Goose Girl

The drive to LAX to catch a flight to Munson's would give me just enough time to play the daily double at Hollywood Park.  In the 1960s the best route from my place on Mt. Washington to the "track of lakes and flowers" was to drive west on the Santa Monica Freeway and then south on La Brea.  Decades later a better option was created when they opened the 105 or Century Freeway.  At least it was better until 2013 when they did away with Hollywood Park. 

The "daily double" used to be a wager that applied strictly to the first two races on the card.  You had to place your wager prior to the start of the first race and your single ticket had to include the winners of both races to collect.  Picking lots of horses in both races obviously increased the chances that you'd win but doing so could make the ticket cost more than the payoff.  Although you were less apt to win, the best return came from picking only one horse in each race.  I had spent several hours the night before with the racing form and found a single horse I liked in each race.  I more than liked them, I was dead certain this was easy money and I'd postpone my trip to Munson's if I couldn't fit in both the double and the flight.

I would have to get to the track, park the car and place my bet before the first race went off at 12:30 in the afternoon.  If my horse in the first race won I'd stay and watch the second race which started at 1:05 p.m.  The notion that I could place my bet, leave directly for the airport and collect on another day if both horses came in, never entered my mind.  If I won the second race I wouldn't be able to cash my ticket until at least ten minutes after the race ended (official race results took longer to post in those days).  Next, I'd need time to run to the parking lot and drive to LAX; park my car in the cheapest lot; wait for the shuttle bus to take me to the terminal; check in at the counter once I got to the terminal; and then get to the boarding gate before the plane departed at 2:09 p.m.  True, there would be later flights but I didn't like my chances of getting on as a "standby" on a late Friday afternoon.  I'd called Munson the night before and told him my plans to fit in the Hollywood Park double on the way to LAX.  He planned on picking me up at the San Francisco Airport so I told him If I missed the flight I'd let him know.

My transportation at the time was an all-white 1960 Chevy sedan with a history of cooling system issues.  Carey had christened it "The Steamer".  After boiling over several times the various hoses under the hood had deteriorated to the point where water gradually seeped from them onto the engine and produced a sauna under the hood.  Replacing all of the countless hoses would have cost more than the car was worth so concessions were made.  Heads would turn when you drove by pedestrians unused to a car's engine sounding like a pressure cooker.  Also, you had to observe a thirty-mile range limit at which point you pulled off of the road and refilled the radiator from the jugs of water kept in the trunk.

I left the house with what seemed like plenty of time to spare.  Surprisingly the roads were still wet from a mild shower earlier that morning.  I was barreling along as I came up to the off ramp for La Brea.  The ramp first offers a 90 degree branch to the right for north, then thirty yards further is the branch for south which also descends to the right but makes a 270 degree turn that ends up taking you under the freeway.  I didn't realize I was going too fast until I started down the ramp and jumped on the brake.  The wet pavement and the steamer's bald tires resulted in a four-wheel slide that took the front of the car over the curb and straight into the guard rail.  The front of the steamer suffered only slight damage since most of the forward momentum was stopped by the curb.  I put the car in reverse, got back on the ramp and continued on my way.

Going south on La Brea, somewhat shaken by the crash, it took me a block or two to notice that the front end of the steamer was wobbling badly and pulling to the right.  I limped along slowly and pulled into a gas station to check on what I assumed was a flat tire.   The right front tire was fine and fully inflated and it took me a minute to realize the problem was with the wheel itself.  After the headlong ramming into the curb, the wheel was not only no longer round, but was also twisted like a lemon slice placed on the rim of a glass of iced tea.  I had a spare in the trunk but I didn't think there was enough time to change the tire and get to the track before the first race went off.

Back in the car, I drove carefully south on La Brea, struggling to keep the steamer in a straight line and turning more heads than usual.  I became concerned about the time and reluctantly increased my speed.  I soon discovered that the faster I went the more the wobbling and knocking was diminished.  Once you reached 45 miles per hour it was much easier to stay in one lane.  I pulled into a space in the track's parking lot, left the steamer hissing and foaming, hurried inside to make sure my horses hadn't scratched, and placed my bet.

My horse in the first race won easily and although not the favorite it went off at fairly low odds.  Now I had to wait around for half an hour for the second race.  For maybe the first time ever I took a long look at the infield where a couple of large ponds and lavishly landscaped flower beds had sat since the track opened in 1938.  The track was built on 260 acres in the City of Inglewood.  The name Hollywood Park came from Harry and Jack Warner of Warner Brothers Studios who were the track's founders along with investors made up of film industry celebrities and executives.  One of those executives was Walt Disney who may have thought up the idea for the "Goose Girl" since it was derived from an old German fairy tale.  From the first day the track opened, Hollywood Park's Goose Girl was there dressed in a peasant dress and bonnet and floated on the largest pond in a dinghy minding the geese, swans and ducks.  Not that any of the horse players gave a shit.  When veteran race goers are at the track they look only at four things: (1) the beer in front of them; (2) the racing form between races: (3) the running of each race; and (4), their empty wallet at day's end.  Not one in a thousand of them ever knew the Goose Girl existed.

Horse racing was a money maker in the first half of the twentieth century.  Before civilization was restructured to accommodate the combustion engine, North America relied on the horse for transportation, farming, commerce and entertainment.  As many people that rely today on the auto industry for employment, an even larger part of the population was once needed to breed, raise, sell, train, equip, race, stable, care for and maintain horses. 

Street racing has been popular in every town in America since 1700.  Before radio and TV showed up, Saturdays were the one day in a week when everybody came into town to see and bet on whose horse was fastest.  If they didn't have a track to run on they'd race down the main street.  Until television began covering college and professional games, more people went to see horses race than all other forms of entertainment combined.  When Seabiscuit won the inaugural Gold Cup at Hollywood Park in 1938, the front page headlines were as big as when Pearl Harbor was bombed.  That was then and this is now.  Today the sport that draws the greatest attendance is NASCAR.   

Between races I went back out to check on the steamer.  It was obvious from the size of the pond resting beneath my car that it needed attention.  I used about half of the water stored in the trunk to fill the radiator back up.  The second race was finally run and my horse came in giving me the double.  I was pleased but no where near over the moon.  When you expect to win and you do, it's not a big deal.  If it's intensity you're after, there's nothing that can top what you get when you expect to win and you lose.  Nobody gets hooked on winning; it's the intensity that comes from losing on a sure thing that keeps people coming back for more.

I got in line at the window and waited to cash my ticket.  As soon as they handed me my winnings I sprinted out to the steamer and drove like Gene Hackman in The French Connection down Century Blvd to Sepulveda and then north to the long-term parking lot.  I was cutting it very close at this point and waiting for the shuttle to show up was excruciating.  I gave up on the shuttle and ran the three or four impossibly long blocks to the terminal.  About half way to the terminal the shuttle passed me on its way into the airport.  I never stopped running until I got to the check-in counter inside the terminal where I was told that I'd never make it in time.  It was a long way to the gate and I ran as fast as I could.  When I finally got there the always pleasant flight attendants gave me the nastiest glares they could muster. 

Once I sat down in my seat, sweat began pouring out of me like water from the steamer.  Thirty minutes into the flight my body temperature once again approached normal but I was completely drenched and remained seated in my sweat-soaked clothes until I walked off the plane.

Munson was waiting at the gate and when he saw me he did a double take as did most of the group of people waiting to board the plane.  He had a difficult time containing his laughter, but managed to blurt out for all to hear, "I knew one day you'd swim out to that Goose Girl."