I walked the 38th Street Loop this morning in 31:09, and when I finished, at about nine a.m., I saw Jim Taylor in his front yard wearing a gray dress suit. "Man, you're either going to a wedding or a funeral, and I hope it's a wedding." Mr. Taylor's eighty-eight-year-old uncle from Beebe died. I've frequently said the last ten years or so that there are two kinds of people on earth: those who will lend you their car, and those who won't. I'm glad to discover I fall into the former category. Mr. Taylor's truck had a flat. At first I told him I'd change the tire for him if he'd coach me through it, you know, so he wouldn't fuck up his suit, but within a couple of seconds the light bulb over my head went off, and two minutes later he was driving away in my Chevy. "Shit man, I don't even care if you wreck it. It's insured."
OVERHEARD
"The feeling here is unlike none other."
—Chip Wooley, trainer of Mine that Bird, on a replay of the 2009 Kentucky Derby aired this afternoon on NBC Sports Network
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