Not all sunshine and roses

Friday, May 4, 2007 | 7:06 a.m.

The Kentucky Derby may be the two most exciting minutes in sports, but if you go, they're preceded by hours often as excruciating as they are entertaining.

Churchill Downs is nestled in a residential area of Louisville, Ky., laced by narrow streets that quickly clog on Derby Day. That leaves most race - goers - non-VIPs not arriving by helicopter or limo - two options, each equally unattractive: Arrive about the time the gates open at 8 a.m. and settle in for a very long day until the Derby's 6 p.m. post time, or show up later and risk getting stuck in a miles-long traffic jam that makes the Strip on a Saturday night look deserted by comparison.

Over the past three decades, I've been at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday in May six times - four times in the infield, once in the grandstand and once in the swanky clubhouse. On each occasion, I opted for the early arrival strategy.

A cross between Woodstock and a British soccer crowd, the infield is packed every year with tens of thousands of people, many seemingly less interested in the Derby than in how many overpriced mint juleps they can swill down before post time.

Throughout the day, your $40 general-admission ticket entitles you to dodge Frisbees, footballs and Hacky Sacks while trying to avoid sunstroke or getting lost in a mud slick , depending on the vagaries of the weather. In 1994, when rain reduced the infield to a swamp, the winner's name - Go for Gin - sounded like a good idea by day's end.

Also, depending on where you're at in the infield, you might end up catching only about five seconds of the race when the horses thunder over the small stretch of the track you can see from your jammed-with-humanity vantage point.

At the 100th Derby in 1974, for example, I saw far less of winner Cannonade than I did of a guy who shinnied up a flagpole in the infield and stripped naked when he reached the top. The horses that the pole climber wagered on might not have won or placed, but he definitely showed.

And in 1986, when Willie Shoemaker deftly sliced Ferdinand through a narrow hole at the top of the stretch, I was perfectly positioned to see one of the all-time classic moves in Derby history - but seconds later couldn't tell whether the 18-1 long shot had won until the numbers flashed on the tote board.

Based on four experiences, here's a composite infield script:

8:30 a.m. - You and your friends spread out a blanket with a great view of the stretch, feeling like you've nabbed one of the best seats in the place.

Noon - By now reality has set in as you and your blanket are covered by more muddy footprints than the uniforms of UNLV's defensive backs as people start pressing ever closer to the rail during the roughly 10 races run before the Derby.

2 p.m. - Lady steps on and breaks your commemorative mint julep glass with the names of all past Derby winners.

4 p.m. - Trying to reach one of the betting windows or restrooms that dot the infield means abandoning your prime spot with no guarantee of being able to make it back through an increasingly compressed crowd showing the effects of too much sun and/or rain, $6 beers and $8 juleps.

As soon as the last pre-Derby race is completed about 90 minutes before the Run for the Roses, veteran infielders begin shouting, "Derby rules!" That means all blankets, lawn chairs and any other objects that enabled you to occupy more than one square yard of turf must be folded up to allow people to cram closer to the fence. By the time the track announcer finally shouts "And they're off!" you'll know much more about the eight people wedged in around you, in about as much space as a telephone booth, than you wish you did.

But even on the infield, there are moments of undeniable grandeur. The bugler's "Call to the Post" is one of the most electrifying moments in sports. And you don't have to be a Bluegrass State native to feel a lump in your throat as the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home" waft over the track as the Derby field parades to the gate.

In addition to seeing "The Shoe" make his fourth trip to the winner's circle, my personal Derby highlights reel includes one other brush with horse racing greatness.

At my first Derby in 1973, Secretariat set what still stands as the 1 1/4-mile race's record on his way to the Triple Crown. Because the lines to turn in a $5 ticket for only a $7.50 profit were longer than my father and I cared to wait through, I left with an uncashed winning ticket on Big Red - one still at home in a box stuffed with other bits of sports memorabilia.

My one excursion to the clubhouse showed that while its enviable creature comforts make the day a delight, it is not without its travails, starting with the need to take care not to lose an eye to the foot wide brims of the hats favored by ladies attending the Derby.

And although the Derby draws its fair share of A-list celebrities, unless you're in the real inner sanctum, you're more likely to bump into the likes of Star Jones, Chuck Woolery and Tara Reid.

On the plus side, there isn't a Hacky Sack in sight and you get to spend the day in a suit that would have done Colonel Sanders proud. And from six stories up, you can enjoy every glorious second of those two most exciting minutes in sports.