Horse Racing: A view from the infield

Let me set up the situation for you.

My birthday was on Friday, May 16th. The Preakness Stakes was on Saturday, May 17th.

My friends rented a coach bus to leave at 8:30 a.m. for Pimilico.

I was out till 3:00 a.m Saturday morning.

What ensued was a test in human endurance and pure joy all rolled up into one, on a little slice of land in Baltimore, Maryland.

Turning 24 isn't exactly a milestone in one's life.

You're two years removed from college so acting like a drunken frat boy just doesn't cut it in some circles.

However, you're still in your early twenties so staying in on a Friday night crunching numbers in your 401K doesn't exactly place you number one on people's list of friends to hang out with.

No, 24 is a delicate age where we have to walk the line between party buffoon and responsible young adult.

Unfortunately, most of my friends fall into the former category.

I'll admit it, I love my birthday. What other day of the year is there where you are the center of attention for simply existing?

I wanted all my friends to be at our local watering hole so I can hear them say "happy birthday buddy" and get some validation of my worthiness.

With this validation comes the requisite shot of booze to prove you are alive and kicking.

Well, apparently my friends hate me cause they made me prove my worthiness by taking shot after shot of the most foul tasting, stomach curdling liquor this bar had to offer. Cut to three hours later, I have settled into a big group, around several pitchers of beer, discussing who has a chance of winning the Preakness Stakes.

The race that will take place in less than 20 hours. The race where in less than seven hours our bus will leave for.

I carry around a list of post-positions and odds in my wallet so as to answer any questions my friends have about who is running and what their odds are.

We decide that the favorites -- Funny Cide and Peace Rules -- will win and place and boxing them with three other horses will be a safe bet.

How we came to this decision I still don't know. My friends and I know as much about horse racing as an Amish person knows about the Internet. Maybe we saw something in those pitchers of beer that led us to the answer, a kind of hope filled crystal ball if you will.

It is now approximately 2:30 a.m. and I have hit on all my single girl friends and I am fighting the demons of passing out in the bar.

Thankfully, one of my buddies rallies the troops and we all catch a cab to his place where I find a nice spot on his dining room floor to lay my head.

My birthday is officially over and I have crossed the ever-present line of responsible young adult into buffoonery.

Little did I know I wouldn't see that line again for another 36 hours.

My friend is an event planner and getting together a big group of people is her forte, she is good at what she does.

So, when she sent out an email saying she was organizing a coach bus to head up to the Pimlico Race Track for the Preakness, I didn't hesitate to respond to her in the affirmative.

A big coach bus, a big group of friends and acquaintances, a handle of vodka, orange juice and bloody mary mix, yeah, this was going to be fun.

One problem -- the bus was to leave at 8:30 a.m., I was still asleep 20 minutes away at 8:15.

I peeled my head of the dining room floor in time to hear my buddy yelling at me to get up and get my act together (to be more accurate, a few more expletives need to be thrown in here).

Either way, he got his point across.

I managed to take a hot shower and open up my eyes (I swear my eyes would not open. I guess sleeping on a floor caked with dust will give you a slight case of conjunctivitis._

Ten minutes later we were out the door and on our way to meet up with the bus and the rest of the insane people who were up at an ungodly hour on Saturday to watch horses and drink beer, otherwise known as my friends.

>We pulled up to the school parking lot where we have decided to meet. It's 8:50 a.m.

Thankfully, a lot more people have decided that 8:30 was just a little too early for them and the bus was held up until 9:45 a.m.

I took this opportunity to pour my first of what I thought would be many bloody mary's and socialized with the people in the middle school parking lot until our bus left.

Imagine for a moment -- it is a Saturday morning and you are taking your ten year old child to a lacrosse game/practice at the local middle school when you turn the corner and see about fifth, 20-something people doing what looked like tailgating at 8:30 in the morning at your son's/daughter's middle school.

Needless to say we got some very strange looks from parents, I think they were looks of envy cause I know some of these parents wanted nothing but to drink screwdrivers and hang out with good looking 20-somethings.

Not that I am saying I am great looking but compared to what I was about to see, well let's just say I wouldn't kick me out of bed.

We finally hit the road and pull unto I-495, the Capital Beltway. Jake, our bus driver, had the pleasure of bringing the madness into Baltimore.

It is about an hour ride from Bethesda, Maryland to the Pimlico Race Track. This hour I spend chatting it up with some friends, recounting the night before and trying to understand how and why I am putting my body through this torture.

Pulling up into Pimlico and the Preakness is an experience I never get sick of. The sheer excitement of the day to come, the new people you are going to meet, old friends you will run into and the betting, oh the betting!

Jake drops us all off at the entrance, he tells us that he will pick everyone up at 7:00 p.m. It's barely 11:00 a.m. It's going be a long day.

We stand in line at the entrance for what seemed like an hour, and we go through security and they check bags and coolers.

I am carrying: a thirty pack of beer, a bag containing an extra sweatshirt, half a gallon of orange juice, my vodka that I have been sipping on for the past two-and-a-half hours and a cigarette.

I place the bag on the table, open it up for the security staff and these words come out of my mouth, "What do you mean I can't take vodka inside?!!"

Well, sure enough, right there on the ticket it says "NO LIQUOR."

I'm cool and calm, because the last place I want to end up in is a holding cell in Baltimore city. So I lick my wounds and pour as much of the clear spirit into my cup and proceed into the infield.

Whatever images you have seen of big horse races, where women are dressed up in pretty hats and the men are wearing sports coats with boutonnieres, are all taken inside the grandstand, not the infield.

The infield at Preakness is a blend of people of all ages, creeds, races, and economic divisions.

They have all come for the party atmosphere and drunken debauchery that takes place inside the tracks, including me. There is no other way to put it.

Of the 50 or so people I rode on the bus with, I am with 10 of them.

Once we entered the infield, we scattered like a bunch cockroaches when the lights are turned on.

We slosh through the mud (it had been raining heavily for two days) and stake our spots where there is actually grass underneath our feet.

And what a spot it is! The betting window is less than a 200 feet away, the restrooms are less than 100 feet away and the hot dog stand is about 50 feet away.

I couldn't be any happier.

The days races have already started and I have missed four of them already. It was time to play some catch up. Beer in hand, and my cutest girl friend on the other, I sauntered my way up to the betting window and place some bets.

Two-dollar exacta box, one dollar trifecta, one across the board, one-two for the daily double, wheel one with two, three and five.

You name the bet, I probably placed it. I didn't care about the money, this was Preakness, and I was going to make the most of it.

I let my friend hold my tickets for two-races. She bets with me on both of them, we lose both our bets.

I decide that she wasn't as lucky as I thought and I needed to do this on my own. She happily obliges and goes off to find the rest of our friends.

It's about this time that I start getting calls from the people on the bus, most of the calls went like this:

Me: "Hello" Them: "Dude, where you at?" Me: "You see the state troopers with neon green jackets on top of the building? We are on the opposite side of where the grandstand is." Them: "What??" Me: "Just walk towards the building where the cops are on the roof." Them: "What, I can't hear you." Me: "I'll see you on the bus."

It was now the ninth race, three more races till the Preakness Stakes, and I still haven't won yet.

I decided to place a bet on the heavy favorite, $10 across the board on Best Minister, a $30 dollar bet.

I place it about a half hour before post time and decide to find some people I came with.

I wander over to an area of the infield where all the people look the same -- brown and covered with mud.

I talk to some friends, and grab a couple of beers from their coolers and then I hear the bugle playing the post time tune.

I am now in a trance and fixated on the big screen in the middle of the infield.

Number four horse, I am concentrating on the number four horse.

He comes out slow only to take the lead down the stretch. I am now jumping up and down like a crazed monkey on top of someone's cooler. Best Minister wins.

I scream in joy, the people in this area don't take to my jubilation quite like I would hope.

I see my cute girl friend and grab her to go back to our part of the infield before someone throws me in the mud and steals my ticket.

Seventy dollars, a profit of $40 not bad. It just feels good to be on this side of a winning ticket.

I am feeling it for the next two races. I bet the same bet, one horse across the board and some exactas and trifectas peppered in to shake things up, and I win about $140 before the Preakness Stakes.

I celebrate by buying some cigars and shotgunning a beer.

It doesn't even feel like I have been boozing for well over eight hours now. My adrenaline is pumping and I dive into the program to see what the experts say about the big race.

I decided to bet what my friends -- I chose the night before, Peace Rules, Funny Cide boxed in with some other horses. My trifecta box bets included: Senor Swinger, Scrimshaw and Kissin Saint.

The Navy choir sings "Maryland My Maryland" and the second leg of the Triple Crown was officially underway.

By now my heart is racing at an unhealthy pace, I sneak my way up close to the betting window with my buddy and we watch the monitors intently.

We're there with about 200 people all yelling at the televisions like deranged jockeys urging our horses to dig in and run faster.

One of my bets Peace Rules, Funny Cide and Scrimshaw looks like a winner, and I'm already counting the money in my head when out of nowhere Midway Road, who finishes third), pushing Peace Rules into fourth.

I finish out of the money and stand there in shock for a few minutes trying desperately to figure out what had just happened.

Finally, my friend comes over and says, "You lost man, but there's one more race left."

It's now 6:30 p.m. and the next post time is 7:00 p.m. But, the bus leaves at 7:00 p.m.

Decisions, decisions. My buddy and I decide to risk being left in Baltimore with no ride and nothing but an empty cooler.

Our rational was that the bus wouldn't leave without everyone who was on it before.

Of course, what we took for granted was all the extra people it would pick up because people needed rides and our friends were generous enough to offer their friends empty seats.

We were playing with fire.

I don't even remember who I bet on in that last race. All I know is that I bet on one horse, across the board, my go to bet, and I win back some of the money I lost on the Preakness Stakes.

Now, we faced a half-mile walk back to the bus, if it was still there.

It's 7:45 p.m. and we make it back to our bus with time to spare.

Apparently, some people had the same rational as us and decided to stay an extra hour. These people were not as lucky as us. The bus rolls off, short two people. I still don't know how these guys made it back.

The bus ride home was quiet, save for the guy two seats in front of me who lost his lunch in his shirt.

Everyone was drained, including me. The four hours of sleep I had gotten the night before was beginning to catch up to me now, and the disgusting amount of alcohol I had drank all day was also beating my body down, but I was still semi-coherent of my surroundings and I had broke even at the track.

All in all it was a great day.

Turning 24 isn't a milestone, but you do only turn 24 once in your life and crossing that line and shunning responsibility, even for a weekend, is well worth it, especially if you're lucky enough to do it with close friends.

However, just make sure you don't miss the bus that is meant to take you back to reality.