Saturday #19: Canadian Girl or World Holiday?
I spent a few hours wandering around what’s left of Queensbury Downs when I passed through Regina, and I stopped in at the defunct and decrepit Sandown Raceway when I was on Vancouver Island, but I haven’t been to a working racetrack – much less seen a live race – since I worked my last shift at Mohawk Racetrack on June 21. For someone who loved hanging out and working at the track for 32 years, I didn’t have much of a problem going ‘cold turkey’ once I decided to trade microphone for backpack.
Saturday #19 marked my return to the racing game. I sensed early on that it was going to be a very good day – and I’m rarely wrong on such things.
I was up very early (at least by Buenos Aires standards) and before 9:00 a.m. I had ordered croissants and my first café con leche at a small bar located just around the corner from my San Telmo hostel. It’s the kind of place in which old men sit for hours telling stories and studying a Racing Form. The menu might be simple but you simply cannot beat the atmosphere at Bar Plaza Dorrego.
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After breakfast I walked about six blocks to the San Juan subway (Subte) and took the Blue Line north to the Green Line. After twelve stops on the Green Line I arrived at Palermo Station. From there it was a 15 minute walk along a beautiful tree-lined boulevard to the front gates of the historic Hipodromo Argentino de Palermo. Transit to the door was probably an option had I done some homework but my days of studying and analyzing before even heading to the track are behind me. Besides, it was a beautiful day for both a walk and a visit to the track.
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The first thing that struck me about the Palermo track was its old world charm. The track opened in 1876 and the main Beaux Arts style grandstand was constructed in 1908. No fewer than four grandstand/clubhouse structures now line the very long homestretch.
General admission and a basic program are free. A detailed past performance program was apparently offered for sale (I couldn’t find one) and cover charges apply for the clubhouse, dining rooms, several bars and the upscale Tucson Steak House. I didn’t attempt to enter these areas as I was wearing the backpacker’s uniform of Nikes, jeans and a t-shirt. My days of hob-knobbing with wealthy racehorse owners at fancy post-race cocktail receptions are likely over.
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With no pre-race production meetings to attend and no detailed race analysis to deliver between races, I was free to roam the grounds all afternoon. That’s a liberating feeling, let me tell you.
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It’s not like I was completely incognito though. Canadians Gayle Pulle and Mike Weir are from Hull, Quebec. Gayle grew up in a rural area between Markham and my hometown of Stouffville, Ontario. Mike is no stranger to the ponies, having been to Connaught Park and Rideau Carleton Raceway many times. We ended up spending a very enjoyable day and evening together. Note that I said “enjoyable” and not “profitable.” There is a difference.
I made a few small wagers and cashed a few tickets on the undercard but my winnings would not have bought a round of beers by the time the horses paraded for the featured 11th race. The Gran Premio Nacional is a Grade-1 race for three-year-olds, and with a purse of 1 million Pesos (US $75,000), it’s a really big deal in Argentina.
Gayle, Mike and myself each took turns perusing the program. With virtually no past performance information and no written analysis, I suggested that we use a time-tested strategy and bet against the heavy favourite. Gayle agreed but was concerned about budgeting. Mike decided to bet the second favourite to Win. While they discussed how much to wager, I headed to the windows with a plan to wheel the second favourite “top and bottom” in the Exactor. I’d probably get my money back if my horse finished second to the favorite and I’d earn a very respectable return in the favourite ran out of the top two and my horse was either first or second. With limited info on which to base an educated guess, this seemed like as good a plan as any.
Mike and I got into separate betting lines with about 10 minutes to post. The lines didn’t move an inch in more than five minutes, and like hundreds of other frustrated punters, we were eventually shut out. The race went off while we were still about 10 deep in line. Two minutes later we breathed a sigh of relief as the chalk, El Moises, beat our horse, Interdetto, by a head. I would have cashed my exactor but the net result would have been a loss. Mike’s substantial Win bet would have been toast, too.
“Oh well,” I said, “we actually saved money and we have lots of time to find a horse in the next race.” We headed back to the rail to find Gayle.
Incredulous that we couldn’t even manage to make a bet, much less cash a ticket, and suspecting that we were totally inept, Gayle took possession of the program and said, “Let a woman handle this. I’ll find us a winner.”
It didn’t take her long to come up with a selection. The #10 horse, Canadian Girl, simply leapt off the page.
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I didn’t know it at the time, but after some late night research I learned that Canadian Girl’s great, great grandsire was Northern Dancer. Her dam, Caprice Delle, traces back to Nijinsky (a son of Northern Dancer) and another branch of the family includes Canadian champion filly Fanfreluche (a daughter of Northern Dancer) who was named after a French-language CBC kids show. Fanfreluche was a champion at two and three for her owner-breeder, Quebec business tycoon Jean-Louis Levesque. After her retirement from racing, she was sold to American owner Bert Firestone (he of the tire and rubber Firestones) for a then world-record price of $1.3 million. She was bred to Buckpasser and in 1972 she produced L’Enjoleur who went on win the Queen’s Plate and become a two-time Canadan Horse of the Year.
But Fanfreluche wasn’t done grabbing headlines. She was in foal to Secretariat and turned out in one of the idyllic bluegrass paddocks at Claiborne Farm near Paris, Kentucky on the evening of Saturday, June 25, 1977. When a farm worker went to bring her in for the evening it was discovered that a fence had been cut and the mare was missing. A reward was offered but no ransom demands were ever made.
Five months later a family living about 150 miles south of Paris on the Kentucky-Tennessee border found a mare wandering on a rural road. They took her in, the kids named her “Brandy,” and for a short time she served as a riding horse. The mare’s identity was eventually discovered, the family absolved of any involvement in her abduction, and Fanfreluche was returned to Claiborne, none-the-worse for her ordeal/adventure. The foal she was carrying when she was abducted was eventually named “Sain Et Sauf”, French for Safe And Sound.
Unfortunately for the three Canadian travelers in Argentina, and the Argentina-based mare with Canadian bloodlines, there would be no such magical ending to this Saturday. The hapless Canadian Girl ran dead last in a field of 10, barely staggering under the wire before the field for the next race began their post parade. But hey, it could have been worse!
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While I was in line to make my bet, two 70-year-olds in the adjacent line started to act out a scene from “Grumpy Old Men.” After putting up with some verbal taunting, a few raised palms, and a kick to the shins, the guy in the red shirt had had enough. With one swift upper right he sent the antagonist to the pavement. The old boy didn’t appear to hit his head on the way down and he never did lose consciousness, but I was beginning to worry when he made absolutely no attempt to get up. I was the only one who was worried, by the looks of it. With less than a minute to post, the other bettors kept their noses in their programs. After several minutes the failed pugilist got to his feet, brushed himself off and promptly marched straight to an adjacent beer stand. The net result was that the line moved even slower and I was shut-out again!
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Getting shut out on our first two attempts was actually a good thing as we managed to save a few bucks, but by the 13th race I was determined to pick a winner, get my bet in on time, and strike it rich!
“I’ll get in line now and by the time I’ve seen the horses on post parade I will have picked out the winner,” I told Mike and Gayle. I don’t know if they were skeptical or not but Mike offered to go halves on whatever I decided to bet.
My confidence belied the fact that I knew absolutely nothing about the horses, their pedigree, the jockeys and trainers, the types of bets on offer, a foreign tote-board, or, well, anything really. When you don’t speak the language, don’t have access to past performance information, and cannot even understand the odds-board, it’s simply best to pick a horse with an interesting name and bet blindly. I tossed the program away and stood under a TV monitor to watch the parade. I decided before the first horse hit the track that my final bet of the day would be $200 to win on the horse whose name I found most intriguing.
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(The graphics on the TV screen show the details of #8 World Holiday. However, the grey horse in the shot is not World Holiday. The TV department switcher was rarely on the ball.)
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“I can feel it in my bones,” I told Gayle and Mike. “World Holiday will bail us out financially and provide the bones for a great blog entry. How can we go wrong? It’s Backpacker’s Karma,” I assured the rather skeptical pair. “World Holiday is going to win and fund another month or two of world travel for you-know-who.”
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I managed to get our bet down with a few minutes to spare and then waded into the crowd to find Gayle and Mike who had staked out a prime viewing spot on a raised patch of grass adjacent to a steel sculpture of two horses. World Holiday appeared to be about as rusty as the steel horses when he slouched past us his way to the starting gate. His ears were pinned backward and he had the look of a horse who just wanted to go back to the barn and take a nap.
He looked even worse when the bell rang and the gates sprung open. World Holiday came away 7th in a field of 8. Not good, I thought. He was still sitting fifth as the field entered the final turn. It wasn’t that he had passed two horses, but rather two horses had pulled up.
Just when I was beginning to give up hope, World Holiday started weaving between the remaining horses. In a matter of an eighth of a mile, most of it on the turn, he managed to pick off three opponents. It was an incredible move for a horse that had been totally overlooked by the bettors. They were beginning to take notice now!
The field turned into the homestretch with World Holiday a looming second, about a length off the favoured Ecole Privee and star jockey Jorge Ricardo. World Holiday’s rider, Ramiro Barrueco, got serious with a ¼ mile to go and the big bay colt responded impressively. By mid-stretch World Holiday had a neck in front and he appeared poised to draw off on a defeated rival.
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With just strides to go, and the three of us starting to calculate the windfall we were on the verge of landing, the favoured Ecole Privee dug in again. The two horses thundered under the wire in lockstep, Ecole Privee on the inside and World Holiday on the outside. The Photo Finish sign was posted.
Other than conversations with Gayle and Mike, I hadn’t heard a word of English all afternoon, so my ears were on high alert when the guy beside me started cursing in English. I won’t repeat most of what he said but “that motherf—er hangs like a wet shirt” could be considered a compliment when compared to the rest of his vitriol. He was obviously referring to Word Holiday. I didn’t have a good feeling about this photo.
They use a rather old-school system for posting the official results at Hipodromo Argentino. A gentleman physically raises a set of numbered panels on a trackside stand. The stewards took their time examining the photo but the man on the ladder eventually posted the result: 4-8-6-3. Ecole Privee, the #4 horse, had battled back to nip #8 World Holiday in the final stride. The margin was about three inches.
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Later that evening we consoled ourselves over dinner at a classy Italian restaurant in the Palermo district of Buenos Aires. The bill for pre-dinner flutes of Champagne, seafood appetizers, pasta entrees, a bottle of very nice Chilean Malbec, two additional glasses of wine, and two sorbets came to 1040 Pesos. That’s about $84 for three people or $28 per person. Had World Holiday stuck his neck out about three inches, I could have picked up the tab for the entire restaurant. I could also have lived rather comfortably in Argentina for many months. Now that would be an interesting predicament.
One Response to “Saturday #19: Canadian Girl or World Holiday?”
It doesn’t matter where you are in the world – the feeling you get down on the apron is identical. In Bahrain ( where the smell of dope in the jocks’ area was stunning) to Kingston JA ( where a sign reads ‘you must have $ to place a bet’ ) we could have been at any track anywhere. It’s a lovely constant in a changing world.