A horse and rider trot on the backstretch but the home stretch is a ghost town. The stands, small and empty, are more county fair than Hollywood Park but the magic of the place is imaginable. Pageantry exists on different scales. Leaving the front gate open was their first mistake but leaving the gate to the track open is an invitation. The dirt track, recently grooved, is unscathed except a solitary line of hoof prints down the center of the track. The inner fence leans toward the track, losing the battle of time and gravity, while the outer walls cling to their whiteness. I trade my view of the first turn for the home stretch and finish line. The crowd yells for their chosen horse. An old voice crackles through the PA. A jockey juts his fist, whip in hand, into the air. A young, pretty woman holds a wreath in the small victory circle. The crowd cheers the victor as an old truck pulls the starting gate back in place.