Woolamai racetrack, Bass highway on a lazy
Saturday afternoon may not be Dubai, Ascot or even Flemington but there is
undoubtedly an exciting laid-back appeal to picnic racing in
regional Australia.
The particular race day I attended in
middle January had everything a metropolitan meeting possesses - except for the
TAB and a whole heap of snobbery. Picnic race days have a lot of endearing
qualities beyond metropolitan races’ capabilities. Boozy brawls, streakers
running the straight after the last race and a sixteen year old race-caller who
was as glib and race savvy as any experienced caller in his field. Fast food
and flies, sausages in batter, beer chilled in toddler’s blow-up pools filled
with glacial amounts of ice, and thoroughbreds jumping out of their skins.
Every bachelor and bride-to-be in the district was celebrating their hens and
bucks functions and every slow horse in the state was racing.
A few jockeys were bucked off, kicked and
head-butted. One poor silk earnt herself a ride in an ambulance to the local
hospital. A brave (or very stupid) local rider had three attempts at mounting a
mare that was full of shit and rage. He finally flung his leg over her while
running at the pace of the mare’s canter. She was halfway up the straight on
the way to the barriers by the time he was officially on board. That cranky
equine totally missed the start by at least four or five lengths (I think on
purpose) and she lost the race by more of a margin than her failed start. Once
past the post she gave the silk a buck-off so beautifully executed I’m sure she
planned the whole event early in the morning before her bran mash.
There was a real competitive feel to the
day and as I was pinballing from the mounting yard to the bookies I felt I was
in horsey heaven. And that is what it’s all about- the horses. Well for me
anyway. A flutter is always a bit of fun and watching the parading horses is a
feast for equine eyes. If you ever attend the ‘picnics’ you must back the
11-year-old flea bitten grey gelding for a win in the fourth race. (There is
always a flea bitten grey.) He should have been in the paddock six years ago or
bucking a pony-club kid off his sore back, but instead of an easy retired life
he’s running a 1500 metre race and giving all the older lady punters a chance
to lose money on their sentimental wager.
And yes, in case you’re wondering the old
grey lost. And yes, if you get the opportunity to attend a race day at a
country picnic meeting- get there.
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