There’s Maine, and then there’s Aroostook County. The largest and least populated county in Maine; almost seven thousand square miles of forest, logging roads, and paper mills fenced in by the Canadian border. It’s the last place you’d expect to host a fancy pants horse race, but a family of potato farmers decided they wanted to bring some of the elegance of Kentucky to the County–and in 1986, the Aroostook Derby played her first call.
The Derby started small, on a muddy track cut into a back acre of the Mishoe family’s russet field. They had folding chairs set up, and lemonade. Men and ladies dressed simply–the fascinators and Boston suits would come later. Even the horses were simple that first year, a mix of work and trail horses from the neighboring farms. The 1986 winner of the mile and a quarter was a six-year-old Morgan named Chubby whose day job was working backyard birthday parties. Chubby didn’t break any records–in fact, he barely broke four minutes–but the Derby was a success, and it grew every year.
I’ve always been more of an OTB guy than a track guy, never really saw the appeal. At least at the OTB nobody’s pretending to be somebody they’re not. Well, except Cosplay Roy, but he stopped coming around after the divorce. Anyways, racetracks aren’t my thing, but my daughter-in-law has been really riding my caboose lately. Mostly about me always being around her house since mine got so cluttered, but my grandson Mark has been fighting with her, too, so we took my Reality Register per diem and made the road trip to the Derby. I figured it beat getting another can of Special Kitty thrown at me when Shannon didn’t appreciate me spreading my back issues of Ring Magazine out on the kitchen table.
According to Mark, the 2025 Aroostook Derby was being held on an Air Force base in Limestone, Maine, right on the border with New Brunswick. The nearest big town is Presque Isle, which ain’t much of nothing. I spent four days in Mark’s Tacoma trekking up there, mostly trying to sleep or eat Burger King in silence, but I learned a lot about his “career” as an amateur DJ on the internet. I guess my grandson cues up techno music while people watch him play video games. He calls himself Marq Testosterone. He made me listen to his “demo tapes”, but they just sounded like Mark saying his DJ name through blown speakers over clickety-clack sounds. Like I said, I mostly tried to sleep.
Finally, we arrived in Limestone. The traffic started all the way back at Route 1A–just an endless line of cars, honking horns, people in costumes walking up and down the road selling food and t-shirts, and more of that dumb techno music playing everywhere. I bought us a couple of Rolling Rocks figuring we were close enough to Canada for the laws to be fuzzy. We made our way through the gates and to our camping site without the cops sniffing around. There were a couple of longhairs setting up a tent next to us–they gave us a couple of their “pisser” jello shots out of a cooler. Know what they say: the road to hell is paved with a warm Rolling Rock and a jello shot. Guess we were ready for anything at that point. Or were we?
Again, I’m not a track guy, but I covered the Preakness once before, and this thing was nothing like the Preakness. I’ve lived the sports life and been to some rough towns covering stories for big papers, four-letter networks, and lately for this fishwrap–but entering the gates of the Derby, I’d never felt so out of my element. There were just people everywhere, moving in every direction like a multi-headed serpent! And everyone had some kind of glitter on, I don’t care if it was on their face or their pants or their delicious chests. Everyone was shining! Even Mark was shining! I don’t know if he took some of his mom’s makeup before we left and was getting into the spirit of horse racing, but that would make sense.
The next stretch of the day gets a little fuzzy. I think I might have had another beer, which my doctor says to avoid on my medication, and now I believe her! I had to use a Porta John, and I think I was in there for a while. It was hot and the people outside must’ve had to go real bad, because they were banging on the walls of the John and screaming and it was echoing inside while the whole plastic coffin throbbed and melted. It didn’t help me do my business at all. I know I saw the race, though, because I still have a ticket. I put five hundred on a horse named Guyute, 7:2 odds. It was a handwritten ticket, but still looked legit. I just couldn’t find the betting window again. I would have had Mark check the internet for me, but I couldn’t find him. I wished Mark was there.
So we’re at the part of the story where I tell you about how I met my spirit guide, and he guided me back to my grandson’s Toyota Tacoma, and you’re gonna say, “David, a spirit guide? This is supposed to be a column about serious things like sports,” and all I can tell you is that in the middle of that wretched field of bodies rhythmically moving to sounds I couldn’t understand, I was saved.
A conventionally handsome man put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was lost. I was confused that I could understand his words, it was like he was speaking across time, but I nodded. He said that he was the Dreamboy, and he’d take me to my pickup.
I followed the Dreamboy, and it was easy to do. See, from the waist up, he was trim and fit, wearing a nice LL Bean flannel, just like one I used to have. But from the waist down–well, this guy had an enormous ass. I wanted to ask him what sports he played in college, or even where he found slacks that size, but I had trouble making words do things in my mouth. It was a gigantic ass, though.
No ordinary human could be built like that, not Roger Clemens or Larry Fitzgerald or even Bartolo Colón. I knew that the Dreamboy must have been my spirit guide, sent to save me in my time of distress. He led me through a parking lot full of disco freaks to my grandson’s pickup. When I turned around to try to make soundy noises with my mouth, he was gone. I listened to the French language Catholic station until Mark returned two days later, smelling like a shot of old Drakkar Noir at the bottom of a can of Coors.
Even now that I’m back at my daughter-in-law’s, I’ll never forget that unusual man. Thank you, Dreamboy. You inspired me to pick up my guitar and write a couple dittys. Maybe someday you’ll hear them, but for now, I’ll let my readers hear your tale.
My grandson Mark made this next song on his computer. He says that’s me singing but I don’t remember recording it. Maybe he taped me on the John. Anyways, he told me to say that if a hundred more people follow him on Twitch he’ll play Quest64 while spinning hardstyle. If that sounds good to you, his name is Marq Testosterone and he’s my grandson.
