Two Weeks

Ah, yes… the Breeders' Cup. Two weeks out and already the usual suspects are circling, murmuring their predictable discontent over—of all things—the venue. Del Mar, of course. Picturesque. Immaculate. Temperate. But evidently, not to everyone's taste.

You see, if I may be so bold, there’s something inherently tragic about the age we live in—where reaction travels faster than reflection, where a well-crafted sentence is devoured by the immediacy of a poorly constructed tweet. And here we are again, dissecting geography like it’s a matter of life and death, when in fact, it’s simply about horses. Magnificent, thoroughbred athletes, yes. But horses nonetheless.

Now, to the point. Keeneland and Del Mar are preferred venues to many—and I must say, I concur. There’s an elegance to them. Keeneland, with its timeless Bluegrass charm; Del Mar, a symphony of sun, sea, and speed. But the chorus of dissent? Predictably, it hails from the East.

Why? Well, let's strip it down, shall we?

This isn’t about logistics. It’s not about fairness or tradition. It’s not even about the so-called sanctity of the sport. No, this is about tribalism. The same primal urge that compels a Wall Street broker to scream at a flat-screen on Sunday. Fandom, cloaked in analysis. It’s about wanting the home team to win—only this isn’t the Giants or the Jets—it’s Belmont, Saratoga, Aqueduct. It’s identity.

They’ll cloak it in reason—crying out for variety in location, diversity in representation. They forget Monmouth. Yes, Monmouth… 2007. An unrelenting deluge. Slop and slush. Horses swimming, not sprinting. A cautionary tale, they say—but perhaps convenient amnesia.

Because deep down, what truly irks them is the statistics. The cold, hard truth. East Coast horses, historically, haven’t had the run of the place. The score board, tells no lies. Undervalued, underestimated, underwhelming. Sure, there are exceptions— Sierra Leone, Fierceness—flashes of brilliance in an otherwise Mid-Western-Southern California dominated tableau.

And yet, here we are. Complaining about sunshine in October. About pristine turf and a dry main track. About, dare I say it… consistency.

The truth? Del Mar and Keeneland are chosen not out of favoritism, but necessity. Weather, conditions, infrastructure—these things matter when millions of dollars and careers are on the line. So yes, Belmont in 2027. Let them have it. The grand reopening. Gilded stalls and velvet ropes. Just make sure, as you say, to bring a Brinks truck—because nostalgia isn’t cheap.

In the meantime, we saddle up at Del Mar. We watch. We wager. We wonder. Will the East rise? Will the West dominate? That’s the beauty of it.

Ah… Del Mar.Quaint, yes. Quirky, certainly. Predictable? Only if you’ve paid your dues.

You know, there’s a certain poetry to that place. The surf just over the bluff. The salt in the air mingling with the scent of liniment and leather. The kind of place where time doesn’t so much stop as it saunters. But make no mistake—beneath that laid-back facade, Del Mar is a puzzle box. A siren with a sandy track and a sly grin, waiting to punish the unprepared and reward only the astute.

I remember 2017 vividly. The first Breeders’ Cup at Del Mar—a milestone that many approached like tourists snapping photos at the Vatican, oblivious to the sacred geometry etched into the soil beneath their feet. They saw sunshine and palm trees. We saw patterns. The kind of patterns you only discern after years of watching horses disappear into the stretch with nothing left… or swing wide and inhale the field like the tide pulling back the sea.

Yes, that first week—Wednesday, Thursday—speed was king. The rail was glistening. Fast, firm, unforgiving. And like moths to flame, every self-proclaimed expert declared the verdict: speed is gold, the inside is golden, goodnight and God bless.

Then came Friday.

Now, you know me—I’ve never had much use for conventional wisdom. I prefer intuition tempered by experience. The whispers of memory over the shouts of headlines. And what I remembered was the shift. When the breeze picks up just so. When the night air clings to the surface. Moisture. Not in buckets, but in dew. Subtle, sneaky, a thin veil of wetness that laces the cushion and shifts the dynamic entirely.

So yes, we bet the rally wide. We bet the closers. We bet the ones parked outside of traffic who could make one run—and survive it. They called me mad, some mocked. So be it, if it makes them feel worthwhile at least for the time being until the truth stares them in the face, and are forced to make excuses. They said it was hocus pocus, voodoo handicapping . Until the board lit up. Longshots, rallying five wide. Wide was gold. The rail? Deathtrap and silence.

Crickets.

Fast forward to 2021. Same melody, second verse. And again, like clockwork, halfway through Saturday, a broadcaster—bless her tardy little heart—muttered something about how the track might be favoring the outside. Oh, might it?

Meanwhile, we were a few winners in and drinking espresso.

Now, to this year. The 2025 edition. Let me tell you something, and please—listen closely. This summer’s Del Mar meet? Fair. Even. Honest. But those final three weeks? Speed dialed to eleven. Work tabs blazed. Half the barn working in 59 and change, bullets falling from the sky like confetti. You’d think it was Santa Anita on a Friday morning.

Time, time, time, was not on your side, it was a like bottled water and everybody wanted one.

But now… now the weather has shifted. The nights are damp. The air is thick with latent moisture. Saturday, October 25th—temperatures barely move. Dew points hover. Humidity sits like a ghost over the track.

I know, I live here.

And here's the secret: that moisture—the kind that doesn’t show up in the form of rain, but in the cling of a sleeve when you walk the barn at dawn—is the great equalizer. It breaks up the speed bias like a mirror dropped on concrete. Suddenly, the front runners don’t open up daylight. Suddenly, the wide paths become launchpads.

So, while the brethren dive into their summer charts like archaeologists rummaging through the wrong tomb, we’ll be right here—listening to the wind, watching the cloud cover, noting which path is the place to be, and then try to visualize a race unfolding.

That is why the handicapping brethren from back east is lost, trying to get a grip on the reality that Del Mar Fall is not in their data banks. It is far from the summer, far from the Saratoga form and its Oklahoma training track, or even Belmont at Aqueduct.

We won’t be chasing Workout Fairies. We won’t be seduced by Speed Figure Elves or Mister Tipster’s late-night hot takes. No. We’ll be tuned to Del Mar. The real Del Mar. The fall Del Mar.

Because that’s where the truth lies—not in the numbers, but in the nuance.… its where the surf meets the turf and there is nothing like it anywhere else.