A track in Nebraska sold Polish dogs to spectators on race days. Weekends it was all you could smell — the strong dogs with onions and sauerkraut. The meat was kept in unlocked coolers in the grandstand, and one night a bunch of racetrackers ransacked them. When the weekend came, there was no Polish dogs to sell because the racetrackers stole every one. They’d soaked them in beer and put them on the grill and had a big party.

At Park Jackson, there were four jockeys who lived together in a trailer. They got a deer out of season once and butchered it in their bathtub. They made venison jerky and shared it.

For a few months I was renting a room at the El Rancho Motel for $211 a week, and on Thanksgiving the creep I lived with cooked a turkey in an electric roaster in the bathroom. He propped the roaster on the sink next to the high-voltage outlet. It was the moistest turkey I’ve ever eaten.

ENOUGH

The backside is a little city. You flash your track license at the guard shack to get in. There’s an ambulance on the grounds during training hours because people are always getting hurt. Feed dealers sell sawdust, straw, oats, beet pulp, bran, good hay. Tack wagons stock bandages, saddles, medication, leg paints, sweats, freezes, Bowie Clay, sheet cotton, vet wrap. You live at the track, your life is full. You don’t have time to go shopping at the mall. You lose touch with the outside. Things change. You don’t hear about world news unless something major happens, because you’re in your own world and you have enough news.

CALL YOUR OWNERS, CALL HOME

No cell phones then — had to use pay phones. Had to have bags of change handy always. I’d plug it in and dial and wait. Call your owners, call home, it was hard — after your horse ran you’d call your owner if your owner hadn’t shown up for the race.

Stupid pay booth, phone booth. We’d be at a restaurant and all the other trainers would be trying to call their owners, too. Finally it’s your turn and it feels like you’re dialing and talking forever. You want to get to bed because you’ve got to get up at four to feed. Here it is 8:30 and you can’t get through — nobody’s answering, there’s a busy signal — and you still have to water off and get something to eat and do laundry.

When I went full-time at the track, I always had that on my shoulders — you’re not there to help your sister, you’re not there for your folks, you’re not there for holidays, birthdays, weddings, doctor’s appointments, funerals. I paid Keith Baxter to take care of Rowdy for me. I saw him once a year, at Christmas.

HAMBURGERS