booth, to pavilion, to ticket entrance along the exterior promenade, and finally the Del Mar grandstand. We arrived at our “Stretch Run” seats about an hour before post time, and met Jim’s contingent of family and friends as they were walking in. Their tale of roadway blues confirmed the good advice I received about making this a two day trip and traveling by train. Before we settled in to plan our betting strategy with Jim and his sisters, however, Greg and I decided to take advantage of the Microbrew Festival and Concert promotion in the Infield section of the track. Neither of us had ever been to a racetrack “infield”, and the promise of free beer was a fine way to begin a day at the races.

 

When we returned with beers in hand (and one for Jim), we were ready to analyze our handicapping choices for the first races of the day. Greg had already purchased “Duke’s Racing Form”. We intended to use Duke’s picks, along with Jim’s reasoned preferences (Jerry did not come on this trip), and our “lucky intuitions”, to triangulate some winning combinations for each race. From our previous encounters with racing, we had graduated from placing $2 bets on individual horses to win, place, or show, to selecting exacta or trifecta combinations for each race. After choosing our favorite horses for the first 4 races, we interrogated Jim to learn the correct terminology needed to place our particular bets. In racing, one does not go up to the betting window to chat or question the cashier. Speed and accuracy are essential in Para mutual gaming because there are time limits. If you don’t know what to say, or how to say it, you should not be in line. Track betting is serious business and regular handicappers despise tenderfoot questions or mistakes. The standard ritual for placing a bet to a cashier is a five step verbal process: 1) Name the track (people may be placing bets on races at other tracks, that day, i.e., Santa Rosa, Arlington Park, Saratoga, etc); 2) Name the race number; 3) State the wager amount; 4) State the bet; and 5) Choose the horses by number.

When I finally went up to the cashier to place my first bet, I looked at my notes and said: “Del Mar, first race, one dollar, trifecta box, on numbers 2, 3, and 5”. The cashier entered the bet and said, “Six dollars, please”, as she laid the ticket on the counter. It had taken me 30 minutes to research, discuss, script, and place that bet. All of my experts were in agreement on the horses (Duke, Jim, and Greg), and Jim had taught me the all-important betting phrase “box”. This addition to the bet meant that I would win when any of my chosen horses, in any sequence, placed first, second, or third in the race. I thought it was a sure thing as I watched my three horses’ alternate positions for the first 4 furlongs of the 6 furlong race. It was a sweet ride until Ces’t Mark, the number 5 horse, and one of the favorites, came up lame at the last furlong and failed to finish the race. That race foretold the results of all the subsequent wagers we made that day. Greg and I went 0 for 9 on the races, and 0 for 2 on the two side wagers on a Pick 3 and Pick 4. By the end of the 9^th Race, we had lost all confidence in our ability to choose a winning horse, or combination. At that point we were desperately looking for a way to cut our losses and salvage our egos. We figured we still had sufficient funds for a fine Mexican dinner and pitchers of margaritas at Fidel’s in Solano Beach. So, Greg and I left early to reserve a table for the group who would follow.

“I can’t believe we didn’t pick a single winner all day”, I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Yea, me neither”, said Greg. “Maybe if Jerry had been here, we would have been luckier”.
As we drove through Solano Beach, with the windows down and the ocean air clearing the car and our minds of the afternoon’s losses, I couldn’t help reflect on the gamut of activities and emotions I’d experienced that day. It had really been an incredibly eventful and busy day, and it was not over, there was a dinner to enjoy with old friends, and a casual drive back to San Diego for the evening. The purpose of the day had been to reunite with friends, and enjoy ourselves in the process. The only bump in the road was not cashing in a winning ticket. That experience would have to happen on another day. Bing Crosby had predicted it in his song: I’d taken a train and a car to old Del Mar, where someone (not me) had a winner in each race, and I was leaving with a smile on my face. All in all, it had been a fine day, with marvelous friends.