Thinking Allowed: Off to the races

On arrival in the UK we spent a few days in Windsor before entering city life. Windsor was everything I would have imagined if I had ever really thought much about Windsor. Right across the river from Eton college with the royal family’s palace dominating the centre of town you can imagine that Windsor is a well tended to spot. Tidy and quaint and cute with most buildings created in an era where there seemed to be an excess of bricks (late 1800’s). Our old brick abode felt like full on luxury with a small garden, dedicated dining room and attic loft awash with sunlight. Windsor is a very walkable place with plenty of green spaces from river walks to the long straight walk through the palace estate.

Not far from Windsor is another place I never really thought much about even if I’d hear the name - Ascot. Turns out horse racing is a big thing in England and a very big thing in Windsor where the Royal Ascot, one of the biggest horse racing events in the country, takes place. When I found out there would be a horse race on the weekend we were in Windsor I immediately decided that going to a horse race was something that would welcome me to England in the way one wants to be welcomed. Also, Id never been to a horse race so was curious to see what it was all about. Except the thing about horse racing at Ascot is that it is very much a society event and as a society event there are strict dress code rules. During the Royal ascot event the dress code is strict and involves mandatory millinery or fascinators. At the less important events they are more relaxed for those in the cheapest area. Still even the more relaxed events have a strict ban against all sports wear and sneakers and a request to ‘dress smart.’ Not knowing what smart implied I did my own research and quickly found out that summer dresses or skirt suits in muted colours are smart. What is not smart is my entire wardrobe. The girls and I decided to go on a tour of the Windsor op shops in the hopes of some cheap items to get us in the door. After the first shop Tova started to become despondent - ‘This isn’t worth it at all’ came out of her mouth over and over again. After trying on a few dresses that looked alright but felt awful I finally bought some burgundy velvet pants on a whim. Surely velvet is smart? As I left the shop and looked at my meagre effort at presentable I felt a bit down trodden by my utter inability to enter upper crust British society. Red velvet pants are definitely not a ‘smart’ item. But hey they at least aren’t quick dry or jeans. It was surprisingly difficult to find any cheap shoes that didn’t involve heels. The final outcome was respectable looking but too small. But hey I thought I am used to wearing climbing shoes so this should be not that different. If you are reading this and you are feeling a sense of dread for me then I don’t blame you. Id read that a stylist stands at the entrance to asses each spectators acceptability. A small curious part of me was hoping the stylist might stop me just so I could hear what advice exactly she might provide to me. Though, I also feared she would just look me up and down with that expression of disbelief and pity and futility. When I tried to buy non sneakers and pants for Tova she repeated her mantra and than took an actual stand in declaring that she was not coming to the horse races because it just wasn’t worth having to buy shoes.

It was frivolous but it was worth it. Sophia and I went to the races and it was a cultural experience. The venue was so much more posh and extensive than I ever imagined. The grass was such a brilliant green and the building so shiny and swarming with staff. Women wore the most useless head contraptions you could ever imagine. Men lounged in chairs pouring over newspapers. Horses were paraded around for spectators to inspect. There was such stratification of class. Guards guarded escalators and roads and enclosures where only the chosen could enter. The royal family has their own large private box that sits empty when they are not there. According to one of the staff I interrogated the royal family were regulars while Queen Elizabeth was alive but attendance has since dwindled. This was the kind of England from novels. There were seven races that day and Sophia and I prepared for the first with glee. It quickly became apparent that much of horse racing is about rubbing shoulders with the right people, drinking, and betting. I got a staff member to divulge every detail she knew about betting and then I placed two bets. One for horse to win and one for a horse to place in top three. Each bet was for an astounding two pound (the minimum). I held my small slips of paper eagerly feeling very posh in my tight shoes. And then the first race happened and Sophia and I looked at each other in surprise because it lasted about two minutes. Bit anticlimactic but then again my horse won and I made a whopping three pound sixty - nearly doubling my initial generous investment. Bolstered by the win I placed another bet of two pound. Sophia and I milled around and rubbed shoulders and inspected horses in the sunshine. We noticed that as the races progressed and blood alcohol levels rose the crowd became a little genteel. Sophia was also intrigued but the large amounts people bet and the fact that they watched other horse races at the same time as attending the one we were at. It was a fascinating outing. I lost 2 pound sixty and have some shoes I don't know what to do with but it was well worth it for the experience.