U.S. race tracks, though, can be admittedly gritty affairs. There, one witnesses humanity at its least rational, rashly betting exactas, trifectas, perfectas, convinced of success in the face of nearly unwinnable odds. The floor and the stands end up littered with crumpled losses which thwarted bettors seem ashamed to even consign to a trash can.
When we go to the races, on the other hand, we like to think that we're making savvy analytical decisions. We carefully weigh past performance, speed, and lineage; odds that are okay but not outlandishly favorable; jockey reputation; the sprightly look of a horse as it's paraded around the paddock; and sometimes, yes sometimes, just the animal's name. "My Boy Bill" or "Runaround Sue"? Both are sure things.
We do pretty well, considering. We stand at the railing, cheering our chosen animal on and grinning at the youngster standing next to us who's cheering for the same beast. We've been known to bet right along with a kid whom we happen to know is at his first race, because he's sure to have beginner's luck that will rub off on us. That works ... sometimes.
My favorite part: marching up to the counter to collect winnings, and being sure to return to the same cashier if it happens more than once. But cashiers rarely spare you a smile. They know the odds pretty well.
Sunday at the races in Prague isn't on every traveler's bucket list. In fact, many locals aren't even aware that it's a possible Thing To Do.
You take the train from the big city to a depot that's seen much better days and might very well be there only because of the Velka Chuchle race track. Velka Chuchle was founded in 1909, was submerged during the great Prague floods of 2013, and now flourishes every summer Sunday. During the winter, it's converted for snow sports. The Velka Chuchle station sign is clearly visible from the tracks where you arrive, but is faded almost to illegibility on the soot-covered depot facade. It seems you need to know only that you've gotten there. Apparently no one other than visitors to Velka Cuchle race track depart through the front of the no-frills station, which has only stairs to each side of the track--no ticket window, no restrooms, no benches. Most visitors seem to drive to the track anyway.
A short walk from the station, and you're immersed in the topsy-turvy world of Czech horse racing.
This Sunday was Children's Day, which only added to the festive diversity of the place. There were at least four different bounce houses, feeding of goats (they prefer grass), camel rides, and jumpy stuffed steeds on wheels, on which kids raced each other along the sidewalk. A six-foot-tall bear mascot padded about handing out goodie bags.
Aside from kids and dogs underfoot, the crowd was a zany Czech mix of stylish young clothes horses betting side by side with responsible parents and grizzled workmen in overalls. Half of them would have been at home at the seediest of U.S. greyhound tracks, while the other half appeared to be training to be seen at Ascot.
To accommodate them, three enterprising sales teams had set up little shopping stalls that were briskly selling out of flowery Derby hats, bottles of champagne, and, unaccountably, scented candles.
"Oh, he's the expert," one deferred. It shortly became clear that neither one of them knew much more than we did. "Er, that's the horse's name," the expert pointed out helpfully. "And those might be the odds."
When asked why they dressed so nattily for the races, they pointed out they were doing their part to elevate world perceptions of Czech racing to parallel Churchill Downs or Ascot, then listened intently as we explained the fine points of the Triple Crown.
A pleasant young woman at the Information counter was equally helpful. "Well, that's the horse's name," she began, then lapsed into bemused confusion. We were clearly on our own here.
At first we couldn't even see where or when the horses left the gate, it was so far away, toward the base of a range of distant mountains. But a large projection screen helped convey what was going on, as did loudspeakers that blared a running soundtrack of stirring music not that different from a hockey game's, interspersed with tense anticipatory ticking as the horses were stuffed into the gate.
That any of the races got off successfully was miraculous. Our first pick lived up to his name, which meant Thunderstorm, by trying to buck his rider off, and continued erupting in kicks and bucks right up until he was forcibly hauled into the gate. The track clearly didn't care to invest in friendly helper horses to calm these high-strung Bohemian thoroughbreds. They might have benefited from having the petting-zoo goats as friends, we figured.
But perhaps it's all part of the excitement that Czech races combine bucking broncos, horse-pulls, many female jockeys, and elaborate ride-arounds before they're finally off.
Even Black Bard, chosen for name alone, didn't pay off. If his name had only been "Bart" instead, he might have.
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