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It's heraldry. In Constantinople, crowds cheered the charioteers according to their color: Blues, Reds, Greens, Whites. People revolted against emperors according to their allegiance to horses and drivers and their colors. It's a smidge different now. One horse per race and one rider per horse. That pair had best stand out on the track and hence the use of silk, that most sumptuous and shiny of natural fabrics. Silk isn't too showy but it stands out from the sweat shirts and jeans in the grandstands. Color stands out from the mud stampeded and tossed by horses' hooves.

Sure, some polyester and nylon and lycra get woven into modern day jockey clothes and the frillery that bedecks their mounts. It had better be of a silky weave however. It should sparkle in the race day sun and whip like a pennant around the straining muscles of the racers, both human and equine. Like on any other thoroughfare, the player that stands out from the pack has the best chance of getting ahead. There is nothing gaudy about trying to stand out from a lineup when there is a purse to win.

Track culture breeds its own fashions. It is a world apart from trip to the convenience store. Jockeys, those that employ them, those that dress them, and those who train the horses have their minds attuned to a different set of standards than blending in with the crowd. Race day is a day of pageantry. Racing silks are a part of that passion play. The most garish may not win the day but the flamboyant will certainly garner attention. If you bet, you might lose. If you race you might lose. This is the nature of the game. If you can do it while looking good, little harm is done. There is no such thing as too colorful or too much over the top. Evel Knievel knew this on a motorcycle. A horse owner knows this at a race. More is better and better is more. Coins are shiny and though few people bet with silver dollars anymore the lesson is still the same, carried over generations from grandfather to grandson.

The hooves beat the ground and the silks flutter like pennants. The jockey is crouched like a man riding a rocket, so small that observeres see little more than a colored dot in orbit, one lenght, two lengths, three lengths four and then the photo finish. Under the garland, surrounded by roses and greenery and baby's breath, a man and his horse have to stand out from the accolades showered on them. They need thier clothing to command the attention of flashbulbs in high relief. Every jockey a winner representing his horse, his trainer, the horse's owner, the jockey's employer and the hopes and dreams of the people in the stands who pinned their hopes on a win. You don't pose for that in dirty sweat pants. You do it in racing silks, properly, proudly and unashamed of taking the stakes.

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