My parents owned thoroughbred horses when I was a little girl. My memories of this era are a bit ‘high-low’. On one hand, I remember them dressed in glamorous 70’s fashions as they headed out for a night at the track, while my siblings and I stayed home with a babysitter. On the other, the memories of my time at the track involve sketchy, chain-smoking men wildly waving their race programs and swearing profusely. All in all, I have remained a fan of the sport and my favorite gambling activity is to hole up in a dark Las Vegas sportsbook betting on horses.
Just your typical family outing...at the track. Mom is holding my arm and Dad is holding the horse. Aren't they beautiful?
Prior to arriving in the UK, my images of horse racing held equal measures of glitz and grit. However, as with most things, the British have a different approach, and my racing experience was about to go to a whole new level.
My first UK race set an impossibly high bar. I attended Royal Ascot my very first weekend as a full-time resident. I also saw the Queen live. That’s some heady stuff people.
Royal Ascot is held at Ascot Racecourse about 6 miles from Windsor Castle. Ascot holds many racing events throughout the year, but its most famous event is Royal Ascot. Queen Anne founded the race in 1711 and since then, it has become a major event in the British social calendar, owing to attendance by the Royal family, as well as the fantastic attire on display.
Looking good ladies!
I wasn’t aware of any of this when my friend Karen announced she had purchased tickets. I just knew I was excited to wear a hat. I had longed to wear one and my childhood outings to Assiniboia Downs in Winnipeg were, sadly, hatless affairs.
Karen arranged for us to try on hats at a rental shop one afternoon. I had been looking forward to this, but once I stepped into the boutique, the elegance and library quiet atmosphere made me feel a bit self-conscious. I also realized I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for. There were feathers and ribbons everywhere, it was like Michaels had exploded inside.
I was drawn to the largest hats in the shop. I had visions of the racing scene in My Fair Lady. I assumed the bigger the hat, the greater the elegance. Plus, I'm from America, the land of ‘go big or go home.’ Besides, how often does one attend an event where an oversized hat is encouraged?
That's a big hat... and a big photo!
I traveled down with Helen, which got me in a festive mood. It’s impossible to have a bad time with Helen. She coached me on how to speak TOWIE (The Only Way Is Essex) and we worked on my British pronunciations. In the course of conversation, I used an off-colour word, which caused her to laugh so hard and for so long, she slid off the seat onto the floor. Not realizing why that word was so funny, I nervously laughed with her and promptly missed our exit.
I won’t name the word (my mom reads my blog!) but let’s just say my pronunciation rhymes with ‘cot’ and the British pronunciation rhymes with ‘bat’.
We eventually made it and the next day, I was giddy with anticipation. I hurried with my hair and makeup so I could wear my hat for as long as possible. With time to spare, I practiced my curtsy in the mirror. You know, just in case I met a duchess or something.
When we arrived, I could hardly speak as I was in awe of the outfits on the women AND men. Many of the gents were attired in morning suits and top hats, something I thought only happened in the movies. I drank in the sight of such elegance- it was heavenly.
My celestial fashion bliss muted slightly when I realized that my hat was big, really big, compared with most of the women. As I pondered this, I leaned back to finish off my Pimm’s cup (THE summer drink of Britain) and promptly whacked the face of the person behind me. I whirled around to apologize and smacked another person. Mortified, I backed away, only to step on the foot of the guy behind me.
In photos, everyone next to me was either smushed by my hat or standing 2 feet away.
Look out, the hats are invading.
And so it went.
When I selected my chapeau, I failed to consider how exactly I would navigate a crowd in a hat with a radius on par with Saturn. Every time our group of ladies leaned in to toast, I would hit someone’s face with my brim. It began to feel like I was in a nightmarish game of bumper cars.
Joanne, Pimms... and my hat.
There was no time to ponder further as the horn sounded, announcing the Queen’s arrival. We crowded into the grandstand where luckily she was wearing a lime green overcoat, which made her easy to spot.
With that, the races began. Interestingly, it was like many races I had attended before. Betting booths, screaming fans and of course, magnificent horses and jockeys in colorful silks.
After the last race, I looked up into the glass-encased booth above me and my mouth dropped as I realized it was her. QE2, in the flesh. Standing 15 feet away. Flustered, I glanced around to be sure we weren’t expected to bow, and when I looked up again, she was gone. My brush with greatness so fleeting, I didn’t even have time to snap a photo.
After such as civilized afternoon, the post-party antics were a bit shocking. On par with spring break, the crowds housed a large number of butt pinchers. After several bottles of champagne, elegant ladies began to curse like sailors.
And just like that, the highs...and lows of racing remained intact.
Joanne, my roommate that weekend, rescued me from the fray. We headed back to the hotel where we ate soup and watched the movie Australia, while she told me stories of her time living in Sydney.
As we drifted off to sleep, I thought about the day’s events. I decided British horseracing was decidedly ‘high side’.
Surely, the Queen cancels out a few pinchers. Or is it the hats?