Every spring, hundreds of Georgetown students rise early on the last Saturday of April to make the pilgrimage to a small, southern town located about a three-hour bus ride from campus. Fighting Friday night’s hangover with Bloody Marys, mint juleps, and mimosas, students pack into vans and buses, straighten bow ties or adjust floppy hats, and raise their cups to a day of drinking in the sweltering sun. The destination is Charlottesville, Virginia and the occasion is the Foxfield Races.
Before I go on, I need to clarify something about the name of the event. As a lifelong resident of Charlottesville, growing up right by this storied steeplechase event, I implore my fellow Foxfield-bound Hoyas: Stop saying “Foxfields.”
Adding that “s” to Foxfield—in a town with as much Southern charm and sophistication as Charlottesville—not only will put your naivety and inexperience with the event on full display, but also will make you appear to be, simply put, a Yankee ignoramus. You’d scoff at anyone running around Lower Manhattan asking where “Green-witch” is, when they mean the Village, wouldn’t you? So mind your mouths and drop the “s.”
Allow me to explain for anyone unfamiliar with the occasion. Foxfield is a charity horse race known more for the drunken escapades of the thousands of college students who attend than for the horses. Decked out in their preppiest, pastel finest, ticket holders come dressed to the nines—and about nine drinks deep—ready for a day of alcohol-fueled debauchery. As journalist Brooke Brower put it, people come to Foxfield to “dress up, drink up, smoke up, [and] hook up.” Often this leads to throw up, and posting up bail, but Foxfield remains as important to college students in Charlottesville as Thomas Jefferson’s Lawn or the Corner at UVA. And you’d be a regular fool to miss it.
While so much of Foxfield revolves around dangerously strong drinks and picnic-ready hors d’oeuvres, an equal amount of attention is paid to the clothes that attendees wear on Race Day. The dress code of Foxfield is exceedingly strict—and enforced by the spirit and history of the event.
Ladies wear brightly colored or pastel sundresses, flip-flops (or high heels for the bold), pearls, and oversized shades. Usually the dresses are Lily Pulitzer-style, but more important than the dress is the accompanying hat. No Foxfield ensemble is complete without an outrageously oversized woven hat, some up to three feet in diameter, to block the sun from turning you into a tomato. These hats are festooned with enormous bows and flowers (always fresh, never fake) and are often picked out before any dress is even considered for purchase.
Guys stick to country club frat gear like oxfords or polos, khakis, seersucker jackets, and boat shoes or flip-flops. Instead of finding the perfect hat, which is the quest of ladies going Foxfield, gents search for the bowtie to bring their outfit together. Some guys carry canes and boast pocket squares. Basically, the more you look like a Georgia lawyer from the 1920s, the more preptastic you’ll be.
If the Ralph Lauren lifestyle doesn’t appeal to you, just remember that a big part of the fun is embracing the preppy culture and clothes for one day and pushing the look to the extreme. Even the biggest anti-prep on campus can scramble up whatever expensive-looking, country club clothes he or she can find. Hollister-haters know that while we can rag on fraternities and sororities every other day of the year, Foxfield is our one chance a year to celebrate a ridiculously self-indulgent style of dress and be brahs, err, brothers and sisters in solidarity. Because if Foxfield is to uphold its reputation, as the horse race where you never see the horses, we might as well enjoy gawking at each other instead.
Saddle up and ride Keenan at ktimko@georgetownvoice.com
