The Preakness
May-1988
Rrrrrrrrring... Rrrrring...
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Matt, are you ready?"
"Roy?" I mumbled, fumbling with the phone.
"Yes, it's Roy! Are you ready to knock back a few beers?"
"It's Saturday morning, Roy, and still dark out. Can I at least have breakfast first?"
"We can eat on the way to Baltimore."
"Baltimore!? What the hell's in Baltimore?"
"The Preakness, don't you remember? Pimlico? I told you about it months ago."
"I thought the Preakness was a horse race?"
"It is," Roy said, "but it's also one hell-of-a party that you don't want to miss. You'll see, get your ass out of bed, and come to my house. I'll drive. Oh, and bring a change of clothes; we'll be staying the night."
"Okay..."
I showered, fed the dog and cat, and packed an overnight bag. It was still dark when I loaded my truck for the drive to Roy's house, but by the time I got to Alexandria, the skies had brightened into the beginnings of an awesome day. Roy was in his driveway, hurriedly ridding his Corolla of old drink cups and burger wrappers while cheerfully whistling a medley of forgotten songs. He was dressed in shorts, a concert T-shirt, and sandals, and with his unruly hair and crazed expression, looked more like he was heading to a Grateful Dead concert than a horse race.
"Matt! You're just in time, buddy. Give me a hand with this ice chest of beer."
"Woah! This sumbitch is heavy!" I said.
"Yeah, it's going to be a long day, and we're going to need sustenance."
"Good thinking. Are we bringing any food, too, or are we just drinking our nourishment?"
"Yes, in the back seat."
I peeked into a grocery bag full of nuts, pretzels, sausage sticks, corn chips, bean dip, and two cans of sardines.
"Sardines? Is this what's for breakfast?"
"It will be if we don't get a move on. Stow your gear in the trunk next to the camp chairs and let's get going. We can grab breakfast tacos and coffee on the way; I know a place."
Roy drove north on I-95 out of the Washington area to his friend Josh's house in Baltimore. After brief introductions, we transferred our gear to Josh's car and drove to Pimlico on 695 at nearly 100 miles per hour.
"Are we running late?" I mouthed to Roy.
"No, Josh just likes to drive fast," Roy whispered.
"No kidding, where's the fire?"
We arrived at Pimlico in one piece, unloaded our gear from Josh's car, and hiked to a grass-covered field near the racetrack. Others were doing the same. We found a spot large enough to spread out a tarp for our ice chest and chairs, claiming party territory for the three of us and two others, who were on their way from Harrisburg.
By noon, hundreds of people had set up their makeshift camps around us. The early arrivals respectfully placed their ground covers, leaving a few inches of grassy easement between themselves and their neighbors. But as party space in the field became scarce, hordes of people, pushing strollers loaded with rum and tequila, squeezed into every scrap of open ground until the individual shindigs morphed into one monumental blowout.
The two remaining members of our group arrived: John and his wife, Sara. Sara taught English at a high school in Lancaster, and John was a photojournalist for a well-known equestrian magazine that dispatched him to Baltimore to document the 1988 Preakness.
Roy handled the introductions, while I grabbed a round of beers for everyone. John's primary focus was on the horse race, but he was intrigued by the scale of the parking-lot party. While longtime friends Sara, Josh, and Roy were catching up on times past, I became fascinated with John's equipment—the tools of his trade—and began bombarding him with questions about his cameras, lenses, tripods, and numerous accessories, all stored in two custom camera bags.
"Matt," John said, "I can't cover the horse race and the party. I have an extra camera. Why don't you carry it around the grounds and shoot pictures?"
"Pictures of what?"
"Anything and anybody. You'll be surprised at how many people want their picture taken, especially when they find out you work for a magazine."
"John, you picked the ideal man for the job," Roy said, hoisting his beer.
"I don't know about that," I said modestly.
"Are you kidding?" Roy said, as if I had lost my mind.
"Roy is right, Matt. You'll do great. 90% of what you need is the gift of gab—you already have that. I'll teach you the other 10%."
"What if someone asks me about the magazine?"
"Tell them whatever you want, Matt. If you are a friend of Roy's, you must be a good bullshitter," John said, chuckling.
Roy snickered, nearly choking on a sip of beer.
"Okay," I said, "I'll do my best."
"Just relax and be yourself, Matt. I'm excited to see your work. In the photography world, everyone's eye is unique."
John gave me a crash course in camera operation. Then handed me four rolls of film and guided me through installing the first one to give me hands-on experience. Next, he gave me a white windbreaker with a magazine logo sewn on the front and back, and a matching cap. I put on the jacket and hat, stashed the extra film in one of the pockets, and slung the camera strap over my shoulder.
"How do I look?" I asked.
"Like a crackerjack photographer," Roy said.
"I guess that means I'm ready?"
"You are," John said.
"Have fun, Matt!" Roy said. "Just don't forget your friends back here at camp!"
It was a sunny, warm Saturday afternoon in Baltimore, Maryland, and excitement was in the air. People had traveled from all over the world to witness the 113th Preakness Stakes, and the festivities were ubiquitous. I felt like the luckiest man in the world. I never would have had the opportunity to photograph the party as a carpenter; however, John appreciated my enthusiasm and interest in his trade, and he needed help, so he took a chance and dubbed me his magazine's newest photojournalist. And in the eyes of the inebriated crowd at Pimlico, I wouldn't be mistaken for anything less. Payment for my services, however, would come in the form of free beer from hundreds of people who dreamed of appearing in our revered magazine.
As a magazine photographer, I was warmly received as I entered the heart of the festivities. The party was in full swing, and there were still three hours to go before the race. I took pictures of everything: the sky, the crowd, families, friends, groups of men, groups of women, office workers, horses, groundskeepers, food vendors, old folks, young folks, a dragonfly, punk rockers, beer buddies, painted faces, tattoos, costumes, and lots of voluptuous cowgirls who were willing to show more skin than their jealous boyfriends cared to see, but I always managed to dissolve tensions before a malevolent squint evolved into a full-blown altercation, like:
Hey buddy, why don't you get into the picture with your sweetheart?
Throughout the day, I trudged through the crowd, trying to walk on the grass between overlapping blankets whenever possible, to reach the far side of the grounds. While loading my last roll of film, a young bearded man in his mid-twenties approached me with an unopened can of beer.
"You have the best job in the world," he said as he handed me the beer.
"Say again? Oh...thanks, buddy." I replied, grabbing the beer and opening it with one hand.
"How did you become a magazine photographer?" he asked.
"Oh, uh, you wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Maybe I would."
"Well, for starters, until about two hours ago, I had never laid hands on a professional camera."
"Yeah...right," the young fellow said.
"No shit. I am a carpenter by trade. Yesterday, I was framing a house in Northern Virginia, and today I am in Baltimore shooting photos for an equine magazine. For me, it was about being at the right place and the right time. The official photographer—who happens to be a friend of a friend—needed assistance. I had expressed interest in his gear, so he picked me to help out."
"That's a believable story."
"It's the true story! You never know what opportunities life will present if you get yourself out there," I said, thinking about how close I had come to telling Roy that very morning to go to the Preakness without me—or to go to hell for waking me up so early.
"Well," he said, "whoever you are, you seem to have a knack for learning new skills."
"Everyone does, my friend," I said while I took his picture. "The race is about to start. Thanks again for the beer, and good luck."
I began meandering back through the partiers toward the opposite side of the field. There were no paths to follow; I could only dead-reckon my way through the celebrants to what I perceived to be the direction to our camp, where Roy and company were likely worried about my whereabouts. It was easy to get twisted around. At one point, I thought I had found my way, then somehow doubled back into the mob where I had spent most of the afternoon. Nothing looked familiar. I had been having such a good time mingling, shooting pictures, and drinking beer that I neglected to take bearings and found myself suddenly lost in a sea of borachos.
'And they're off!' the announcer bellowed as the horse race began. Everyone stopped in their tracks to hear the blow-by-blow race in progress, and in one minute and fifty-six seconds, it was over, when the announcer hollered, 'Risen Star wins the Preakness by a length!'
The festivities ended as abruptly as the horse race. People hastened to pack up their gear and head to the parking lot, looking to beat the heavy traffic out of Pimlico. I decided to flow with the crowd, trusting the mob would somehow waft me back to discernible territory. On the way, I took the remaining pictures on my last roll of film and continued to drift easterly with the surge. Before long, I began to recognize the area around me. Then, suddenly, a familiar voice.
"Hey, Matt!"
I turned around.
"Over here, Matt!" Roy hollered.
And there they were: Roy, Josh, Lisa, and John; they were all packed up, waiting for me.
"I was beginning to wonder if I would see you all again," I said. "I was trapped in a thicket of party animals."
"Well, however you did it, we're glad you found your way back," John said. "Did you shoot all four rolls?"
"Yes, I hope I didn't waste your film," I said.
"I doubt that, Matt. Thanks for your help."
"The pleasure was all mine, John. Posing as a magazine photographer at the Preakness was a life experience I will never forget."
~ Matt