On the day of the Grand National staged at Aintree Racecourse, England where two horses lost their lives at the legendary and infamous Beacher’s Brook fence, my wife and I attended the 47th Annual Atlanta Steeplechase. Probably the only vague similarity in the two events would be the presence of horses.
The event was held at a 435 acre farm near Rome, Georgia and drew a crowd of nearly 25.000. Young ladies and their beaus arrived suitably dressed for a day at the races. Ladies were decked out in their lacey, flowery spring frocks supporting big hats of various creations and colors. Some of the gentlemen made you questions their sexual preference adorned in blue and white pinstriped jackets with polka dot bow ties and pink trousers! Maybe one or two had been reading Brideshead Revisited and were confused by the prose.
No alcohol was sold at the event but you were permitted to bring your own provided it was not in a glass container. Plastic glasses were allowed which can rapidly take the edge off early shots of mamosas.
Entrance to the event was via a long and winding (aka Paul McCartney) drive which began its journey from a Georgia Highway. There were several Budweiser advertisement hoardings to pass before being ushered into the parking lot and there were warnings supplementing the Budweiser signs encouraging you to delegate a designated driver. What do you do if you can’t find a designated driver, turn around and go home?
Thank goodness it hadn’t rained in Georgia for several days because car parking was provided in a field which had more furrows than my forehead. We gingerly pulled our cooler across the rough terrain and returned for our lounge chairs and table. We finally set up camp along the rail on the back straight; eagerly anticipating our first beverage.
There were five horse races arranged during the event each of which comprised two laps of the track over a series of hurdles. The public address system was completely drowned out by our young neighbors playing their music loud enough for everyone to enjoy whether you wanted to or not.
On course betting, and for that matter any form of gambling, is not allowed in Georgia which really takes the gloss of staging the races in the first place. I’m not a gambler normally, but a few little wagers would have spiced things up.
The advertising blurb in the local paper strongly advised that patrons (sorry it’s a hangover from the Masters) should arrive early to enjoy all the other attractions that the event had to offer. Around mid-morning the organizers had planned an air show and skydive demonstration: fiction. We were subjected to a model airplane that resembled a demented mosquito: fact.
Apparently there were supposed to be camel rides on offer, but they had obviously got the hump or two and failed to make an appearance. The parade of the Bear Creek Hounds on the itinerary caught our attention, but they comprised approximately a dozen mutts wearing bored expressions.
Despite my negativity, we had an enjoyable day. The weather was glorious, our picnic hamper and alcoholic accompaniments were superb. The rare glimpses of thoroughbred horses cantering down the back straight to the finishing line were also worth the price of admission.
We took our leave in late afternoon to avoid most of the traffic. As we slowly snaked our way to the highway we noticed a sign positioned a couple of hundred yards before the exit: “Caution: random sobriety tests.” Tally ho!
