Oklahoma

Ah, yes… the Oklahoma training track at Saratoga. Quite the bustling opera of humanity, isn’t it? A place where the pulse of thoroughbred racing meets the peculiar choreography of the human condition. It’s Grand Central Station on espresso… or perhaps more appropriately, a Hitchcockian horror flick where the Cicadas—God bless them—have traded the trees of upstate New York for the rails of Saratoga, armed not with wings, but iPhones, DSLRs, and an almost religious devotion to angles and exposure settings.

There's a certain poetry to it, really. The way these characters—yes, characters, because “people” is far too plain—arrange themselves with the precision of a Renaissance tableau. You have the would-be Mona Lisas, gazing longingly into the camera lens as if Da Vinci himself were behind it. Horses turning for home, wind kicking up dust, and there she is… that woman in leopard-print yoga pants staring into the livestream like she’s filming her Oscar moment. Glorious.

And the layers—oh, the layers. Heads, torsos, elbows, that child on the rail knuckle-deep in his nostril mining for gold… all part of the Oklahoma mosaic. It’s not a backdrop, no, it’s the show. For those at home tuning in to watch the athleticism of the sport—well, buckle up. You’re not watching workouts, my friend. You’re watching an episode of Law & Order: Equine Intent.

Then there are the clockers. Dear, sweet clandestine clockers. Crouched beside the Clocker Shack like they're waiting for the engine to idle and the door to swing open—"Let’s go, boys!"—as if they’re not timing a horse but planning a heist. And swarm they do. When a good set is about to break off, it’s as if someone whispered free money and the entire population of Saratoga made a beeline to the rail. The photogs, the railbirds, the Instagram influencers with one hand on the lens and the other on their oat milk latte—all of them know exactly where that camera is.

And let’s not forget the unintentional cameos. A husband—just another well-dressed bystander with his arm draped casually around a woman… who is not his wife. And the wife? Watching from home, maybe in Westchester, maybe in Boca, clutching her tablet with one hand and dialing her divorce attorney with the other. Ah, the paddock at Del Mar had its own version—a restauranteur, infamous for a rotating cast of high-heeled hopefulness. And one day, just one camera pan too many, and poof—alimony in high definition.

You see, the Oklahoma is not just a training track. No, no. It’s a destination. A runway for handicappers, hopefuls, hustlers, and, of course, clockers. That anything gets timed accurately in that circus is a miracle akin to Lazarus rising. And don’t get me started on sight lines. The number of times someone's forehead has blocked the quarter pole to the furlong pole is enough to merit its own chart note: “Troubled by rogue scalp, lost ground.”

And what of the Whitney Stand? A grand, historic relic, guarded by NYRA security like it’s holding the Ark of the Covenant. Come 8:30 AM, you’re shooed off like pigeons from a cathedral ledge. Why? Because, apparently, even architecture needs its beauty sleep.

So, yes… the Oklahoma. It's not just where horses prep for greatness. It's where anonymity goes to die. Where even the most well-meaning spectator might end up the star of someone else’s story—and maybe their courtroom proceedings.

Ah, life. It always finds a way… especially at Saratoga.

Ah, yes… the Whitney Stand. That proud, weathered perch—part rickety nostalgia, part temple to timing and tales. Mike and I? We owned that grand old dame during the meet. Like two gargoyles at opposite corners of a cathedral, we watched, timed, talked, and absorbed every hoofbeat and whispered story the morning mist could carry. The Whitney wasn't just a vantage point—it was a throne. And as kings of our crumbling castle, we held court with the most curious cast of characters Saratoga had to offer.

There was Rondre the Giant—a man of mythic proportions, perhaps a cousin once removed from André himself, though DNA tests would likely yield only beer, hay dust, and stubbornness. And Raider Mike, ah, yes. Eyes like polished dice in a craps den, and a disposition that swung somewhere between venom and vigilante justice, especially after a three-day bender. He once tried to transform the Whitney Stand into his personal tribunal, complete with accusations, finger-pointing, and enough profanity to fog the binoculars.

But that’s the Oklahoma for you. The Oklahoma, mind you. It’s not just a track—it’s a state of mind. And how, you ask, did it earn such a name? Simplicity itself. A horseman of yesteryear, the kind with a straw hat, gravel in his throat, and the sweat of six summers on his brow, was asked where his barn was. He waved off into the horizon and muttered, “Out there… like in Oklahoma.” And just like that, the name stuck like summer dust to a sweaty forearm. Because calling it “the training track” just doesn’t cut it. It’s too… sterile. No poetry in it. No grit.

The Oklahoma has character—tight, claustrophobic turns that give riders nightmares and railbirds nosebleeds. Inside it, a seven-furlong turf course with just enough extra yardage to confuse the best of them. It’s chaos with history. And when the main track is closed, the Oklahoma roars to life, a living, breathing midway of motion and noise. You’ll see them, the thoroughbreds, making their sacred crossing of Union Avenue, like pilgrims seeking speed, enlightenment… or just a firm surface, but how they love the rail, even the outrider is taking a video of Sovereignty. Everybody now.

Video of Sovereignty work May 24

The main track? A different beast entirely. Nine furlongs of grandeur, with turns so wide and sweeping they feel like orchestral crescendos. And inside—yes, inside—it’s a botanical maze: trees large enough to shade secrets, hawks with names and reputations, and fountains—oh, the fountains! Clocking on the main requires a PhD in landmarks. That shack at the far turn? It’s not just a building, it’s your compass. The 4½ pole fountain? More reliable than a Rolex. You don’t clock from the gate—you wait. The 5.5 pole is your signal: a little black and white marker, half the size of Mickey Rooney, yet more commanding than a general.

Every corner of Saratoga is filled with obstructions. Waiting for dinner? Obstruction. Waiting to cross Union? Obstruction. Trying to grab a picnic table in the backyard at 6 a.m.? Welcome to the Thunderdome. And yet, people come, year after year, lining up before dawn like it’s a Springsteen concert.

And then—my favorite—the frantic phone calls. “They’re digging up the inside!” they cry, these wide-eyed citizens of confusion. Like they’ve stumbled upon Atlantis. Every meet, five, ten, sometimes fifteen calls. Same tone. Same urgency. As if they alone have uncovered the Rosetta Stone of Saratoga. “They’re digging! Right there! The rail!” And every time, I say the same thing: Yes, my friend. They do it every day. But do they listen? No. They never do. Because they’ve never seen it… and thus, it must be new.

Saratoga never changes. And that’s precisely why it never gets old. Everybody has a story, everybody has a tip, everybody, even the Cicadas on the Oklahoma.