Betting on the Ponies

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
.
But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
.
Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

.
A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
.
Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
.
At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
.
The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
.
I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
.
Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
.
Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
.
The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
.
I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
.
It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
.
I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
.
One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Mare Island Naval Shipyard

Mare Island sits on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Growing up, it was the place my father spent occasional weekends as a reservist with the US Navy. Which is probably why no one I was acquainted with ever knew much about it; the general public doesn’t get entry to military bases. Up until recently, If someone had asked me about the Island I might have said that it was a naval base or maybe it had been closed. The Mare Island Naval Shipyard was officially closed in 1996.
.
A few weeks ago when my friend asked if I wanted to take a trip to the island as she had a college class she was attending. Huh? A private college on a closed naval shipyard? I was up for it.
.
Just driving through what had once been a guard station at the entrance to the island was a bit bizarre; but it was nothing compared to the rest of the experience. I’d entered a surreal world of abandoned buildings and roads. Sort of a military base ghost town.

.
















It was more than a bit freaky driving down long, palm tree lined, wide streets with barely a soul or car in sight. Brick buildings dating back to late 1800’s, empty deep water docks, scores of sprawling buildings whose past usage I could only guess about. It felt as though I were on a Hollywood back lot. And, it turns out, there have been films shot there.

.
















A few places, like the Officers Club, still had their original signs up and some had been converted to student housing for the previously mentioned college. Others only displayed their building numbers. If I hadn’t been by myself, I might have tried to gain entrance to a few; curiosity was at an all time high.

.










One massive block long building, that was nearly as tall, clearly was some sort of assembly plant as the inside was an empty shell. I know this because I got out of the car to peer in the windows. (there may have been a sign or two warning to steer clear because of hazardous PCB’s or something along that line.) Just as I put my camera up to the glass fronted entry doors to get a few interior shots, a giant wind came up rattling what felt like the entire building. I was then sure that it was a ghost town.

.
















I drove on and on, no traffic and no people. I would stop in the middle of a street, get out, take a few pictures, and continue on my way. Somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and took to pulling off the road before getting out. And the more I explored the more I wished my dad was still around so that he could tell me what everything had once been.

I didn’t have a map so relied on the few posted signs. One led up the hill to the golf course; once the exclusive turf of officers and now open to all. I don’t play the game, but the views of the San Francisco Bay may be a reason to take it up.

.



Going back down the hill I noticed an area with massive eucalyptus trees and what seemed to be housing. I headed towards it.

.

St Peter’s Chapel was the first stop. Built in 1901, it is filled with real Tiffany stained glass windows. Worth more than a small fortune, it is only open on certain days for tours. This looked like somewhere I would come back to but what really caught my eye was just around the bend.




I’d stumbled upon Officer’s Row; massive mansions lined a wide boulevard, each sitting on large lawn surrounded by giant trees. I froze. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I’m a traveler; houses interest me but don’t compel me to move in. This time I was smitten. I wanted one of those babies and from the look of it, they were empty and just waiting for me.

Strolling up to the first one I saw a sign saying “available” and a number to call. I walked up the stairs to the large front porch and then to the glass windows. Inside was even more mouth-watering house; paneled walls, hardwood floors, built in window seats, and a splendid fireplace. I was literally drooling thinking about living here..

Looking down the street were at least another ten of these beauties. I later found out that the biggest one, the Captains House, is furnished and set up for tours. I still haven’t found out if the others are for sale, rent, or just a big tease.
.
I eventually realized that as much as I loved the officer’s mansions, they would be just a taste too big for one person. I started to look for smaller houses. It seemed that many of the big ones had more properly sized out houses, some of which appeared to be occupied. On the street behind these were your basic 1950’s military housing. Not at all tasteful but possibly affordable and I was beginning to get quite attached to Mare Island.

.
Eventually it was time to head back, off island surrealism and back into the here and now. The Mare Island Historic Park Foundation does tours and I plan to get there in the near future. http://www.mareislandhpf.org/
.
Kate