The Inside Rail

Preakness morning. Rainy morning.

Looking over the Baltimore Harbor, sirens in the distance, the Domino Sugar rests, just the frame visible, American flags whip to the right, whatever direction that is and a Saturday morning slowly comes to life. There is nothing like the calm of a city on a Saturday morning, like a suit on a hanger, a bit of yesterday and the promise of today.

Last night, checking in, Preakness er Black Eyed Susan revelers spilled through the lobby, talking about their bets, their aching feet, day at the races. As a racing fan, it's fun to see people enjoy this crazy sport we've spent our lives enjoying and abhorring (occasionally). Pimlico welcomes them twice a year. 

Nyquist hits the tollbooth today, I've used that line every year on HRRN, the Preakness is the tollbooth, you've got to pay the toll to hit the highway to the Belmont. He should win, he's the best horse, he's proven that eight times already. But they don't always win when they should win, that's been proven for centuries.

 

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