Tickets Please

There is something particularly haunting about an empty racetrack.  A horse racing oval is what I'm talking about here.  You can find them in the off season or sometimes late in the afternoon.  In the morning they are alive with horses working out or people meeting, negotiating, dreaming and hoping.
What makes an empty track such a striking place is that when un-occupied they look dead.  They are shrines for noise...for the electric...they are emotional places reminiscent of a circus or carnival.  In recent years the probability of finding an empty track has increased dramatically.  Many have closed as the impact of technology has intersected with waning interest in the sport.  Historically, efforts to promote the sport have failed miserably and for some reasons, success has only come in shooting oneself in the foot.  When national interest peaks, some unfortunate accident, or unexplainable tragedy occurs to hasten the public's tolerance of all things horse racing.
In my town, Portland Meadows, the local circuit is closing.  The process has taken about 10 years, having been mostly threats for years.  This time it's for real.  The owner, the same guy who owns Golden Gate Fields and Santa Anita is really under the gun because of a spate of recent injuries and deaths to equine athletes.  The smaller tracks, the B side, if you will, the cheap racing is usually the first to go.  Aside from impacting the horse industry in the state, a track closure means job loss as well as a needed source of revenue for struggling state economies.

Yesterday, I drove over to Portland Meadows to cash a ticket I purchased on Kentucky Derby day.  I'd gone there the day before the Derby to see if I could score a Racing Form and left a bet on the final two races of the day.  A modest $18.00 ticket awaited for the last two months in my wallet.  The track had a few stragglers watching an wagering on races from all over the country.  Dozens of TV monitors displayed races emanating from New York, Chicago, Kentucky, Florida, California, and  Oklahoma.

The place was dead.  A friendly middle aged woman cashed my ticket and informed me that it was no longer possible to bet via cash or voucher now.  Now people have accounts and bet with what closely resembles and functions like a debit card.  Figures...that was coming.  But I can't help but think of what's been lost.
"Oh you no longer have to worry about lost or mutilated tickets," the clerk said.  "It's easier and a lot safer," she said. It also sacrifices your privacy, I thought.  Everything we do these days generates data.  That data leads to all manner of unwanted things as well. 
I'm destined to spend the rest of my life longing for things that no longer exist.  Those old betting tickets were works of art: colorful, full of folkloristic symbols, and coded letters.
At Portland Meadows there is still a neon sign of a running horse.  It'll make a nice addition to someone's collection of antiques.  In the daylight it's rather lacker-luster, but at night it comes alive with red-orange movement.  I took a brief shot of the neon horse.  A last look at a fading icon.