“Horses have been enveloped in human dreams, myths, ambitions, and sentiment for so long that the story we have come to think as theirs is often but a distorted reflection of our own desires, and then not always our most noble desires”—Stephen Budiansky
The verdant entrance to the Singapore Turf Club (STC) in Kranji—trees whispering in the wind, leaves dancing in dappled sunlight, my own slow gait in sync with nature’s rhythms—was an oasis of calm before the crush of activity in the Lower Grandstand. My nose arrived before the rest of me, as I breathed in the muskiness that hung heavy in the air. Clutching my eight-dollar ticket, I walked in, entering a space that spoke of an older time.
Between the rows of plastic seats and the lush, two-kilometre horseracing track, were some familiar neighbourhood elements. Throngs of people dressed in short-sleeved shirts, bermudas, and jeans milled about in the organised chaos. Among them, numerous uncles, cigarettes dangling from their lips and newspapers from their hands. Their eyes darted among tiny words in a book, each squint accompanied by a deep drag from their tobacco rolls, the tips glowing red-hot. Above us—the observer and the observed—hung a gigantic screen.
An older gentleman was buried in the Punters’ Way, a one-stop booklet for the discerning bettor. Betting on horses relies on skilled research and an intimate understanding of the racehorse, the jockey, and their shared synergy.
“Uncle, which horse are you looking at ah?” My voice broke his meditation.
“Ahh, I'm looking at Number 4.”
It was the third race of the day. Each takes just over a minute, and their start times are 30 minutes apart. Before being ushered onto the tracks, the competing horses are paraded like the season’s latest car models. I saw one with a meshed cloth over its head and ears—a “blinker”. Horses, as natural prey to predators such as wolves and mountain lions, evolved in the wild to have extensive peripheral vision. The blinkers are meant to keep their sights locked on the finish line, much like uncle and his betting bible.
For this race, the nine horses rode out to the start point with their petite jockeys sitting atop. Number 4 had already made an impression on me. He had a beautiful chocolate mane that matched his body, with an iconic start and stripe marking across his snout. His gait was bouncy, carefree and light. Before I knew it, the barriers sprang open, and the creatures burst forth with startling force. As my eyes tracked Number 4’s movements, the cheers of the crowd seemed to fade away. On the home stretch, he emerged from the herd to take pole position. Bullet-like, he shot across the turf, his jockey’s body frozen in the martini glass position. With every metre, the crowd’s roars grew more deafening, reaching a crescendo as Number 4 crossed the finishing line. My reverie was broken.
I noticed the same uncle returning from the betting counter. “I won S$120 for my S$100 bet,” he said. A 20 percent profit, slightly higher than Number 4’s historical return of 17 percent.
I wanted to see the horse that had made this uncle S$20 richer. The air around him was heady, even as the inevitable cigarette smoke choked my lungs and stung my eyes. Photographers trained their cameras onto the owner, the trainer and the jockey. I shifted my eyes to the horse. The gelding was restless, still catching his breath.
One race later, a crack of thunder broke over the racecourse. The sky, gashed with streaks of lightning, looked down threateningly; soon strong gusts of wind swirled around us, and raindrops fell like icy needles. The lightning alert light came on and the horses were recalled. The next race was postponed. I took a big gasp of the cold air to relieve my smoke-filled lungs. I thought about the winner who had been gasping for air post-race, who did not receive a break but was dragged along for a photo-taking session. This suffocating scenario was on replay in my mind.
My nasal passages stung as the pressure in my sinuses built up. My eyes started watering.
“It’s the smoke.” I told myself.
Was it?
I walked towards a gantry on the side, which turned out to be the entrance to the Owner’s Lounge. “Sorry ah, you cannot go in,” said a cheery aunty, looking at my shirt and shorts. “Next week you come again! Buy a S$30 ticket, dress beautifully and I’ll let you in!” It was a reminder that this particular space, as clearly stated in the Punters’ Way, was reserved for the well-dressed and -heeled. I struck up a conversation with Aunty. She told me that she would miss her friends of over 20 years at the STC. This place of “work” had evolved into their hangout spot, and over time, the buds of collegiality had bloomed into friendships.
Aunty was referring, of course, to the news of the track’s closure, first announced publicly on June 5th 2023. It’ll eventually be replaced, perhaps inevitably, by new Lego blocks for people to call home. That news had broken the spirits of the trainers, owners, and all those who have spent their lifetime with horses—the groomsmen, stable boys, scyes, equine specialists and more. The imminent end of the STC directly threatened their livelihoods and generational legacies. Horses course through the veins of many here.
Even as I pondered their loss and grief, I wondered: would the horses miss their mates too?
Horseracing here traces its roots to the founding in 1842 of the Singapore Sporting Club, predecessor of the STC, by William Henry Macleod, a Scottish merchant. The first race, at its Serangoon Road Race Course in Farrer Park attracted about 300 spectators.
