Jamie Lynch: Breeders' Cup track-side diary (Part 2)

Right then. Today's tale ends with me and Richard Hughes being huddled up in the back of a Mustang. If that doesn't keep you tuned nothing will.

Speedway. That's what American racing is ignorantly referred to by some of the unwashed within Timeform. One of them soon scrubbed up when he learnt he might be going to California to cover a Breeders' Cup, and here I am, in awe of Santa Anita. While it's true that there's a uniformity and perhaps monotony to the tracks themselves (left-handed, flat, sharp), hence the speedway analogy, the setting and stands are individual, and, despite what we might like to think, there's nothing in Britain to match Santa Anita's stadia.

Vast but compact-looking, old but modern-looking, the Santa Anita grandstands feels like a museum, conference centre (or center - when in Rome...) and theatre all in one, with the various halls and rooms embellished by their different design, while keeping to the Art Deco theme.

Soaking it in, my appreciation must have been obvious as guy came up to me and introduced himself as part of the course management. Lenny, who could have passed as Hank Marvin's brother, gave me a fuller tour, ending on the main concourse looking out on the track.

'You must have seen some sights here, Lenny?' I asked, expecting him to pull out a Tiznow or a Zenyatta.

'Sure have. In '91, the day before the Hollywood Gold Cup, some people were here to watch their horses work when we had an earthquake, and (pointing) that 200-lb beam there shook loose, came down and killed a woman on just about the spot we're standing.'

Thanks Lenny.

'Yup, it hit her on the head and killed her. I saw her running, but it got her. Right on the head. One second she was running, next second she was dead. Her boyfriend was a trainer, but he was twenty years older than her and, lucky for him, he couldn't run so fast, so he wasn't in the way when the beam came down.'

One of the main reasons Lenny spotted me as part of the media corps was because I had my lanyard on. A lanyard, for those of you who don't know (I didn't until I got one), is the name of those identity tags, usually seen at conferences, that people wear around their necks. I always have mine on. I always have mine on because it makes me feel like a proper person, one worthy of being in LA. It's got the Breeders' Cup logo in the middle, and underneath it says 'Jamie Lynch - Timeform'. I think it's my favourite thing ever and fully intend to wear it in and around Halifax on my return, which will make passers-by think 'that bloke must be very important because he's got a Breeders' Cup lanyard' and under no circumstances will they think 'what an absolute pr*ck'.

The great thing about the lanyard is that it invites characters to chat, as proven again later on at the hotel bar.

'Hi - Tom McCallum, New York. How do you rate my horse, Sustained (Juvenile Fillies' Turf)? I say my horse. I've only got a bit of her. Anyways, it don't matter what you rate her 'cause she can't win from that draw (14 of 14). You're English, right? You Europeans always win the turf races. You can't do the dirt, but you sure can do the turf.'

He's what I'd think of as a proper New Yorker. Fast talking, blustering, full of himself, in a good way, and, best of all, he looks a bit like the late, great John Candy. We talk through the race, offering my opinion that Sky Lantern, though European and a Group 1 winner, isn't so far ahead of the North American fillies as people might believe, and then we're done, and I'm just about to turn away...

'I part-owned Big Brown.'

I'd have probably led with that if I were you, Tom.

It turns out he's part of the Paul Pompa team. I'm riveted and he's excited, and he's also three sheets to the wind, by his own admission, having made the most of finally getting a flight out of New York. '$2.1 million,' he shouts, '$2.1 MILLION!' How could we turn down that sort of money after one run,' referring to and justifying the sale, after his only two-year-old start, of Big Brown, who went on to be a champion, successful in the first two legs of the Triple Crown and syndicated to stud for a reputed $50 million.

Look out for a John Candy in the winner's circle if Sustained can do the impossible and win from 14. I kind of hope she does now.

Shamefully unbeknown to me until arriving at the track, there was a full eight-race, if low-level, meeting at Santa Anita on Thursday, meaning my US racing debut started with a whimper rather than the expected bang. It also started with a surprise when the bugler's call to post saw everybody stand up, and they were down again by the time I got up. Two minutes later another bugle, and I was up like a rocket this time, but, needless to say, I was the only one. This bugler had the better of me all afternoon.

Every bugle, which seemed pretty random, for both timing and song choice, was met with an undeserved round of applause. I'm all for tradition, including the ornate horse and carriage constantly stationed on the track (though the driver, in full Amish dress, did destroy the illusion somewhat by tapping away on his iPhone between races), but this bugler was milking it more than me in my lanyard, and I couldn't get my head around his set list, which, I kid you not, comprised, amongst others, of The Birdie Song, Silent Night and, most bizarre of all, Das Lied der Deutschen - the German national anthem.

While the racing was poor quality, we were treated to the best horse in America and the champion jockey of Britain. Prior to race six, Wise Dan was brought for a wander around the paddock, and he looked a picture of health and leanness, but not quite as striking, it has to be said, as Worth Repeating (Marathon) who was on the same recce. Other than not fancying Fame And Glory one bit, I had no real view on the Marathon, but, after seeing Worth Repeating, I think I do now.

Richard Hughes, given an opportunity by Coolmore to get a feel of the track, had the ride on ex-Irish Quaintly in the seventh, but they could finish only third.

Every day since I've been here, just about the last people to leave the press area (in prime position, outdoors, in the stand at the end of the straight) have been myself and the Racing Post boys, Lee Mottershead and Bill Barber, who've kindly given me a lift back to our hotel in their hired car; and it's not just any car, it's a big, black, throaty Mustang.

On our way out, there was Hughesy, unable to find a taxi, and so Lee offered him a ride to Pasadena. Now, the three-door Mustang is big, with a big engine and a big front, but big is not a word you'd use to describe its space in the rear seats. Meagre is a better word. The lean and nimble Hughes folded himself up like he does on a horse and slid in effortlessly. A mere eleven minutes later, I too was in, and we were off.

Hughes was in excellent form, regaling us with unprintable news and stories, but then again he and Lee are long-time friends - they wrote his book together - but Hughes wouldn't know me from Adam. How could I hold my own in this environment and prove that I was a legitimate part of the set-up and not just some sweaty Northerner overly-invading his private space?

Only one thing could save me. I surreptitiously reached into my pocket and drew it out. Thank God for lanyards.

Breeders' Cup Extra out now, featuring 8 race previews, Jamie Lynch, US expert Simon Rowlands, Timeform Blueprints & much more! Get yours now!