We walked up to the gates of Churchill Downs, unsure of what to expect inside but certain it would get weird at the least. The only thing I’d heard about the Kentucky Derby was that it was a raucous party and not much else, from various sources. In order to live up to this debaucherous reputation, we showed up the night before with a bottle of bourbon, three of vodka, five cases of cheap beer and a sixth called “Kodiak” we had chosen in Indiana because we liked its peculiar name. We held tickets to the notorious infield, where they put the wild, screaming drunks in the middle of the track, who then can’t see anything and don’t really want to. The people in the stands above – that is, those who can afford to have an actual seat on which to sit – can watch said drunks for entertainment. There are thousands, all of them spread out across a meadow peppered with food and alcohol stands like debonair gladiators in an alcoholics’ coliseum. True to form, most of our provisions were gone by the time we showed up.
People streamed in from everywhere, pausing at a statue at the main promenade to get their requisite “I was definitely here” pictures. We finished up the gas station tall boys we bought just in case and started some inappropriate chants. The military police were nearby – I’m surprised we weren’t locked in the drunk tank immediately, but I’m sure they’ve seen worse. Inside, we wandered through several enclosed areas, patrolled by men in seersucker suits and beer vendors. Some of us bought mint juleps, the traditional drink of the Kentucky Derby, made with sugar, mint, bourbon and crushed ice. It was probably the best drink I’ve tasted, and I have no recollection of what it tasted like.
We stumbled around through the enclosures for a while longer, chanting and giggling and being all-around freak shows, and somehow everyone got separated from everyone else. No matter – it’s much easier to get into shenanigans on your own. I used my time to steal a fistful of roses, keeping one for my breast pocket and handing the others out as rewards for anyone who had a hat that I liked. (Indeed, the women who attend the Derby have a penchant for wearing enormous floppy hats, and it seemed like the day was above all a fiercely competitive hat contest.)
In my wanderings I found a series of underground tunnels, each one leading somewhere stranger than the last. A giant room filled with rows and rows of betting booths, flooded with people trying to get their last bets in, most of whom lost – an even bigger room with more betting booths and more losers. One tunnel led to the mysterious factory where all the mint juleps were furiously assembled and handed out to vendors. Somehow I happened upon the tunnel that led to the infield, my ultimate goal.
My fellow journeymen weren’t answering their phones, so I stumbled around and hazily attempted my most ill-advised Kentucky accent. I wasn’t too good at it, but it was no problem. Everyone was too busy drinking and making noise to care. Dozens of people strolled around with whales on their head, which would have been perplexing had it not been for the few with full-on Point Break style horse masks. I wandered the whole area, taking in all the scenery and managing not to ruin anyone’s day and eventually found a couple of my friends blacked out and mingling with the other revelers around us.
When the main event ended, we found ourselves hiking from the Downs, listening to the religious right yell at the passersby about damnation and giddily responding about how correct they were — we were indeed drunks and fornicators destined for hell. The nearby junction was packed with cars, none moving because of the endless flock of people clogging up the motorways. So we set up camp next to a man with 12-gauge earrings playing the drums, figuring he’d be a great landmark to attract the other half of our group, and spent the rest of the day dancing to the beats and interacting with all our new friends joining us from the infield. In the warm Kentucky air, watching the people rush by and enjoying the inexplicable drums, I came to the conclusion that this place was magical.
Also, some horses ran around for a while.
Tom Hayden is a Weinberg senior. He can be reached at [email protected].
