Racing’s heart has a comforting beat

At 6:30 in the morning, the folks filling the plastic chairs and holding up the fence at Santa Anita’s Clockers’ Corner have pretty much been here all their lives.

Trainers and jockeys, jockey agents and horse transport reps sip coffee or pile bacon on toast from the small cafe, peer through bifocals at the Racing Form or stand along the fence talking quietly. They are mostly men, though there are some women, and their faces under the brims of cowboy hats and baseball caps have been seasoned by sun and wind and the perpetual squint of watching the horses.

This is why they are here, every day, sometimes all day, why many of them have been here for 10, 20, 40 years. “I left for 10 years,” says trainer Barry Abrams, “came back and the same guys were still here. This one,” he motions to a young man on his left, “he was born at the track. That one,” he points at Gary Stute, the next guy over, “he was born and conceived at the track.”

The half-dozen guys seated around Abrams laugh, a sudden sound in the silver-quiet morning. Gary Stute is the son of Mel Stute, a trainer who has worked horses at Santa Anita for 60 years. Mel Stute is nominated this year for a place in the Horse Racing Hall of Fame. When he wanders over to Abrams’ group, trainer Paul Assinesi rises. “I was sitting in Mel’s seat,” he explains. When congratulated on his honor, Mel peers over his glasses and snorts. “Been nominated four times,” he says. “Haven’t gotten it yet.”

He is 81 years old and doesn’t have time to chat; he’s got a horse to watch. He heads up into the grandstand with his stopwatch and a notebook. Most people know each other here and they acknowledge this with brief early morning “heys” and close-to-the-hip handshakes.

Two men walk by in matching red caps -- one says #1 Grandpa; the other, #1 Dad. Most people are in jeans and windbreakers, although some have the emblazoned football jackets often seen in Hollywood. But instead of Hard Rock Cafe or “Chicago,” their backs read Tattersall’s: Europe’s Leading Bloodstock Auctioneers and Bob Hubbard, Horse Transportation.

The morning clouds that cover the hills north of Arcadia slowly draw themselves up like theater curtains, and when the sun breaks through, Santa Anita turns Technicolor, pretty as a child’s birthday party. Horses move by, gleaming and sleek, some fast, some slow, blowing hard, necks arched or stretched flat. The chocolate dirt of the main track flies up behind them and the sound of their hoofs pounding, pounding, pounding summons every dream of adventure you ever had.

The hills are green and the horses are brown and black and dappled gray, their leg-wraps and saddle cloths every color of the rainbow. Above them, clusters of royal palms lean their heads together, like women oohhing and aahhing at Ascot.

For a visitor, it is like a fairyland. For the trainers and the agents, for the professional clockers perched high in the grandstands, eyes on the stopwatch, it’s another day at the office.

A jockey agent leans over Abrams, making notes in the condition book, which details upcoming races. He has a jockey who wants to ride one of Abrams’ horses in a race; Abrams isn’t quite ready to commit. The agent nods agreeably, a cigarette down to its last two drags tucked in the corner of his mouth like it’s always been there. He slaps Abrams on the shoulder and moves away.

The two-way radio on the table rings and Abrams tells the exercise rider on Lady Is a Fox to let her stand in the starter gate for a bit and then just gallop her. “She’s never run before,” he says, “so she has to get used to the gate.”

Assinesi talks into a cell phone, feet up, the Racing Form balanced against his knees. The only sound more regular here than flying hoofs is the bleat of the phone and the echoing whistle of the birds who nest in the rafters over the grandstand.

Abrams trains 30 horses; Assinesi, eight. They’ve both been here since 5:30, checking on their horses, taking their temperatures, watching them walk, looking for limps. The stalls are not open to the public, though on weekends the track offers tram rides through them. Clockers’ Corner was invented because the stalls at Santa Anita are to the left of the track rather than behind it, as is more usual.

Visitors can stand at the end of the fence and look into another world. Roses bloom in the dooryards of some of the stables and baskets of geraniums hang down from the windows. Hot-walkers lead blanketed horses around to cool them down. Exercise riders give the horse’s name and exercise regimen to a woman in a wooden kiosk.

“Wolfman,” one says. “Three furlongs.”

Some scenes for the upcoming movie “Seabiscuit” were shot here and it’s easy to see why. There is a timelessness about the stables and the horses and riders. There are more women here now, more Spanish spoken and, of course, there are the cell phones, but like the folks who work here, the track stays essentially the same as it was when it opened in 1934.

“How many people can honestly say they like going to work every day?” Assinesi asks, surveying the scene. “I can. Every day.”

He plans to knock off around 11 or 12, before the races begin, and pick his boys up at school. Abrams will probably be here all day. The job has changed since he got into it more than 30 years ago, working as a stable boy and then a groom. It requires more overhead -- trainers pay for supplies and exercise staff up front and make only 10% of a horse’s winnings.

“It’s not like the people think,” says Abrams. “That everyone is making a lot of money.” There are about 400 trainers in Southern California, he says, and maybe 30 are making money. “The rest are just surviving or living in their cars.”

But like Assinesi, he wouldn’t trade his job for another.

“All it takes is one good horse,” Abrams says. He is a big, matter-of-fact man and he does not say this dreamily or wistfully, but there is in his face the mild reflection of a vision. “One big horse.” He laughs and it is gone. “Trouble is,” he says, “they’re all born with four feet and you can’t tell which one it’s going to be.”

By 10 a.m., Clockers’ Corner is full. The crowd is more diverse now, full of fans, many of them retirees who have breakfast here, watch the horses, maybe make an early-bird bet or two. An average of 14,000 people will sit in the stands every day. On weekends, before the races start at 12:30, the place is full of families, having breakfast, watching the horses, which is nice too.

Sometimes, though, it’s good to see a place with the people who have lived there all their lives. In this town, many things change quickly and irrevocably, and some things, fortunately, do not.