It’s 4:00 PM in the Blue Ridge. The horses gather in the paddock with aristocratic vanity as if they know they’re worth far more than your house.

You’re mingling on a wraparound porch at The Lodge. To your left, a retired orthodontist from Marietta is explaining the "trifecta" to a woman in a hat so large it has its own zip code. To your right, Lower Young Cane Creek - ancient, indifferent, draped in a mist that looks suspiciously like expensive grey silk.

Then, the cup arrives . . . the mint garnish hits your nose. . . it’s a fragrant riot. One sip, and suddenly the dirt track in Louisville feels like your own backyard.

The bugle sounds. A collective hush. For two minutes, we aren't in Georgia. We are simply suspended in the glorious, thundering velocity of hope. In a flash, its over at the track, but not here. Another Mint Julip anyone?