According to its official website, Foxfields is one of the handful of steeplechase horse races sanctioned by the National Steeplechase Association. It is also, according to Georgetown students, “a total shit show,” “a day of drunken debauchery,” and “just a whole lot of beer.”
A steeplechase is actually a cross-country horse race peppered with jumps, hedges and ditches. Each year, five or six busloads of Georgetown students, paying over $70 each, jump at the chance to see it or possibly just get drunk at six in the morning.
Given the discrepancy in accounts, it seems the only thing all sides will fully agree on is that the event is indeed a regal affair. It’s all pearls and Lily Pulitzer sundresses for the ladies, and seersucker and pastel for the men. Unlike most steeplechases, which usually have grandstands, Foxfields is an all-tailgating affair. The official website describes these tailgates as “elaborate spreads with elegant displays of china, linens and silver.”
This odd fusion of country club and frat party sums up Foxfields quite aptly. From the Georgetown perspective though, it’s not completely out of the ordinary to see belligerently drunk college students in expensive clothing. I wondered if the other spectators were annoyed by all the drunken college students, but then realized that I didn’t see any sober spectators. In fact, I couldn’t find anyone over the age of twenty-three.
Then again, the sober elders could have just been watching the races … wherever they were. Apparently, someone was watching, because the combined purses of the Spring and Fall Foxfields runnings average $60,000 per year. After all, it is a steeplechase, and, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at the crowd, quite a respected one. The race was fouded by Mariann de Tajeda in memory of the late Grover Vandevender, a legendary horseman, huntsman, and teacher. Since its founding in 1978, the Foxfields has become a central Virginia tradition.
The event was so popular that a Fall running was introduced later. These races became a “Family Day,” with a childrens’ tent called “the Fox Den,” pony rides, a guided walk through the course and even Jack Russell terrier races.
Don’t count on racing terriers in the Spring, though. The day usually begins around 6:30 a.m., rain or shine, and it is almost always either pouring rain or blisteringly hot. A mass of bleary-eyed students stream across campus like a tide of hot pink, green and Nantucket red: and that is just the boys. It is an odd site to see freshly made up girls and crisply shirted boys out at this hour and a handful of ragged partiers look confused and embarrassed to be running into so many friends on their “walk of shame” home for the night. Everyone heads to their bus’s designate meeting places. The buses are rumored to be the best part of the trip, and, upon boarding, all students over 21 were handed bright green cups. Written on the cups in hot pink is, “Foxfields 2004: Everybody on the bus gettin’ tipsy.” How appropriate.
Some students are more involved in the horse races than others. A massive UVA football player stumbled in front of me and grabbed my shoulders. An intense look in his eyes, he drew my face towards his, our noses practically touching. He pleaded to me, “The horses! I ah, ah … I gotta fin … I.” I looked over at his equally incoherent friend, and then back to him. He somehow managed to pull himself together and began again. His crusty beer-scented breath rushed into my face as he once again yelled, “The horses!” Another friend of his, who introduced himself as James, rescued me, pulling the football player aside. James apologized.
“He’s a senior, ya know,” he shrugged. “He’s been to Foxfields all four years, and he’s yet to see a f-ing horse.” At that, our drunk friend rose to his feet, fist in the air and, running down the grassy hill, screamed, “Horses!” With the frustrated look of a mother chasing a toddler, James shook his head and pointed to his friend. “I, uh, better take care of that.” As he walked off he turned to me, calling over his shoulder, “The only problem is, I don’t really know where the f-ing horses are, either.”
