Breakaway at Churchill Downs

A recent visit to my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky included several er, ‘self-guided tours.’ Two hours after sneaking my family into Lakeside Swim Club, we drove across town to Churchill Downs. I’d hoped to see a high school friend who works there. And to show my kids the famous Twin Spires and a thoroughbred or two. But we were bridled by multiple pit-stops en route, a scheduled 10 a.m. visit with my sister, and our son’s looming mid-day nap. We managed to arrive at the track at 9:30, squarely between its hourly tours. I called my friend’s office, but she was in a Derby meeting. Looking at my watch, I left a hurried voicemail, the kind that defines my NASA-precise social availability as a parent of young kids. “Hey, Cat, it’s Whitney. We’re here at the track downstairs. Let’s see…it’s 9:37. We’ll be here until, uh, say 9:52? If you get this, give a call, would love to see you!”  I hung up in smiley denial. The odds were long that I’d see either my friend or a horse. Meanwhile, Joe was shepherding our kids away from a fleet of mini pickup trucks criss-crossing the betting area. They were shuttling loads of stadium fencing in anticipation of the crowd arriving in three weeks. A party of 150,000 takes preparation.

With time a-ticking, I tried the old “tell you what…” strategy with the woman at the tour kiosk.  In the South, “tell you what…” is related to the attention-getting “hey, y’all, watch this.” But it’s a more subtle and sophisticated opener, like a cousin who earned a degree and married up. Used with a hushed voice and lean-in, it can make an out-of-bounds request sound more like a hot tip shared between friends. “Tell you what,” I said to the tour guide, “my family and I came all the way from Virginia. We have to leave in fifteen minutes-you know how it is with toddler naps…Could we just take a quick peek at the track?” I figured my chances were 20:1. “Sorry, hon” she warbled. “Next tour’s at 10:o0.” That’s when I got all Sarah Palin up in her stuff. “All right, then,” I said sweetly. I walked over to Joe, who was now carrying our writhing son on his shoulders and had our daughter by the hand. “Let’s go through that doorway there,” I whispered, pointing to a daylit opening 200 feet away. My daughter slipped her Crocs back on, her interest suddenly piqued. “What are we dooooooing?” she asked in one of those loud whispers that turns everyone’s head. “Come on, honey,” I said. “Walk like you know where you’re going.”  And we were off. We were in.