Item From the Past: The Chilly Kentucky Derby

Good thing the Kentucky Derby was on May 1 this year rather than yesterday, which saw a high of only 63° F. for that city. Not too bad, but a little chilly for that kind of event. The last time I went to the Derby, however, it was even colder than that.

May 1989

This year I drove to Louisville on the morning of the race. The night before I'd stayed out with friends eating hot Indian food. It was something of a trick to fall asleep after midnight, my system still processing a jiggerful of spices, and wake at 4:30 am and pack and get on the road.

It was cold in Chicago. Later I learned that it snowed in Chicago that day, dusting the May blooms in cold white. I had heard that it had been colder than usual all week in Louisville, but I set out optimistic anyway. Not optimism anchored by good omens or agreeable weather reports, but simply that kind that whispers in your ear, "It can't be that cold in Louisville in May."

During the drive down I periodically put my hand against the windshield to check the temperature. Down through northwest Indiana, it was cold to the touch. Into and out of Indianapolis, still cold. South toward Louisville, into the home stretch along I-65 on which Indiana state troopers prowl in force to ticket the unwary -- still cold. The airwaves offered no hopeful weather reports.

I got to Churchill Downs just before the fourth race, about the same time as last year and the year before. It was about 45° F. in the infield, a mean little wind blew now and then, and the clouds looked pregnant. The climate had driven the shorts, bathing suits and bare flesh under sweaters, coats, hats and umbrellas, and so the crowd looked ready for a November football game, not acting decadent or depraved. Garbage bags were a popular item on the infield that day, either as improvised body wraps or one of the building blocks of jerrybuilt tents in which to huddle. In more ordinary Derby temps, infield cops destroy anything remotely like a tent.

MA and her party were, as usual, near the Kentucky flagpole, and I found them without too much difficultly... just before the seventh race, she and some of the others went to their box seats. I decided to take a walk by myself, and before long discovered the warmest spot available to the infield crowd, maybe even in all of the track, under the grandstands. There were hot-air blowers at work under there, and hordes of people giving off heat.

I looked at the odds tables for the Derby -- always the eighth race -- and made a snap decision. The favorite, at nearly even odds, was too much of a favorite. The next horse in the standings was No. 10 at 3-1. That was my horse. I stood in line a long time and bet him $5 to win and $5 to place. Then I found spot to watch the race on a monitor, since I was growing fond of the relatively warmth under the grandstands. The countdown to the race was delayed by some loser of a nag that threw a shoe, but at last they were off. For all of two minutes the crowd was of one mind, absorbed in the event. People who ask, "All this hoopla for a two-minute race?" don't get the quality of the moment, which make the quantity irrelevant.

My horse won. Sunday Silence came from behind. It was worth a $28 payoff to me, which I spent about 28 minutes in line to collect.