Clockers
- Bruno@Racingwithbruno
- May 26
- 5 min read
Ah... the Clocker.
The name itself is whispered at racetracks with the reverence of a deity and the suspicion of a snitch. “They say the 5 is live.” They. They always know. They have seen it. Heard it. Timed it. The fabled they is none other than... the clocker.
In the grand theater of racing, where every soul is a character in a drama of speed and delusion, the clocker is the shadow figure, the man behind the curtain pulling strings and setting whispers in motion. While others drink and bet and posture in their polyester suits, the clocker is working, eyes narrowed behind dark glasses, stopwatch in hand, soul heavy with secrets.
Yes, I’ve seen them all—the racetrack raccoons rifling through discarded stubs like Wall Street analysts of trash, the fiction handicappers composing operas of excuses, the Turf Club tycoons and their bottle-blonde arm candy trading champagne toasts for inside info. But none of them hold a candle to the clocker.
The clocker is not just a person. He is a syndrome. A myth. A syndicate of one.
He’s been around since time itself—yes, since the caveman clocked the first prehistoric breeze, grunting the equivalent of “:47 flat, double gallop out strong.” You think I’m exaggerating, but no. If there were dinosaurs in the paddock, there was a clocker on the rail, scrawling numbers into the dirt with a stick.
They've evolved, of course. Now they have shacks, internet rumors, encrypted group texts, and tote board satellites. The early action? The money pouring in 20 minutes to post that no one can explain? That’s him. The oracle of fractions. The prophet of the workout report. A man who can tell you, with terrifying confidence, that a 20/1 maiden filly is about to run the race of her life.
He is the CIA of the racetrack. The Clocker Intelligence Agency. Information moves through him the way electricity moves through wires. Quietly. Constantly. And with enough voltage to jolt the odds like a thunderclap.
For the record: the Official clocker is responsible for official times, the Turf Authority has their own clockers who work closely with the official clockers, they are mainstrem media, thus more in the capacity of an official clocker. Private clockers have only affiliation to themselves. A player benefits from the unaffiliated, exclusive information, mainstream information is for every one to see.
Don’t misunderstand—he’s not flashy. He doesn’t strut like the Turf Club types. He doesn’t beg for attention like the fiction handicappers. No, the clocker is the trench coat in the fog. He walks alone. He doesn’t celebrate when he's right—he merely nods, as if the universe has caught up with him.
And everyone knows him. Or at least, they think they do. "They said this one was working lights out." "They said the 4 can't lose." They. The word hangs in the air like cigar smoke.
But the truth? There are only a few real clockers. The rest are copycats, parrots, self-proclaimed sages quoting lines from yesterday’s workout tab. The real ones, the true watchers of the morning light, don’t post picks. They don’t tweet. They whisper. And when they do, smart people listen.
Ah, yes... when the clockers speak, people listen—like E.F. Hutton in a wind tunnel filled with degenerate optimism and second-hand cigar smoke. But these days, the whispers carry a different tone... a more clandestine frequency. Rumors—oh, how I adore a well-placed rumor—have surfaced suggesting that some of these celestial scoundrels have taken their talents offshore. Offshore. Not on boats, mind you, but in betting—outside the pools, outside the light, where shadows hold the advantage.
It’s as if the Gordon Gekkos of the backstretch woke up one morning, stared at the tote board, and said, “Greed is good... but untaxed greed is divine.”
And yes, I called them scoundrels, with a tip of the hat to that glorious 1986 gem Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, with Michael Caine and Steve Martin, ah, Steve Martin whom masterfully played Ruprecht, the wild-eyed imposter with a corked fork and a childlike innocence masking pure deception. Only in racing, the deception isn’t quite so charming. These aren’t princes pulling cons for pearls—they’re manipulators in binoculars, feeding false info to bettors hoping for a miracle and getting a mirage.
Let’s talk plainly: the industry survives, thrives, when money flows through the mutuel pools. That’s the lifeblood. The handle funds the purses, the tracks, the very oxygen this game breathes. When trainers, insiders, and yes—clockers—start sending their action offshore, it's like drilling a hole in the hull of the very ship you're sailing on. Eventually, we all go down with it.
But there’s more. There's a twist, like any good con. You see, for every clocker in the shack puffing up bullet works like a stage mom at a beauty pageant, there’s a new player on the scene: the private clocker.
Ah, the private clocker—the Ronin of the racetrack. No payroll. No shack. No allegiance. Just a stopwatch, a sharp eye, and a soul weathered by skepticism. They stand apart, and not just physically. Philosophically. Ethically. They’re the checks and balances in a world that doesn’t believe in either. They catch what the house clockers miss, they doubt what the public clockers claim, and sometimes... they get it right.
They’re the ones who show up in the fog and leave in silence, unnoticed by most, until their insights appear in some obscure sheet passed from one sharp to another like sacred scripture. The irony, of course, is most horseplayers don’t read the sheet. They scan. They look for the rating, the holy letter grade, the validation. They don’t want nuance—they want confirmation.
And when it goes wrong? Oh, the finger-pointing. “That clocker doesn’t know a horse from a mailbox!” they cry, never considering the possibility that the error lies not in the timing... but in their own blind belief.
Here’s the harsh truth: 85% of works don’t matter. But that 15%? That sliver? That is where the truth hides. And it takes more than a stopwatch to find it—it takes feel. Insight. Pattern recognition in a storm of chaos. It’s an art. And most don’t appreciate art unless it cashes.
You know the ones I’m talking about—the critics. The chronic complainers. The ones who couldn’t clock a sundial but have opinions on every :47 flat. They’re always the loudest. Always the most aggrieved. And always, curiously, broke.
So here we are: a world where scoundrels whisper into tote boards from tropical islands, where the honest few toil in silence, and where most players pray to a ratings system they don’t even understand.
And somewhere out there, a private clocker is watching a first-time starter move like poetry… while the rest are chasing the rating like moths to a very artificial flame.
So the next time someone says, "They like this one," remember... it might just be the man in the shack. Silent. Sharp. Staring through binoculars. Writing history one five-furlong breeze at a time, but there might be a different story one not available at first glance on mainstream media. It's there is the fog, in the shadows, but its there.
You don't see it, it's a good chance you are the loser while The Private Clocker. The racetrack’s most mysterious asset—is its most dangerous.
Shorts: Nice score on Sunday in the Pick 5 at Churchill Downs. $96 ticket for $4881 also Saturday at Gulfstream, Amy Kearns cooked up 5 top choice winners and a $2019 P5. Amy continues to shine at Gulf and Indiana.