Horses & Hangovers

Double fisting mint juleps at The Kentucky Derby

For our first anniversary, I tried to convince my wife to let me go on a hockey trip without her. The Detroit Red Wings were about to tear down the historic Joe Louis Arena, and if I didn’t cross that venue off my list the hole would become permanent. This would be a tough sell, but selling is what I do. I accepted the challenge. If I wanted any subsequent anniversaries, I knew out right ditching her was out of the question. I refined my pitch by spending some significant time on Google maps to devise a plan to combine the boys' trip alongside something a bit more romantic. Since Detroit is, well, Detroit— I had to dig a little deeper to find the love. Approximately 239 miles deeper.

Niagara Falls, here we come!  

We took a meandering path to get there. After a few days in Toronto and a bus ride to our bed and breakfast, we made it. There we were. Standing face-to-face with the majestic beauty, the awe-inspiring, the breath taking, feat-of-nature that is a town full of casinos, souvenir stands, and a Ripley’s Believe-It-or-Not!

We eventually saw the waterfalls too.

A big selling point for this destination was the opportunity to recreate the marriage of Jim and Pam from The Office. According to the DVD commentary, Niagara Falls was chosen as the setting due to its juxtaposition of remarkable beauty with utterly tacky. That dichotomy felt ripe for a sitcom wedding, and if you venture into the Circus-Circus Casino after viewing Bridal Veil Falls, that conclusion is easy to understand. I learned later that the whole National Park system was created in response to this overt commercialization of Niagara Falls. The champions of Yosemite and the Grand Canyon couldn't bear the thought of someone setting up a wax museum next to El Capitan. I'm glad they felt that way. But I had to admit, the Niagara experience was still pretty fun in a watching-your-drunk-friends-make-bad-life-choices sort of way.

 And somehow, the kitsch didn't seem to detract a whole lot once you got face to face with the roaring of Horseshoe Falls.

●●●

I’ve always been fascinated by the less-than-finer things.

Before I was a newlywed trying to shirk my anniversary obligations, I was a dude with a girlfriend trying to spend time with her in ways that didn't suck. As anyone trying to impress a girl can attest, it’s easier said than done. When I asked Paige out for a second date, I suggested a dive bar in the woods that I was desperate to experience. As soon as you're sufficiently full, the waitress collects your leftover fried chicken and potato wedges, dumps them in a 5-gallon bucket, and piles the greasy remains on a wooden platform near the back patio in order to feed raccoons.

It sounded like the perfect date.

"I refuse to accept that this is a serious suggestion."

Well, back to the drawing board.

After we started dating, Paige took me there for my birthday. She called ahead to learn when prime raccoon viewing hours were.

It was everything I imagined.

Good ideas for dates are hard to come by. You can only do late-night donuts so many times until the whimsy wears off. I needed something fresh.

One day I was scrolling on Facebook when I came across an open invitation from my friend Kiley to join her and her island of misfit toys on a charter bus to The Kentucky Derby. Kiley lived in Cincinnati, which is 99 miles away from Louisville, KY and 720 miles away from our home in Omaha. Maybe this would work?

Paige's family has a special affinity for Kentucky, meaning that her native Kentucky relatives take overexposed ghost photos at cemeteries and eat their most important meals at fast food chains. Her parents both grew up there, and after their separation, Kentucky Wildcat basketball was the only shared interest they both still held. I figured that if my new girlfriend wasn't the eating fried chicken with vermin type, maybe she's the classy, big hat, sundress, watching horse racing on a weekend type. No better way to find out than taking an 11-hour car ride together to test out the theory.

Her dad even encouraged her to go. He apparently parked cars at The Kentucky Derby as a young lad or something along those lines. It may be the only time he’s been supportive of one of my ideas.

After some initial reluctance, Paige accepted the invitation. She bought a floppy hat and we hit the road.

We played two road trip games: spot the license plates and count the dead animals. I don't remember either score, but we did well. We got to Cincinnati with enough time to meet Kiley at a brewery along with a friend of hers that came up for the derby (or down, I have no idea where she was from).

●●●

My friend Kiley Sheehy is one of my all-time favorite people, and I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to decode why. She's loud, opinionated, bossy, and loves to make fun of people. Sometimes I enjoy the sweet, subtle notes of a Daiquiri, but every once in a while it’s nice to mix it up with the bitter, alcoholic, punch-in-the-mouth of a Negroni.

The first time I heard of Kiley was when I was emailed a list the participants in my work's 6-month new hire training. We were all required to prepare a brief bio, and I spent considerable time trying to determine who would be my friend. It was hard to say.

Most of the profiles were pretty professional, including my own. The headshots were our nicest photos ever taken, the majority of which were outdated high school senior pictures. My photo was likely the one of me in a tie that everyone laughed at during my scholarship banquet.

But Kiley went a different route. She was in her Kansas University cap and gown, holding a blow-up cardboard cutout of her face. You know the ones—like what you see in the student section of a college basketball game.  

On our first day of training we did those awkward introductions where you attempt to boil down your entire personality into a few quips “about me.” Kiley mentioned that her favorite thing to do was go see stand-up comedians. She said the best so far was Chelsea Handler—poor take— but I could tell I wasn't encountering your standard take-the-world-by-storm-future-business-­leader-of-America type that the rest of us were. This person seemed...fun?

I was right.

Kiley and I bonded right away. In addition to her love of stand-up comedy, Kiley and I were fond of representing Midwestern values (even though she was a Kansas City transplant) and shit-talking the kids we didn’t like in our training class. She was the first person I could safely tell out loud how much I hated them. We also LOVED making fun of each other, and we both had plenty of material to work with.

Kiley and I recruited the California pothead Tyler, cute Texas roommates Chloe and Maggie, Wyoming yo-yo champion Travis, and future oil tycoon Ryan to form our splinter group from the rest. Ryan and Travis played the field and tried to be nice  to everyone. Kiley and I didn't even try. We didn't feel like faking it with the people we hated. There weren’t a lot of them, but damn, there were some real dandies.

Once you get to know Kiley, there’s no bullshit to her. And it is so refreshing. I've always felt comfortable telling her exactly how I feel and knew she would be returning the favor, even if she disagreed. Especially if she disagreed. She's currently testing the waters on doing her own stand-up comedy routines and I've tried to write her a few bits. She has no problem telling me that she has no use for my jokes about outer space. She's so completely at ease with who she is that I once caught her dancing with herself in a mirror at a skanky San Antonio nightclub and blowing HERSELF a kiss. And because of this authenticity, I never feel the need to try to be someone else when I'm around her.

●●●

The morning of The Kentucky Derby, we were supposed to rendezvous at the apartment building of Kiley's friend in charge. We were on a schedule. I had our tickets printed out and sealed in a manila envelope and Paige and I reminded each other every 45 minutes not to forget them. Though we had a .pdf emailed to my inbox, the instructions were very clear that a physical copy was needed otherwise you would not be admitted into Churchill Downs.

I have no idea how Kiley met this guy. I was instructed to Venmo him my share of the charter bus rental and saw that the majority of his payment history were people that owed him rent. He wasn’t any older than I was (25ish) but seemed to be making his mark on the world by becoming a Cincinnati slum lord. Somehow he had acquired a few dumpy apartment buildings in the heart of downtown and was running his property business via an app on his phone. He was also gay but didn't come across that way despite his pastel derby colors and bow tie, shrouding him further in mystery. There seemed to be a story here, but it was one I would never be told.

I had yet to wipe the sleep out of my eyes but inside the apartment was raging. Well, raging for that hour. I felt out of place, which wasn't helped by the fact that I realized my business casual wasn't exactly derby casual. I didn’t look like a slob, I just didn't look like someone that had ever gone to The Kentucky Derby. Paige's floppy hat helped make up for it.

“Do you have the tickets?"

Yes dammit, they're right... hold on... right… uhhh…

“I need to check something in the car…”

I left the fucking tickets.

Ok, stay calm. I have the email flagged on my phone, all I need is a printer. Surely this bow tie wearing real estate mogul can hook me up considering we’re at the epicenter of his business enterprise.

I asked Kiley for help since I was still confused by this guy.

"Who the hell has a printer?"

Fucking millennials and their phones.

Our charter bus pulled up and we were loading. And I had no tickets. And not enough relational capital to ask the group of 40, drunk at 6AM, derby goers to wait up for me.

This date was going great.

I asked Kiley for help again. She had none to give but made sure to berate me for how foolish I was for expecting someone within her friend group to own a printer. Never mind the fact that every single person in that room had to acquire their own paper version of said tickets. Yup, I was the ridiculous one for spending $80 to not have to print off my personal items at work and acquiring my own HP Officejet Pro 8600. Kiley was dumbfounded by this notion. Or just more focused on getting someone to make her a screwdriver.

I was on my own.

I google mapped the location of every hotel nearby and we took off for the closest one. As we approached the lobby entrance huffing and puffing, I took a moment to collect myself in order to appear like I was a hotel guest and not a guy paying for a party bus via Venmo filled with a group of strangers. I approached the front desk, knowing the fate of this entire 22-hour round trip road trip rested on one simple question:

"Hi, can I use your printer?"

I could.

I think I made four extra copies in case of flood, fire, natural disaster, plague, locust swarms, or illegal seizure of the other ones. With our bounty in hand, we were encouraged, but not out of the woods. The bus was set to leave within minutes and I didn’t trust screwdriver Kiley to stand in the doorway and delay the departure on our behalf. We were less than a mile away.

I called an Uber.

●●●

I wasn't quite sure what to make of the rowdy, booze-soaked, derby goers of which we were associating, but I figured things would class up a bit once we reached our destination and entered the hallowed grounds of Churchill Downs.

I was wrong.

I should have been less surprised. My boss told me his own story of going to The Kentucky Derby. All of the women in his party filled up Ziploc bags with vodka and shoved them in their bras. I've snuck snacks into a movie theater before, I suppose it was the derby equivalent of that.

First impressions of Churchill Downs are conflicting. There is an unmistakable reverence for the grounds. There’s history, scenery, and a solemnity toward what has occurred in years past. Plaques honor past winners. Formal wear abounds. Regardless of your knowledge of horse racing, you feel compelled to treat the place with respect. I had a similar feeling— an aura— when I was invited for work to Augusta National Golf Course to watch The Master's Tournament. And I didn’t give a shit about golf either.

But there was one big, glaring difference between The Master's and The Kentucky Derby:

No one at The Master's was wearing a shirt that said: "TAKE YO PANTIES OFF!”

●●●

There are two distinct castes of derby-goers: the infield and everyone else. All are there to enjoy themselves, particularly with the aid of booze and gambling, but that's about where the similarities end. The infield refers to the section inside the track that the horses run around. It's a massive green space where people bring folding chairs and blankets to watch the race unfold almost entirely on a jumbotron. Tickets are a blanket $50 a head and it's a free-for-all for the best viewing angles— even though it is physically impossible to be in a spot within the infield where you can see the entire race. The best you can do is crane your neck kind of around one corner as they start running, follow around your field of vision until the horses disappear, then loop up to the TV screen to see what else happens. But none of these people care.

They're not here to see the horses.

They’re here to party.

You can guess which tickets we had. It’s easy to spot an infielder, mostly because they're not allowed anywhere near the actual stands. The riff-raff is forced down the bowels of the racetrack, well away from the television cameras and the Millionaire's Row (real thing) buffet style dinner. They also tended to make a bit of a fashion statement beyond bow ties, sun dresses, and headgear.

At a certain point of aimlessly wandering, I was compelled to document the scene. Like a National Geographic photographer, I stealthily snapped photos of the Infielder in its native habitat. I found a pack of them dressed like the cutoff-shorts clad Officer Jim Dangle in Reno 911! (four of them in matching garb).¹

Turn the corner and frat boy was wearing a frilly wig, straw cowboy hat, sunglasses, and a Britney Spears early tour t-shirt that was several sizes too small.

A few steps later, I found the crown jewel of them all. Two cowboys. One in a suit jacket, the other in a t-shirt that read: "I HEART HOT MOMS." Both enjoying corn dogs.

There were roughly 190,000 people at Churchill Downs that day, the most ever. I lose sleep wondering about the discoveries that I missed.

●●●

What isn't immediately obvious if you don’t follow horse racing is that the actual Kentucky Derby race is just one brief moment in a two day spectacle. I remember lamenting the irony of the several hour coverage of a several minute race while watching the TV coverage from my dorm room, but it makes a lot more sense when you're actually there.

Day one is The Kentucky Oaks, which went completely unnoticed by my party mob and I, other than the fact that they have a signature drink made with berries that is pretty refreshing after you have seven. The next day is The Kentucky Derby proper (with its own signature drink: the classy mint julep), which features a series of high stakes horse races while you revel in debauchery. We walked around, watched a few contests, and drank many drinks. Our collection of collectible souvenir glasses grew to the point where we could later endure their ultimate destruction in our basement bar after several were dropped and smashed while cleaning.

"Don't worry we have more."

We placed a bet on a Christian horse because someone that Paige knew from church told us to. It got its ass kicked. Sorry God.

At a certain point— likely due to the Kentucky heat and the fact that all we had to drink for the past nine hours was laced with Woodford Reserve— Paige started to feel funny. She was worried that she was going to pass out, so we decided we needed a shady place to sit. Except we were infielders, we hadn't purchased the right to sit with the price of our admission. Solving this problem turned out to be harder than anticipated. We spent a solid chunk of time trying out different arrangements, and eventually claimed a single block of concrete real estate on the side of a garden planter, just barely two ass cheeks wide. Paige sat first, and then we alternated turns between standing and sitting. One of us would run to the bathroom, while the other reserved our precious homestead and warded off anyone attempting to encroach upon it. Eventually Paige recovered, and we got some more juleps.

●●●

Once you've made the rounds a few times within Churchill Downs, you eventually need to make a decision on a destination. Since we were lacking in picnic gear, we never set up camp in view of the horse races. Instead, we spotted the gated area where the horses were escorted from their stables to the loading dock before the race. There's probably a more technical term, but a loading dock is what it was. In this small corner of the fairgrounds, you could get within hands reach of these massive beasts. And they were indeed massive. I've seen horses before, these weren't horses. These were leviathans.

It was unbelievable really. It’s easy to understand why these animals are regarded as the finest specimens of their genome when they’re standing right in front of you. It's harder to appreciate from the grainy simulcast at your favorite sports book. We stood and marveled, in the process befriending a man that stuck out from the rest. He didn't fit into either of my Kentucky Derby archetypes. He wasn’t an offensive clown just there for the party. He wasn't an ostentatious member of the bourgeoise, there to be seen in the social graces of high society.

He was just a man that loved horse racing.

I could tell from his knowledge and tone that this was an annual pilgrimage for him, and despite the repeat visits, he was still so overwhelmed with awe that he needed an outlet. We were the outlet.

“Right now, there is nowhere else in the entire world I would rather be than standing right here. This is the best spot in the entire grounds.”

We took cell phone videos of the horses that were narrated by his cheers and audible gasps of wonder. This guy loved this stuff.

And it made me love it too.

●●●

The last of the horses, the participants in the ACTUAL Kentucky Derby, walked across our path. It was time to find a new vantage point to catch the race itself. But before we sprinted back into the infield, I turned across my shoulder to snap a photo of a "I Heart Whores” trucker hat bestowed upon an aviator clad delinquent who was not particularly marveled by the horses.

We made it in time to listen to the trumpeters announcing the beginning of the event and to join the chorus of drunk sorority girls mumbling the words to "My Old Kentucky Home."

And they're off.

●●●

The odds-on favorite (and I'm using that phrase correctly for the first time in my life) was American Pharaoh. Stupid name. Really good horse. He was rumored to be the first legitimate Triple Crown contender in a bajillion years, and as far as horse gossip goes, he was the focal point.

It's kind of funny to think about how the horse itself is oblivious to all of this.

We were parked on a grassy patch between matching sets of picnic blankets and fold-up camp chairs. We· had a perfect 180-degree field of vision for the middle 1/32nd of the race track through the gaps in a chain-link fence. The thrill was tangible. The 190,000+ that had been otherwise fucking around for the past 11 hours were suddenly singularly focused on the racetrack.

How do you describe the sound of a stampede?

The electricity of the moment charges the air, but initially I was just watching TV outside with a bunch of degenerates.

And then you start to hear a rumble in the distance.

As each hoof pounds the hard clay, a thud gradually cuts more and more through the “W000Ooo00Oo0000OOoooos” of valley girl to my left and Ed Hardy shirt to my right. The thuds grow. From a faint pulse to a steady rumble, the sound of the finest equine specimens alive crescendos until you could feel it in your chest. All 18 or so of these animals, mounted by dainty Filipino men, were suddenly there in front of us. Close enough to pulverize your body, especially if the drunken infielders decided to hop the chain link and attempt a scene from the streets of Pamplona.  

And then they were gone.

The roar faded. Our necks craned back to the jumbotron. American Pharaoh was the victor, the easiest bet of the whole day. If only we didn't blow our entire $5 gambling budget on fucking Genesis the horse. I guess on this day Ra trumped Yahweh. If I hadn’t listened to the people in our church I could have made enough money to cover another round of juleps. I bought a round of juleps to comfort myself.

As quickly as the event began it was over. Some people were pumped, most treated the outcome as a last call before streaming out to the streets of Louisville in search of a happy hour. There were a few races left, but nobody gave a fuck. The entire assembly rushed to the same exit.

And then we just stood there. And stood there. At some point the mass started mumbling, "uhhh, shouldn’t we be moving?" Which then turned into, "Ok, what's going on here?" And then to the slightly less subtle: "MOVE MOTHER FUCKERS!!!"

For the second time in the day, we were in danger of missing our charter bus. If I didn't trust screwdriver Kiley to stall for us in the morning, you can imagine my faith in screwdriver-plus-18-mint-juleps-and-May-heat Kiley. I knew from my 37 laps of the Churchill Downs grounds that there was another exit on the complete other side of the horse fortress, but surely that one would be just as cramped, right? It's not like we're the only people who thought of that, right? Like, it would be foolish to give up our spot in line after waiting for 45 minutes in exchange for a worse spot in a line that's a 10-minute walk away? We were in danger of missing the bus, I felt like we had no choice but to at least try.

We walked straight through the exit and into our bus seats. These people are idiots.

●●●

The rap blared.

The words slurred.

The bus departed.

Paige and I were of the few that abided the “Please remain seated while the bus is in motion” safety placards. There was a nice girl next to us that kept her wits about her. She was fun to talk to and enjoyed filling us in on her derby experience and her pride in the City of Cincinnati. As we neared the interstate exit into our downtown destination, she declared:

"If you aren't from here take a look out the left window for one of the best views of downtown you'll ever see…Well, HELLO BEAUTIFUL!”

The back of the bus also appreciated the view:

"LOOK AT THE TITTIES ON THAT CITY!!!"

A drunk guy put his hand on the side of Paige's cheek while he garbled an R&B lyric. She told him, "please don't touch me." And he put his hand down.

About 10 minutes passed and I thought, "is that the type of situation where you're supposed to punch someone if you're the girl’s boyfriend?"

I'm not sure, the Will Smith Oscars were still a few years away.

The bus vomited us all out onto the side of a downtown street and Kiley convinced her migraine-suffering plus one to go barhopping against her will.

●●●

Once we got home, we started casually paying attention to horse racing. Paige came across a story about an injury at The Preakness Stakes, the second leg of the Triple Crown. Like the derby, the Preakness is shrouded by its own culture and traditions, notably the annual "running of the urinals." In this time-honored Preakness pastime, infielders hoist their drunk buddies onto the roofs of the portable outhouses and attempt to sprint across the length of them while being pelted by beer cans.² The organizers have tried to discourage this behavior by spreading out the shitters, but horse racing viewers are a determined bunch. As American Pharaoh was chasing history, another spectacle was unfolding while a drunk adventurer chased glory on the top of temporary toilets, ultimately falling through one and injuring himself.

American Pharaoh went onto win the first Triple Crown in decades.

And then another horse did it 2 years later.

Whatever.

●●●

The trip proved to be a seminal moment in our relationship. I guess this idea for a date was a good one after all.  

When Paige and I got married, we made centerpieces out of vintage postcards of meaningful places from our relationship. On the backs, we each wrote a summary from our own perspective of what role these locations played in our courtship.

PAIGE:

"Chris & I went to the Derby last May & at one point I almost fainted (NOT from too many mint juleps! My hat was hot!) He was so sweet & concerned & even carried my purse for a while! What a guy!"

CHRIS:

"A FRIEND OF MINE (SHE'S HERE SOMEMHERE, SHE'S THE LOUD ONE) INVITED ME TO THE KENTUCKY DERBY IN 2015. PAIGE EVENTUALLY AGREED AND WE PUT OUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE TEST IN WAYS ONLY A 13 HOUR CAR RIDE CAN. WE SAW THE FIRST TRIPLE CROWN WINNER IN A BAJILLION YEARS AND DECIDED WE ACTUALLY ENJOYED TRAVELING TOGETHER."

In addition to the postcard, our wedding reception sported homemade coloring book party favors illustrated by a few of our artistic friends. Each page depicting a scene from our romance:

"May 2nd, 2015

After ten hours on the road, they realized that not everyone at The Kentucky Derby was as high class as Paige and her hat."

(Notice how the duration of the road trip from Omaha to Cincinnati changes each time I write it. You'd think I didn't know how to use Google Maps.)

For an anniversary present, I created a slide reel from a website that makes custom View-master toys. I called it: "The Faces of the Kentucky Derby."

My kids aren't allowed to look at it.

●●●

I have a hard time accurately explaining the contrasts of The Kentucky Derby when telling the story to friends. The pictures I have saved on my phone help, but they're one-sided. Most still imagine a bow-tied Patrick Mahomes walking down the red carpet on NBC. It's hard to embody the tension between high and low class from anecdotes and a cellular.

But within the walls of Churchill Downs, no description is needed.

It’s experienced.

●●●

Once a year, on the same weekend of The Kentucky Derby, the most aggressive day traders across the globe descend upon Omaha. Like a Greek Emperor ascending toward Delphi, these pilgrims seek wisdom from Warren Buffett, the Oracle of Omaha.

The annual Berkshire Hathaway Shareholder Meeting.

Woodstock for Capitalists.

It's a bit of an odd spectacle, highlighted by several exclusive shareholder events taking place across the city at places that Warren either owns or likes to eat shitty steaks at.

Once a year, Warren himself and Bill Gates play doubles ping-pong against an Olympic Table Tennis player while credentialed rich people surround them in reverence.

I borrowed my co-worker’s meeting passes in order to get a discount on furniture. But with these plastic cards in hand, there was another opportunity I had to seize. I told Paige she had no choice. We were watching Warren Buffett and Bill Gates play ping-pong.

The event was held in a lobby outside Warren’s jewelry store, within a rich shopping mall I can't afford. The morning featured an open bar and breakfast food. As we considered our brunch options, I tried to explain to Paige how rich people lived. I had been to a few excursions for work where the high society roamed, and there were rules.

Paige listened attentively. She was enchanted by the notion of being able to order anything she wanted from a portable bartender, and was feeling inspired by the derby later that day. Undoubtedly, many of these ping-pong viewing, BRK-B owners had eaten at the Millionaire’s Row (real thing) buffets at some point.

She decided to try to fit in, using the knowledge she had acquired.

"Do you have the ingredients for a mint julep?"

(Laughing) "not even close."

Rooting for the Home Team: Episode I

Baseball.

1. https://reno911.fandom.com/wiki/Jim_Ronald_Dangle,_Lieutenant

2. https://www.horsenation.com/2016/05/19/freakness-at-the-preakness-part-i-the-running-of-the-urinals/