ON A RECENT Friday night in Los Angeles, plans grown stale, we followed our friend Mindi to the races. Someone she knew had bet on Giacomo, California's 50-to-1 long shot who snatched the Kentucky Derby in May and was celebrating at Hollywood Park racetrack's venerable (and pricey) Turf Club. Jesse and I decided to tag along and hang out trackside with the lower echelons.

The horses are an old Hollywood game – the Turf Club dates to cinema's golden age, when mogul Jack Warner and stars like Al Jolson and Bing Crosby set it up. My own back story on LA racetracks has seedier origins, in the drunken poems of Charles Bukowski, the peroxide locks of Angelica Huston in The Grifters.

In a city renowned for its barriers, though, the track proved a grand equalizer. In the cheap seats, we found a gathering as diverse and eccentric as LA itself: migrant workers, multiethnic families, slumming young hotties, crusty old dudes with mustard on their pants. The Friday-night $1 beers and hot dogs didn't hurt either.

Like good Angelinos, we arrived late. Paying $7 for field admission and scorecards, the bettors' bibles, we bid adieu to Mindi and filed into the belly of Hollywood Park. With 18 minutes to post for the fourth race, we gauged the scene. The grandstand, a stretch of asphalt sloping down to the track, featured bleachers and the confetti carpet of losing ticket stubs. Parallel stood the main pavilion, with food courts, betting kiosks, and simulcast racing feeds, the upscale Clubhouse and Turf Club looming above. The track, a one-and-one-eighth-mile oval, was handsomely manicured, with two infield lakes, a monster JumboTron screen, and the added visuals of lakeside flamingos and approaching jetliners descending into LAX. In the lavatory, a staggering 56 urinals ran the length of the room. In the pavilion, equal parts casino and Greyhound bus terminal, two choices awaited at the taps: Bud or Bud Light. We were almost ready to wager.

I bet horses like I buy wine: by faking it. We scoured our programs in faux earnestness, trying to glean tips from the cryptic info, such as "Hound runs in the pack ... likes this distance ... an exotics threat ... stalking style fits well." In the end, I rolled the dice on the best-sounding names (just like wine), zeroing in on the stud from gate two: Lord Albion, at 6-to-1 odds, deemed "a major threat!" by my bible. Sold, for $2, Lord Albion, to win.

Stubs in hand, we headed to the track. The horses soon shot forward, and the crowd cheered as the pack headed into the bend, following action on the JumboTron. "C'mon, two," I muttered as Lord Albion rode with the pack. Rounding turn three, he made his move. Competitors fell, and my boy started charging, taking the lead on turn four and thundering down the stretch. "C'mon, two!" I yelled louder as they approached the gates. The crowd roared anew as they passed us and charged across the finish line – Lord Albion takes it! "Two! Two!" I shouted, fists pumping involuntarily.

Jesse tossed tickets skyward, and we went to claim my winnings – a robust $9.80. Jesse's phone rang: Mindi, checking in from the Turf Club. "Jay's horse won," he said, and then, "Really?" He turned to me. "She just met Vince Vaughn." I still had stars in my eyes for Lord Albion, and cashed in my winnings on beer and hot dogs.

For race five I played the hot hand and bet with the same cashier. Unfortunately, my man slipped me a Mickey, accidentally ringing me up for Refusal, a 40-to-1 shot. By the time I'd noticed, the odds were 50 to 1.

In the Garden Paddock out front, a loose, chatty crowd was soaking in a fine SoCal night. Handlers prepped the horses in the walking ring, around the 20-foot-tall Native Diver Monument, the eponymous burial spot of California's first million-dollar horse. We eyed the outdoor barbecue pit suspiciously.

Heading back trackside for race five, we half-jokingly cheered, "C'mon, 10!" as the horses started. Along the backside, our guy made a move, and we watched with wonder as Refusal began gaining. The thrill of the 50 to 1 coming on strong swelled the crowd, which surged when he took the lead on turn four. "Go! Go!" everyone roared, seemingly all suddenly vested in the same horse. Down the stretch we kept shouting, thoughts of C-notes in our heads, approaching the finish, when – shit! – another horse charged, just nipping Refusal at the line. Groans and tickets flew into the air.

Afterward, the winds shifted. The big races over, people were filtering out. We placed uninspired bets on the sixth race. Jesse's horse was scratched, and mine should have been. Mindi called back saying she was bored. Like good Angelinos, we chose to leave early and headed into the night. When not scouring the racing form, Jay Cooke teaches travel writing and develops guidebooks for Lonely Planet Publications. Reach him at jaycooketravel@yahoo.com.

Trip planner

Hollywood Park is 12 miles south of downtown Los Angeles, and three miles west of LAX. The 2005 spring-summer racing season runs through July 17; the autumn season runs Nov. 9-Dec. 19. 1050 S. Prairie, Inglewood. (310) 419-1500, www.hollywoodpark.com.