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It was a hot Saturday afternoon when I reached Kranji.
Singapore Turf Club is right next to the MRT station.
I followed the signs, but for a moment, I wondered if I was at the right place.
The grounds
STC’s entrance looked unassuming.
The automatic ticketing machine did not work, and the few attendants milling around the gantries were the only people there.
At first glance, it's hard to imagine that this place is a world-class racing facility, with hundreds of thousands of dollars of prize money on the line every week.
I arrived with no expectations.
I just wondered how low the attendance could be these days.
I’ve yet to see another visitor.
Much less a horse.
The path from the entrance eventually leads to some kind of amphitheatre, with a few people there, looking at the giant screen in the middle.
But then something else caught my eye.
A racehorse.
It was walking along the rim of the amphitheatre, its coat so glossy and brown.
This place, as I will learn later, is where horses assemble before their races.
Some of them wear Mexican wrestler-like masks over their heads and ears to make them more identifiable.
via Singapore Turf Club
But so far, the atmosphere leaned closer to a stable than a racecourse.
The place was lacking the kind of passion and vibrancy I’m used to experiencing at other sporting events. There are no fervent fans, only silent spectators.
Horse-racing spectators unite
That changed when I entered level one of the Grandstand though.
The first thing that hit me was a much-needed blast of air-conditioning.
The second was a string of Hokkien phrases that were shouted.
It was as if I had walked into another world. Everywhere I looked, there were old, Chinese men.
Some of them were huddled around screens, studying past replays and the statistics.
Others were in line for the betting kiosks, betting slips scrunched up in their hands.
Then there are those sitting down, making notes on their racing booklets as they decide which horses have the better odds of winning.
For a while, I wandered around the place, soaking up the vibe.
The rows of betting kiosks and mounted screens resemble the check-in area of an airport terminal, and everyone was just waiting for the next race to begin.
The longer I stayed, the more I felt out of place. It only took a few minutes for me to crown myself youngest person in the room.
Dialect-speaking crowd
Everything coming out of people’s mouths were in Hokkien. And even if I did speak the dialect, I doubt I’d even know what was going on.
In the background, the TVs faintly played an English commentary with some kind of Western accent, but I didn't understand all the racing jargon mixed into it.
Likewise, the numbers and acronyms displayed on the screens might as well be written in Greek.
I almost felt like I was in a foreign country.
Everyone there for the action
Then the next race began, and things got even weirder.
All at once, everyone stood up and started walking, drawn to the TVs like moths to a light.
In the next two minutes, I gained a new life lesson: Turns out, watching old Chinese uncles shout at horses was a lot more interesting than watching said horses run.
The race itself didn’t last very long, not even two minutes.
But with who knew how much money on the line, I could feel the suffocating tension, especially at the end.
Everyone’s eyes were glued to the screen, and the only time they looked away was to glance at their betting slips.
As the leading horse approached the finish line, people started leaning in and tiptoeing to get a better view of the screen. And then the shouting started.
Li-Ho? Lei-Ha?
I never found out if they were screaming some kind of encouragement or the number of the horse they’d put their money on, but when the first horse crossed the finish line, the entire crowd erupted into thunderous cheer.
It was clear which middle-aged men won money. They started waving their betting slips madly in the air, or they turned to their neighbours and proudly pointed at their slips.
The ones who lost sighed and shook their heads wistfully, but with a smile on their face.
Meanwhile, I was just standing there, trying to process what I’d seen.
The thrill of horse-betting
I suspected that for these punters, the thrill of gambling was more important than winning.
Maybe horseracing is like raving but for old people. They go wild for two minutes, then once the race is over, they rest until the next race, and then have a go at it again.
Well, the next race was in 30 minutes, and I’d gotten hungry.
Races at STC start at 12pm, and while I passed a few stores selling food and drinks earlier, I decided to eat lunch in style.
The lounge: S$30 access
Mothership paid S$30 for the more expensive lounge access, so I took an escalator to Level 3 of the Grandstand, to find the Trophy Lounge.
There, I once again entered another world.
The carpeted lobby and the marbled corridors reminded me of a fancy hotel.
The soft clinking of wineglasses clued me in to the ritzy nature of Level 3.
As I walked in, waiters carrying plates of steaks and trays of alcohol crossed my path.
The soft voices buzzing around the room was a vastly different kind of chatter from downstairs.
Then I reached the dining area.
The lounge was adorned with rows of tables, all with cushioned chairs.
Every seat overlooks the pristine racecourse through giant floor-to-ceiling windows that stand at least two floors tall.
I could see the horses and their jockeys warming up on the track in preparation for the next race. And if I wanted a closer look, there was a television on every table showing a close-up view.
The people there were different too.
There were actually young people here, dressed in sharp suits and office wear. A Caucasian couple walked past me, holding a can of beer each.
People spoke in English.
I sat down at an open table. A waiter immediately passed me a menu and asked for my order.
One cup of iced Milo was S$5.50.
Reluctantly, I ordered a boneless crispy chicken and a drink.
While waiting, I looked around.
With the smart casual dress code and the panoramic view, I won’t lie, the Trophy Lounge gave off fancy vibes – like I was in an airport lounge overlooking the runway.
I turned to the television.
Most of the terms and numbers made no sense to me, but I did discover something interesting: The average racehorse is about 10 times heavier than its jockey.
While I ate my S$23 chicken, I flipped through my racing booklet and entertained myself with all the wacky names of the horses: Love Sensation, Captain Singapore, and my personal favourite, Steady Punpipi. (If I was a betting man, I’d go all in on that one.)
Then all chatter ceased. Forks and knives went back on their plates. People got on their feet to look at the track and gathered around their monitors.
The next race had begun.
The next two minutes were familiar, even if the chanting was in a different language now.
Young vs old, Chinese vs Caucasian, it didn’t matter. Once the horses started galloping, they behaved exactly the same.
The chanting intensified as the horses raced toward the finish line.
It was a close race, and one man at a nearby table literally jumped into the air with a whoop, when the slo-mo video showed his horse crossing the finish line first by a sliver.
It took a minute for everything to settle down, and then everyone resumed their conversations and meals seamlessly.
It was as if the past two minutes never happened.
As someone who had no idea what’s going on, it was a little unsettling to watch.
What people at the Turf Club do
After lunch, I walked around, hoping to eavesdrop on the regulars.
To my surprise, there were many people who weren’t talking about horses or racing at all.
There were, of course, people poring over their racing booklets and studying past statistics, hoping to maximise their winnings. I approached one such man and he told me to go away.
I stayed for two more races after that, and the pattern repeated itself. Every half-hour, the place went from high-class restaurant to raucous sports bar for two minutes.
Deciding I wanted to be a little more up-close to the racing action, I left the comfort of the Trophy Lounge and headed to the open-air area of the Grandstand.
There were no wall of screens in the Grandstand’s spectator stands, but the vast expanse of the racecourse was before me.
The smell of cigarettes lingered in the air, and the Hokkien was back.
When the horses arrived, they were within spitting distance (though you really shouldn't).
Up close, I could see how well-built and well-groomed they were.
In contrast, the human jockeys were much smaller in real life than they looked on TV.
When the race started, if I thought things were noisy before, I was taken aback by how much louder things are outdoors.
With so many people surging to the front, pumping their fists, and screaming at the top of their lungs, it was a very different experience from everything so far.
I didn't know what they were screaming, but I could feel the excitement and the emotion behind their words.
I don't think I've ever been as worked up for anything in my life the way these old men were, as they screamed at the horses.
After the race, as the winning horse and jockey made their way to the podium, I was reminded that horseracing is not a traditional sporting event.
Normally, the winner -- and sometimes losers -- of any sporting competition is supported by well-wishers and fans after the event.
But here, the horse-jockey duo celebrated their win with a noticeable lack of fanfare.
What would happen in a year's time?
In the end, almost everyone came today not in support for the horses or jockeys, but for the gambling involved.
Some of them have been coming to STC for years now, and I wondered, if they'd come to favour some horse or the other.
Did they put their money on the horses they liked, or the horses they thought would win?
Or did they just bet on numbers they felt were lucky?
Still, as I made my way home, I couldn’t help but think how, in about one year’s time, there would be no more horseracing to go to.
What would happen to everyone I saw today? Was there anything else that could replace horseracing for them?
Where would they go to make the same kind of friends, memories, and money?
In the first place, is horseracing an old man’s sport?
Judging by the numbers, yes. Though the Trophy Lounge showed that it's a kind of a yuppie sport, too.
But the old men today showed me age has nothing to do with passion, and the community that revolves around horseracing, even if somewhat silver-haired, is still very much alive and screaming.
I only hope that after next year, they have other activities where they can pour that passion into.
Hopefully, not a casino.
(FYI: Once something is "No horse run", it means it is the best of the best. Peerless.)
All photos by Paul Rin