It was eleven twenty. The Coaster train appeared that took me to the Solano Beach Train Station. From there, a British Double Decker would transport me to the track to the Del Mar Race Track and mine you in November. I had bought a foot-long sub and a nap sack full of fruit from Just Peachy, in Leucadia. .
Inside the British Double Decker bus sat Cleo. I met her a few minutes earlier at the Subway sandwich store cross the street from the Solana Beach Train station. Her smile and sweet personality interested me.
"Hey Cleo, any tips today?"
"No, the only tips I give is to my girlfriend Bessie. My friend got me hooked on horses. We used to go together but illness has kept her at home. I bought a sub because mine was left in the fridge.
"How long have you been coming to Del Mar?"
"Since 1957, I love to bet. Every summer I return to Del Mar, eve since I retired from the phone company. I pay $250 for my own seat and $25 for a season's admission. I'm lucky since I have survived breast and stomach cancer.
This Oceanside gal appeared too spry to be only 73. What upset her was that the phone company dropped her from their health coverage. Cleo showed me a card that gave her free admission for the entire meet, including this November one This meet changed its menu to racing only from Thursday until Sundays. The bus pulled up opposite the West Grandstand and entrance.
She gave me a free pass admission. I thanked her and took the elevator to the third floor. My mind was in shambles from my catastrophic experience the day before, but something about November racing and a bright new day provided a spark of life.
An exhausted me sat inside the grandstand. Sleep and I had been strangers the night before. Of course the first fog of the season made driving impossible. Nothing could stir my funkiness-that is until the fifth race.
A horse named Chuckles tossed its jockey before it could be loaded into the starting gate. Chuckles took-off running the race of its life, but the wrong way. She headed for the box seats and then the grandstand area. A trickle of applause grew louder as the black gelding came our way.
The gelding was now out of energy and two outriders ushered her back to the barn. The crowd let out a large cheer as Chuckles seemed to nod in appreciation.
No longer sick and anxious, I finished my Tuna sub and read from one of my journals. Laughter lifted my tension. After the sixth race I took the escalator to the ground floor and walked over to the walking ring. I wished to take a few pictures.
Oh yes, before I forget, I did not bet one race that day but went home a winner. Depression left me in the starting gate and I chuckled my way to the train station. My laughter left depression in the starting gate.
My mind became clear now and I remember more about Chuckle s before her number was removed. "By order of the stewards, the number 7 horse has been scratched."
Chuckles could care less about being scratched. She won this race going away. Even I, in my deep despair, could not help but grin a bit. An outrider gave chase but the runaway would have non-of-it. The cheers turned to jeers when an outrider tried to catch up with him.
The clapping grew louder while Chuckles' eyed the grandstand tossed its head back and forth and took off again, after acknowledging the applause with a shake of his head. Now three outriders tried to corner him. They did but somehow, he got out of their grasp and tried to circle again, the other way. Finally he had had enough and a pony rider grabbed its harness and lead him back to its groom at the finish line.
Sorry I made you wait, just the way Chuckles would have liked it. .
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