"If you gotta play at garden parties,
I wish you a lotta luck,
But if memories were all I sang,
I'd rather drive a truck."
Thanks, Ricky—Nelson, that is—for reminding me that I have not been to the Kentucky Derby (G1) garden party since 2009, which means that memories are all I can sing about 2,500 miles removed here in loopy California, on the occasion of the 150th anniversary celebration.
Then again, if the 2009 Derby is the last Derby I'll ever see in person, there was no better way to put a cherry on a run of 21 unforgettable experiences at America's most organically weird and wonderful sporting event. That 135th running in '09 offered the perfect synthesis of all that was "decadent and depraved," as Hunter S. Thompson fondly described the Derby, and amplified by Jim Murray's take on the race as "a grueling mile-and-a-quarter rockpile a chain gang should work on."
Mine That Bird, the triumphant survivor of the 2009 Derby, turned conventional wisdom on its head, inspired a Hollywood movie, and put his unheralded connections in a glare of public attention unlike anything they ever could have imagined. Dreams don't get that wild.
My everlasting memory of the day was following trainer Chip Woolley from the track to the post-race press conference. He was on crutches, his surgically repaired right ankle throbbing through the delirious joy of the moment, cradling his cellphone and telling someone somewhere, "Can you believe it? Some dumbass from New Mexico just won the Derby."
Yeah, well, that dumbass had just out-trained D. Wayne Lukas, Bill Mott, Todd Pletcher, Bob Baffert, Jerry Hollendorfer, and Nick Zito.
If Mine That Bird wasn't enough, the 2009 Derby week also included the emergence of Rachel Alexandra in the Kentucky Oaks (G1) as super hero wrapped in a horse suit, and a precious few moments on the road with Zenyatta, who was in town for the Louisville Distaff Stakes (G2) (now named the La Troienne) but scratched because of the track. She also came down with a case of hives, which can happen when a Californian first dives into Kentucky.
I was lucky, though, because I had Dick Jerardi of the Philadelphia News as a Sherpa for my first Derby climb in 1985. I arose that day on the bit, already turned to 11. "It's a long day," Dick said. "You've got to pace yourself. Let's hit the jacuzzi."
We arrived halfway through the card, having missed nothing of note, at which point I was snapped up by an ABC production assistant to shag jockey interviews for Jack Whitaker. I had watched Angel Cordero Jr. in action before, at Santa Anita Park, as he tried to intimidate the likes of Bill Shoemaker and Laffit Pincay Jr. to no avail. On this day, attached as he was to the speedy Spend a Buck, he set his sights on Richie Migliore, who was on the quick Eternal Prince, and Don MacBeth, riding favored Chief's Crown.
I found a wall and stuck to it like a fly as Angel buttonholed Mig, riding his first Derby, and then followed MacBeth around the room, preaching the gospel of a merciful early pace. Even at 21, you couldn't bully Migliore, and it was not his fault that Eternal Prince failed to break. MacBeth seemed content sitting second to Spend a Buck through rapid splits, but no one could account for the bravery of Cordero's colt when left to his own devices. They romped.
In April of 1988 I T-boned a driver of questionable judgment who turned left in front of my Nissan 300ZX at the intersection of Fulton and Vanowen in North Hollywood. Because I was standing on the brake pedal at the point of impact, my foot took the worst of the hit as I veered off to the right and wound up with an uncomfortably close view of the Tujunga Wash.
A few weeks later I was limping along with colleague Jay Privman as we followed the field to the paddock for the 114th Kentucky Derby. Up ahead, the tall roan filly Winning Colors was dipping and diving, tossing her head and washing out. My learned observation, unfortunately uttered out loud:
"She's losing it."
Over the ensuing years, Privman has had the class not to remind me.
I made every Derby of the 1990s save the running of '92, when A.P. Indy was scratched and Arazi ran up the track. No regrets. The 1994 Derby coincided with the release of my biography of Charlie Whittingham, who was canny enough to have the Halo colt Strodes Creek in the race. Then it rained, and rained, and any thoughts of book sales jumping through the roof were dashed by Zito's mud-loving Go for Gin, who beat Charlie's colt by two.
Derby week is a marathon that requires imagination to fill the gaps between deadlines. Discovering the delights of Louisville, Ky.'s Bardstown Road was a lifesaver, and the independent Ear X-tacy record shop was our ground zero.
Burt Bacharach had his colt Afternoon Deelites in the 1995 Derby, so naturally a bunch of us goofball turf writers cajoled the composer into a field trip. And while the term "surreal" is criminally overused, there was no better word to describe the sight of the guy who wrote "The Look of Love" and "Alfie" perusing the vinyl racks at Ear X-tacy three days before a Kentucky Derby. One of us snagged Burt's self-titled 1971 album of instrumentals, plus Cissy Houston's vocal on "One Less Bell to Answer," and we all posed for a picture with the man himself holding the prize, as if we'd just landed a 10-foot marlin.
The Baffert years began in 1996 with the Cal-bred gelding Cavonnier, whose wine country owners, Bob and Barbara Walter, insisted on cocktails in their Galt House suite the night before the race. It worked back home before Cavonnier won the Santa Anita Derby (G1)—just the three of us then—but for the Derby there was the addition of their parish priest, who prayed for Cavonnier's safe journey, leaving any thoughts of winning to "thy will be done." Cav lost by half a nose to Grindstone, once again plunging this pilgrim into a deep crisis of faith.
The mythology surrounding the Derby week party thrown by Preston and Anita Madden at the Lexington farm always sounded like a cross between a Hollywood premier and the court of Caligula. My pal Richard Craigo tapped me as his plus one in 1998, and the next thing I knew I was hanging with Kato Kaelin (O.J.'s buddy) and Richard Kelly (Bill Clinton's stepfather). Kato didn't have much to say, but Kelly allowed he was reading an interesting biography of a horse trainer named Charlie Whittingham. I floated on the high of that review for a year.
On the way back to Louisville that night a rest stop was required, and the only hope was a Waffle House off I-64, near Shelbyville, Ky. At 3 a.m., I was not shocked to see the place populated, nor were the customers surprised at the sight of a wayward soul sporting a tuxedo. Happens all the time Derby week.
More than anything, the Kentucky Derby is something to share. My son was with me for Silver Charm and Funny Cide. My father joined me for the 2000 Derby, fulfilling a lifelong promise to himself, a Montana farm boy who dabbled in a couple of racehorses late in life. He arrived Thursday, visited Cigar and John Henry at the Kentucky Horse Park Friday, enjoyed dinner with Joe Hirsch at the Brown Hotel that night, then found a wee hours Derby party somewhere in town. He slept in Saturday, arriving by taxi in time for the Derby, and bet the Fusaichi Pegasus-Aptitude exacta cold, then flew home the next morning on the wings of eagles.
And that, ladies and gents, is how you do the Kentucky Derby.
