Eat in

Today, Montpelier sparkles. The 73rd running of the Montpelier Hunt Races on James Madison’s estate takes place on a perfect, blue day that has people putting on and taking off sweaters and jackets as the sun winks in and out between great, white, painterly clouds. The grounds are a softly rumpled crazy quilt, swaths of green interspersed with scraps of calico that are scattered groups of brightly clothed people. President Madison’s mansion presides over the scene from atop a gently sloping hill.

Regulars report that the 2006 event was freezing and overcast, and the year before was so hot that the horses needed hosing down. Someone remembers a year with snow. Who knows what 2008 will bring?

Well, certain things are dependable at the iconic event launched 74 years ago by Marion duPont Scott: Start with up to 14,000 spectators, many of them repeat visitors, most nattily attired. There are seven races, two on the flat and five over fences, with plenty of friendly wagering. Teenagers kick soccer balls, families toss footballs and Frisbees, small children run madly in circles. Gentlemen bring their touring cars—a baby-blue Jaguar convertible, a goldenrod-colored Caddy with fins. Dog events begin the day (but no pets allowed!), followed by, for the wee ones, stick horse races. Vendors offer jewelry, kettle corn, equine art, wool, wine and hot, fresh apple-cinnamon donuts. The affable announcer gives updates about the Cavs’ football game (“The Virginia-Wake Forest game score is Wake Forest, 16, the Cavs, 10.” Pregnant pause, widespread groaning. “My feelings exactly”).

From time to time, prompted by instructions that would sound odd in any other context—“Please close the gates and gaps at this time. Close all gates and gaps, please”—the crowd shifts and gathers at the rails ringing the great lawn. Outriders, resplendent in their black or red jackets, trot past, ensuring the way is clear and gates are closed. All attention is on the steeplechase course, all ears cocked for the rumble of hoofbeats. The sound precedes the first flash of sun on the jockeys’ bright silks as the pack surges around a bend or over a hill, then fades as it gallops out of sight. The horses may appear again or not, depending on the length of the race. Except for those moments, everyone not at the finish line must rely on the announcer to learn what’s happening: “Luvyoudad appears to have lost its rider,” he reports, or “Dynamite is now making up some ground on the inside.” When winners are announced, some folks do happy dances. The people spread out again, to settle back into conversation with friends, to browse the vendors or just wander, people watching. Most likely, though, they return to grazing the treats they’ve brought and laid out.