Questing to explore upstate New York’s cultural treasures this summer, I realized I’d never been to the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame in Saratoga Springs. I’ve never been to a horse race — I’m a Methodist and betting’s a sin — but horses are beautiful, noble beasts. Breeding and racing thoroughbreds are science and culture in tandem, to use a horse term, and National Velvet, The Black Stallion, and War Horse are timeless classics. Secretariat and Sea Biscuit are still the stuff of four-hoofed legend, dauntless and heroic. The Ascot scene in My Fair Lady teaches us that the ravishing and the repellent sometimes run, again, in tandem. So, I got into my draft horse of a 20-year-old Mercedes and galloped to Saratoga.
Luscious gowns and aristocrats aside, and putting even the idle rich aside, and, yes, gambling’s an odds-on favorite to win a trip to the Hot Place, I don’t like animal sports. The abrupt, quick euthanizing of injured horses — majestic animals — is sick-making. Fillies are very young, which means not fully grown. Geldings are castrated. Ouch. Call me a softie.
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