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The elevator at Pimlico has a bounce. Not a reassuring bounce. Not a full-of-happy-racegoers bounce. No, this is a fingers-crossed-we-don't-get-stuck bounce, a thank-god-we-made-it-to-the-press-box bounce. Says the lady in the racing office, "You might have to push the button a few times to get it to work." The button, like most things around here, is worn out.

So are the everyday racegoers for the most part; wizened old regulars of the turf, gray- or white-haired spectators of a sport no ...

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