shocking, isn't it?

My mother gets teary at horse races; I distinctly remember tears gushing down her face while watching Big Brown attempt to win last year's Triple Crown. My best friend gets teary at sports movies. I shudder to think what'd happen if they watched Seabiscuit together.

I'm not a particularly dry-eyed sort of girl myself, but, thank you very much, do not cry at either. There is a time and a place for tears -- airports, Easter sunrise services and Wynyard's chemist spring to mind -- but horse races and sports movies are not on the list.

Yesterday Australia experienced the Melbourne Cup. Billed as "the race that stops the nation," it really does. (It was even big enough for google to adorn its logo with fancy hats.) Although Victoria is the only state that actually gets the day off, everybody stops what they're doing for at least three minutes to watch the race, and then another three hours to drink off the effects.

Like Halloween, seeing as I'm a teacher, I had to dress up. (Oh, the woes of teaching.) I arrived to work in a short black, Minnie Mouse-style dress with heels and soon found myself in the midst of a flurry of photos. There weren't quite as many feathers and fancy headpieces as last year, but there was no shortage of snazzy summer get-ups. We snapped madly away for few minutes, tossed in some coins for a sweep, then dashed off to class where most of our students gazed sleepily up, trying to figure out if their teacher was really standing before them in a ball gown or if they were still dreaming. The demands for homework generally woke them up.

Things plodded along normally enough until after lunch, when excitement levels rose again. Faced with a new class, a second group of students was equally awed, but somewhat more intrigued. I explained to mine that we'd be going in on a sweep, if they wanted. In an odd twist of fate, I only had six students, so we modified the rules: each person put in $2, drew a horse and whoever got closest to first place would win, etc. (I ended up winning with the 8th place horse. My class, it seems, has an incredible knack for picking real losers.)

After a blur of a class where I doubt anyone learned anything, we, along with the rest of the school, made our way to a nearby bar to watch the race. We got there early -- time enough to mill about, get a drink and snap a few more poses.

Perhaps this would be a good time to mention that I absolutely love horse names. They are some of the few animals who actually get catchy, clever monikers. No Spots, Dukes, Fidos and Bad Kitties here. Although I'd drawn #18 Basaltico and #2 C'est La Guerre, my metaphorical money was on Crime Scene, just for the name, though I also strongly approved of Alcopop, Spin Around and Changing of the Guard. Being a former Northern Beaches girl, Newport and Warringah resonated, and even Leica Ding stuck a note, though I wasn't sure it was the right one.

And then, before we knew it, the horses were off. Everyone was standing up, leaning in, cheering gleefully. There was much excitement, much enthusiasm and relatively little commotion. We stood My Fair Lady style, gazing proudly at the champions whirring down the track. Emotions ran high. A horse pulled ahead; someone cheered. Another horse inched in; another voice rang out. A blur of brown tore through. A little tear began to well up in my -- friend's eye. I couldn't quite see which horse was ahead, but watched devoutly nonetheless; everyone did. One minute sped by, then two, then the home stretch. We breathed in unison, all eyes glued, gloriously unaware of how cliche their description sounded, to the screen. 500 -- 400 -- 300 -- 200 -- 100 -- 50 --25 -- who won by a nose?


And then it was over, first, second and third going to Shocking, Crime Scene and Mourilyan. Warringah pulled in in last place. Everyone cheered some more. Various shouts went up around the room as people shocked themselves with having picked the winner. Congratulations were exchanged, cash collected and a few more cameras clicked for good measure. The last sips were downed, the frocks smoothed out, and then, slowly, everyone began drifting away, raced out until three very special minutes next November.

And, let the record stand, I did not cry at the Melbourne Cup. Shocking, isn't it?