Houston, We Have Lift Off: The Turbocharged Equine Rockets at Los Alamitos
Steve Sharp
November 15, 2008
Speechless, I just stared enviously when she triumphantly waved her winning ticket--in my face, of course.
"30-1!" she proudly exclaimed. "Ka….ching! I´m rich! Jealous…?"
"Why´d you bet that horse?" I asked.
"I liked the name." She laughed mischievously, then suddenly bolted down the second-floor bleachers—to pocket $62 for a measly $2 bet.
Alone in the grandstands, I made some speedy calculations. In blackjack (which always had my number), most payoffs are even money: a winning $5 bet returns $10 from the house, a 100% profit—hardly peanuts. But my wife´s bonanza made Las Vegas look like cheapskates: she´d doubled her original bet 30 times, for a 3,000% profit! A track newcomer, I couldn´t believe the profit potential. What other forms of gambling could match horse racing´s huge returns?
Like St. Paul on the road to Las Vegas, I began to see the neon light: Not only can you hit the jackpot at the racetrack, but all you need is just one winning ticket to break even for the night. With ten chances to make a profit, it´s very possible to play with "their" money all night. (OK, it´s not really the track´s dough; it´s the other bettors you pickpocketed!)
At Los Alamitos—one of the few tracks offering nighttime racing—you foot the bill for food, admission, and the racing program, but in return you´re given four hours of edge-of-your-seat entertainment--with several juicy long shot possibilities.
Plus you get to sit outdoors on starry moonlit evenings, watch coyotes and rabbits frolic in the infield, hear the stirring bugle calls to the post, listen to the roars of the crowd, and watch heart-thumping races where nanometers often separate winners from losers. Where else can you gamble in such a utopian setting?
Before Los Al´s first race, anxious anticipation and nervous excitement electrify the atmosphere. The elongated tote board lights up in the infield, flashing ever-changing odds for each horse. Two lakes, surrounded by palm trees and explosions of crimson bougainvillea, beautify the lush, park-like setting around the oval.
Inside, hundreds of tense, hopeful bettors passionately debate the merits of their favorite horse—or scream, howl, and curse at the television monitors carrying simulcast races. Their lively pre-race banter and buzzing makes the place feel friendlier than the neighborhood bar. The charged atmosphere feels like a circus—or maybe a Fellini movie, with a motley crew of weird, wonderful, and wacky characters hanging around until something dramatic happens.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," the track´s race-caller suddenly bellows over the public address system. "Welcome to Los Alamitos. Tonight´s track is fast. Here are the changes in tonight´s program. In race number one…."
Outside, prancing down the track in single file along the rail, the racehorses—
bundles of nervous energy—enter the paddock to be saddled.
Clomp, clomp, clomp…
The betting clock´s ticking, the pressure on horseplayers mounting. It´s almost post-time, the mother of all moments. Bettors scramble to make their bets.
"The horses are at the gate…One minute until race #1. One minute."
The Quarter Horses load into the starting gate—just 350 short yards away. Fans lean anxiously over the rail, peering down the track. Which horse will fly out of the gate? Will the public´s 4-5 shot break like a cheetah—or a turtle?
Every race is a tantalizing mystery.
The equine sprinters fidget in their narrow stalls. Then the bell suddenly rings, and all hell breaks loose. The gate shakes and rattles. Fans scream. Dirt flies. The Quarter Horses thunder down the track, a Calvary charge measuring 4.5 on the Richter scale.
At Mach 1 Schwanie´s Grill´s a blur…
At Mach 2 they fire through the gap…
At Mach 3 they rumble past the grandstands…
(Steve Sharp is a passionate fan of Quarter Horse racing and the author of "Fast Horses, Fast Money: The Complete Guide to Quarter Horse Racing.")
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