Racing in the mitten state (or how I got into horse racing)

The first thoroughbred race I ever saw was at Erie Downs, a Pennsylvania track which, I believe, is now defunct. I don't remember much about the experience except that I ate in the clubhouse and that my mom let me pick horses out of the program and bet them for me. The first horse I ever bet was #8. It had a cool name, but I don't remember what it was. My grandmother, who was with us, bet on the same horse. My mom thought I'd have a better chance of winning if she put my bet to show. The horse came in. It was a longshot. My grandmother got a whole handful of dough. I got a couple dollars. It's an event I've never quite forgotten (or forgiven).

The following spring my mom sat me down in front of a TV and told me to watch the Belmont Stakes. I was more interested in cartoons, but she said she had heard there might be a Triple Crown winner (whatever that was) that year, and that this was a part of American history in the making that I should observe. So I watched, and I saw two horses battle down the stretch. One the blue-blooded chestnut beauty from the east coast, the other a wild card black stallion with a curiously shapes stripe down his nose from California. Sunday Silence and Easy Goer. It was like something out of Walter Farley novel, though I hadn't been introduced to those books yet. I don't even remember the race all that much, except that Sunday Silence lost, but something that day snapped inside me and I was never quite the same afterwards.

By the following year I was actually reading Walter Farely novels. And the Misty novels. And the Thoroughbred series. And on top of that I had a healthy obsession with historical novels chronicling the lives of famous race horses from the past. Exterminator. Black Gold. Man o' War. These were fairy tales that were actually true. I was thrilled to go to the track again, this time to Thistledown in Ohio, which is still alive, but struggling.

Eventually, my grandparents determined that my horse racing obsession would not go away, and my beloved grandfather, who was an occasional gambler, decided to take me to a track a little closer to home. That track was Detroit Race Course in Michigan. It was a monstrosity of emotionless concrete. There was no clubhouse, and from what one could see of the confetti of tickets littering the grandstand, not much of a cleaning staff. But I wasn't there for the view, I was there for the horses. And there is where I learned that when you stand next to the finish pole, right up against the track fence, you not only hear the horses pounding down the stretch...you feel them. It vibrates through your lower legs as if the concussions were actually coming from within you. Like the sound of a huge base drum in a gymnasium during a pep rally, which vibrates through your chest cavity is if it were actually your own heart pounding and not the instrument.

And that is when I became completely, 100%, without recourse, crazy about this sport

I would visit the track several times over the ensuing years, but being a kid, I had to wait for someone less fascinated with racing than I to take me. That wasn't very often. When I was a senior in high school I had a bad string of depressing events and my parents were kind enough to offer to do something to cheer me up. I didn't think for more than a second, I asked to go to the Breeder's Cup. It was at Woodbine that year, and I couldn't imagine it ever coming closer to the racing wasteland that was Michigan. My parents were skeptical at first, but it turned out to be one of the best vacations we ever had.

The following year I went to college. The year after that, DRC closed down. I wasn't even old enough to bet yet, and I no longer had any place to do so.

The last time I went to a track was Arlington, for the 2002 Breeder's Cup. I dragged along my then fiance, who had never seen a horse race live. We couldn't get anywhere near the paddock, or the finish line, or really the track. But I loved it, and my husband enjoyed the betting. The last time I bet on a race was the Derby Trial in 2005. I was in Vegas for a weekend with friends, and convinced them to spend a few minutes in the sports book room. Sure, there are harness tracks around where I could watch simulcasting, and there's off track betting places here and there. But for me, it's not about the betting. It's about the racing. And there just wasn't any live racing to be had in a several hundred mile radius from my home. Yes, there was Great Lakes Downs on the other side of the state, but that was still a good 3+ hour trip one way, and it closed down last year anyways.

Then I heard about the proposed Pinnacle Race Course, and I rejoiced.

Located just minutes from my best friends' apartment, a 30 minute jaunt from my place of work, an hour's drive from my house, and approximately halfway between my home and that of my parents and grandmother; it was like the answer to a long unspoken prayer. Please let me feel the earth shake again.

Looks like I will. July 18th. It's a Friday. Guess I'll be taking off of work.

In case you were wondering, the latin phrase on the seal of the Michigan Racing Commissioner is our state motto: "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you."