🎙️ “Track Life According to Me:

So I get asked all the time —“Hey Racin'withbruno, what’re your favorite things at the track? What floats your canoe’? ”

Well lemme tell ya, friend… it’s a mixed bag. Some of its magic. Some of it makes me wanna crawl under the bleachers and cry into my program.

Let’s start with the worst, ‘cause I like to end on a sweet note. And speakin’ of sweet — we’ll get to funnel cake Jesus here in a minute.

But first...

Least favorite thing at the track?Some ol' bitter beer–faced fella on the world wide web, with that sour look like he just bit a lemon and then licked a battery, "Hey lemme tell ya who I like in the 5th at Tin Buck Two Downs..."

And I'm sittin’ there thinkin’,“Why? Why do I gotta look at your face to hear this nonsense?”

I mean, hell — I got a face for radio, and I know better than to impose my mug on someone tryin’ to enjoy their day.Next time I hear one of these crusty sages pop off about what he liked off workouts , I’m bringin’ a foghorn and blowin’ it every time they say the words “single” or “locks.”

It’s like gettin’ thrown in an ice-cold shower right before you hit submit on your pick 5.“Oh, you like the 6-horse? Cool. I'm gonna go bet the 3 just outta calculated spite.”

But now... the good stuff?

#1 Favorite Thing at the Track:The horses. Always the horses.Watchin’ 'em move, interact, compete — it’s just pure. It’s poetry in motion, but louder and sweatier.No egos. No drivel. No bitter beer Bob.Just four-legged athletes sayin’ “Let’s dance.”Morning workouts? Afternoon sprints? I could watch that all day and never get tired. My blood pressure drops 30 points just hearin' a good hoofbeat on dirt.

So yeah, I been out here at the OK Corral, so to speak, lassoing horses for the last 40 years — and clockin’ ‘em for the last 35.

That’s right. Thirty-five years of standin’ there, stopwatch in one hand, pen in the other, prayin’ some green-broke ass 2-year-old doesn’t decide to treat the gap like a launch pad.

You stay in this game long enough, you learn a thing or two —Hell, you learn a morcel or two, and I ain't talkin’ about the kind you find at Cracker Barrel.

I’ve seen every kind of horse, every kinda trainer, every kinda jockey, every kinda weird uncle tryin’ to sell you a tip sheet scribbled on a Waffle House napkin.

I’ve seen workouts so fast they could peel paint off a pickup, and others so slow I thought I was watchin’ a yoga class for sleepy llamas.

But let me tell ya somethin’ —After 40 years in this business, there ain’t much left that surprises me.

Except…EXCEPT… for one thing.

There’s one scene I wish I could unsee. And that’s the interpretive mating ritual that Zio Roberto called a dance at his damn weddin’ reception.

Oh my sweet baby Jesus...

It was part mambo, part seizure, part low-budget Tarantino fight scene —and all I could do was sit there, clutchin’ my non alcoholic beverage, lookin’ around like:“Y’all seein’ this?! Is this real life?!” and I ain't even annehebriated.

I seen green horses break sideways, I seen trainers blow gaskets on live TV, I even seen a fella lose a shoe mid-stretch and still win the race —but I ain’t never seen a human pelvis move in directions the Lord did not intend until that night.

I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat…“No, Zio Roberto, not the hip shimmy again…”

So yeah — I’ve been around.I’ve seen things.I’ve learned things. And I’ve suffered through things that haunt me more than a chalk-eating pick 6 collapse.

But the horses? The mornings? The smell of liniment and leather?That still makes it all worth it.

Even if I gotta carry the psychological scar of Zio Roberto’s wedding dance for the rest of my life and to be honest i wasn't even there, they sent me the video from Sicily, that's in Europe.

#2 Favorite Thing: Let’s take a detour to The Fair Grounds, where I discovered what can only be described as a religious experience served on a paper plate. Yup, I’m talkin’ about the funnel cake. And listen — I got a sweet tooth like a six-year-old at a birthday party, so when that powdered sugar hits my tongue? It’s better than hittin’ a daily double. Hell, I ain't even a daily double guy — I’m just in it for the dough… the fried dough.

Alright, since we’re on this redneck roll of glory, let’s talk about one of the most important inventions in Southern-fairground history — the funnel cake.

Now listen...You can keep your caviar, your sushi boats, your farm-to-table nonsense, your Bonefish and Po-Boys —because where I come from, if your dessert ain’t fried and served on a plate you can fold in half, we don’t want it.

And here’s the thing:The funnel cake didn’t just show up one day at a county fair floatin’ down on angel wings. No sir — it’s got a story. And it’s older than your meemaw’s iron skillet.

Turns out, funnel cake’s origins trace way back to the Pennsylvania Dutch — who, spoiler alert, ain’t Dutch at all. They’re German. Which makes sense, because only Germans would have the precision and nerve to dump batter into scaldin’ hot oil and call it breakfast.

Now think about that: Some German settlers pull up to Pennsylvania, tryin’ to survive the wild frontier with nothin’ but religion and root vegetables — and one day one of ‘em’s like,“Ya know what would make life better? Fried batter shaped like an anxiety spiral.”

And boom — funnel cake.

They called it “Drechderkuche”, which sounds like a sneeze, but translates roughly to:“You’ll hate yourself after eatin’ this, but not enough to stop.”

Fast forward a couple hundred years, and funnel cake makes its way down South, where we immediately took that German masterpiece and said:“Let’s deep fry it harder, cover it in 14 pounds of powdered sugar, and serve it next to a ride that spins you till you hurl.”

It ain’t just food — it’s a cultural rite of passage.You eat it with your fingers, burn your tongue, ruin your shirt, and feel that holy ache of too much joy and way too much grease.

And the best part? It’s a unifier. Doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, drunk, sober, Democrat, Republican, or just lost and waitin’ for your cousin to get off the Tilt-a-Whirl —Everybody loves a funnel cake.

So the next time you’re at the track, or the fair, or standin’ near a concession stand shaped like a giant chicken, do yourself a favor:

Buy the funnel cake. Respect the tradition.And for God’s sake, don’t wear black — 'cause that powdered sugar hits harder than karma in a country song.

#3 Favorite Thing: Now here’s where it gets sci-fi on ya:I love lookin’ at a horse’s past to see their future.Yeah, I’m talkin’ time travel, baby.I’m out here like Marty McFly with a stopwatch, studyin’ tapes, readin’ old notes, piecin’ together patterns like a racetrack detective.

No DeLorean needed — just a bunch of scribbles, a sharp eye, and way too much coffee.

And just like Doc Brown said:“Back to the Future.”Except in my case, the sports almanac is my own data files — and Biff? Oh, he’s out there alright.

There’s always a damn Biff.Some clown pilferin' my notes, copyin' our 4-star works and repackagin’ 'em as B+ like it’s a school project and they forgot who they’re cheatin’ off of.I swear if I ever catch one of these data thieves, I got a fresh pile of metaphorical manure with their name on it.

#4 Favorite Thing: Mutin’ talkin’ heads, and we ain't talking about them green Teenage Mutin ninja turtles, them real talking heads, have you ever heard so much empty noise in your life? These folks talk more than a meth squirrel named Todd in a Red Bull factory.

Now, don’t get me wrong — there’s a few good ones. (We’ll talk about ‘em later.)But for the most part? It’s all ego and filler.

My mute button’s been hit so many times, the word’s worn clean off. Now it just says “UTE.”Which makes me feel like Cousin Vinny tryna explain what a youth is.

#5 Favorite Thing: Ahhh yes — Gulfstream.

Look, they’ve had their ups and downs (and Tapeta mood swings), but I got a soft spot for that place.Maybe it’s the sun.Maybe it’s the madness.Maybe it’s the fact that Gulfstream’s still run by what I call Chuckie E Cheese management, makin shit up as they go along, but my soft spot ain't for that.

They actually do one thing real damn well — and that’s the TV coverage.

I’m serious! Every time I flip it on, I’m expectin’ confusion and chaos, but instead I get this solid, smooth, professional broadcast, and right in the middle of it is Samantha Perry — Oklahoma gal, got that real rider’s edge, knows horses like she raised ‘em in her backyard and named ‘em after country songs.

She’s not just up there tossin’ out buzzwords like “form cycle” or “trip note” like she read it on a cereal box this mornin’. Nah — she knows horses from the damn hooves up. That ain't somethin' you can fake.

And more importantly? She ain’t out there tryin’ to be the show. You notice that? In this world where everybody’s screamin’ “Look at me!” like it’s a TikTok tryout, she’s just calmly, clearly doin’ her job — and lettin’ her work speak for itself.

She don’t need flash, she’s got facts. She don’t need a spotlight, she’s got substance. While everybody else is tryin’ to be the star, she’s focusin’ on the horse — you know, the actual athlete in the whole equation.

It’s damn refreshing, I’ll tell you that. In an industry where some paddock analysts act like they’re auditioning for The Bachelor and talk more about shoe color than shoe angles, Samantha shows up like,"Here’s what you need to know, here’s what I see, and by the way, this ain’t about me — it’s about the damn horse."

That’s called being a professional, y’all. That’s someone you trust. That’s the kinda person who could spot a good one in the paddock and rebuild your carburetor if it came down to it.

So yeah — Gulfstream? Still a beautiful train wreck on the management side.But when it comes to TV? And Samantha Perry?

They’re doin’ it right.

So there you have it, folks.Track life ain’t all chalk and champagne.But between the funnel cakes, horses, time travel, and tellin’ bitter beer Bob to take a hike, I’ll keep showin’ up.

So yeah, bring your data, your ute button, and maybe a towel — not 'cause it's rainin', but because one day…

One day… that funnel cake’s comin’ for ya.

And lemme tell ya somethin’ — when it does?It’s not gonna be subtle.It’s gonna be hot, crispy, covered in powdered sugar and handed to you by a teenager named Cody who just failed geometry but can deep fry joy like a Michelin chef.

And when that first bite hits? OHHH buddy, you’ll feel it in your soul.It’ll be like that one time you won a pick five by accident — pure euphoria and mild gastrointestinal panic.

But right after that? Boom — sugar rush.

I’m talkin’ full-body vibration.You’ll feel so jacked up on joy and corn oil that you’ll think,“You know what? I could outrun Spectacular Bid, blow by Secretariat’s ghost and ask him if he wants a rematch.”

You’ll be out there hoofin’ it down the apron, shirt half untucked, white sugar in your eyebrows, yellin’ “Whodat damn Beyer figure now!”

And maybe 30 minutes later, you’ll crash into a lawn chair and swear you saw God…

But for that one glorious moment?You were untouchable.Fueled by nostalgia, fried batter, and the kind of confidence only powdered sugar can provide.

So yeah — bring your data.Bring your ute button.And don’t forget that towel.

Because that funnel cake ain’t just a snack — it’s a damn religious experience.

Amen, pass the napkins and a 'pillor'