The divide between the classes is as dramatic as ever in society and that is reflected at the Kentucky Derby
I grew up on the backstretch of Churchill Downs, learning to imbibe, thrive and survive. From 1971 through 1979 I attended every wild Kentucky Derby ride I could and regret nothing for the bodily fluids I voluntarily and involuntarily left there.
Today that wild ride is tamed and it’s a shame.
If you take the stoic’s view, then this too shall pass. But, the observer in me can’t help but notice the comic elements of the passing.
The Derby’s reputation as an out-of-control party that made Woodstock seem like a church fish fry rose at the height of the counterculture of the 1960s and culminated in 1970 with an article in Scanlan’s Monthly written by Hunter S. Thompson, “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved.” The article was cheered as one of the first examples of “Gonzo” Journalism. Thompson could not have picked a better subject for his acid and bourbon-soaked narrative.
The infield of the Derby – the general admission area inside the racetrack where you couldn’t catch a glimpse of a horse – was a hippy fest of Biblical proportions during my youth. When Charlton Heston marched down from the mountain with the 10 Commandments in hand, rumor was the orgy scene in the movie was taken from memories of the Derby infield – though they had to dial it back for the movies.
In 1971 infield tickets were $3. LSD and marijuana, among other potent potables and edibles, were available at several locations inside the track from freelancers who sold their illegal wares to help everyone enjoy the day. While you couldn’t bring in your own liquor, patrons devised several ingenious methods to smuggle in alcohol past the requisite security searches prior to entrance. False bottoms in coolers were popular, as was inserting a clear bag of alcohol into a two-liter soda bottle, hidden by your favorite soda. Those worked occasionally, but my favorite method was smuggling my favorite bourbon in a large bottle of contact solution. That method always worked.
The Derby is still a fun afternoon, but it now costs what a family of two will spend for a week’s worth of groceries just to purchase the cheapest ticket.
In the infield on the back stretch of Churchill Downs, you’d occasionally see large groups of teens and young adults holding tarps and tossing people, many of them naked, into the air to the sounds of rock n’ roll, Motown, and the squeals of laughter and enjoyment that come with an early-morning buzz and a deep love of public nudity. Some of the most memorable occasions came during rainstorms – but cool, clear days brought their fun as well.
The infield smelled like bourbon, mint, horse manure (when the breeze was right), sweat, weed and the midway at your local county fair. Watered-down mint juleps were sold at concession stands and by vendors who walked through the crowd of half-naked people, some vomiting, some singing, some copulating and all of them partying.
