Animal gambling in Alaska?
Yeah, baby.
But forget thoroughbred horses and greyhounds. Who wants to watch a bunch of skinny animals race around a track?
Rats are more fun.
Well, OK, gerbils. And they don't even work up a sweat. They simply roam around and around in circles until they stir up the crowd and then escape down a hole.
Which is pretty much what happens at the Palmer Elks Lodge annual Rat Race at the Alaska State Fair. It's the one time of year people gather together to cheer on the likes of rodents. They lay down bets, cross their fingers and yell in big, bellowing voices.
It isn't hard. All you need is a couple of bucks and a little bit of enthusiasm.
So step right up, folks. Pick a colored square and lay your quarter down.
WAY OF THE WHEEL
Tucked way back inside the fair by the edge of the carnival rides, surrounded by the smells of corn dogs and husky burgers and the fierce screams from the Super Round Up, is the Elks Rat Race booth. It isn't much to behold, just a boxlike structure, a little shabby but sturdy enough to hold the weight of a few hundred pounds of elbows leaning against it. You'll hear the shouts before you actually notice the booth, loud cries screaming out "yellow" and "green" and "go big orange!" In the front, large colored squares fill the boards, quarters winking off the surfaces.
But don't bet right away. Strategywise, it's smart to hold
out the first few spins, to concentrate on the wheel and the gerbil, to pull inside an almost Zenlike state until you can almost feel the color waiting inside that rodent's mind.
Watch the wheel. It's a large, wooden structure with 52 colored pie-shaped wedges with holes at the end of the wheel. Beneath each color is a small triangular compartment for the gerbil's getaway.
In the middle of the wheel is a large painted circle, a plastic Tupperwarelike container hanging above. This is lowered over the gerbil to hold it in place as bets are placed. Then the handler gives the wheel a gentle turn, the container is lifted and the gerbil is suddenly set free to roam around the wheel.
Typical gerbil behavior dictates that it hesitates a moment before taking off, its back quivering, its ears pointed forward as if listening for a voice in the crowd. This stirs everyone up until they are all shouting mindlessly and urgently "black, red, blue." The gerbil finally shakes its head and scurries off toward the black, veers along the green and orange and blue and plops neatly inside the red hole.
Payoff for that color is 2 to 1, which isn't that great, but no one's here for the money. They're here to win, and even two quarters are better than none. When it's time for the next bet, hands hesitate over the chancier colors. Orange and pink will net 10 to 15 times what you lay down, though of course there aren't as many wheel slots, and chances are against you.
So don't be shy. Reach in your pocket and slide your quarter down on the yellow. It's a bright, cheerful color, and it pays 5 to 1. Don't worry when the gerbil, that sly little rodent, sticks its head down the yellow twice as if to tease you and then scurries off down the black slot. You've just lost 25 cents, but big deal. You haven't had so much fun in weeks.
GERBIL BITS
The Alaska State Fair Rat Races stretch back 50 years and have become sort of a tradition among fairgoers. According to Sharon Pendergrass, event manager for 21 years, organizers had used hamsters but found that they didn't have as much oomph. Gerbils, she said, were faster, smaller and easier to handle.
"And they don't bite," she said.
They have 30 gerbils for the event, and each is used for 15 to 20 minutes before getting retired to the back, where they are kept in cozy cages, four together, so they don't get lonely. Jim Hastings, an Elks leading knight, said that since gerbils are social animals, they try to group them together.
"So they can snuggle up," he said.
The gerbils came from Animal Food Warehouse this year, which donated half. After the fair, if the store doesn't want them back, the Elks will donate them to the community. Though, Hastings warned, don't even try to come up to the booth and request a bunch at once.
"Anyone says, 'I'll take six or seven of them, obviously they're gonna feed them to a snake. Any question of snake bait, and we don't give them away."
Mostly, he said, it's kids wanting to take Pat the Rat or Julie or Chewy home as a pet.
"This is a family event," Hastings said. "We like to let the kids give the rats a name. It draws them in and gets the crowd involved and gives the kids some recognition. It makes them feel important."
He was quick to add that kids aren't allowed to bet. Anyone under 19 can only watch, and rat handlers and change makers don't hesitate to card anyone who looks under 25 or so.
"But we want the kids here," Hastings said. "They liven it up, scream and yell. It would be pretty somber if no one yelled. It would be like a pull-tab parlor. It would be really depressing."
JoAnne Hall of Anchorage was having a blast. In fact, she was almost exuberant after winning 40 quarters.
"And I only bet 50 cents," she cried. "I won on the pink. Lucky pink."
She was there with her children and grandchildren, and they all gathered around and stared at her handful of quarters with awe.
After such a big payoff, the gerbil was retired to the back and another one was brought out. This one was beige, with a slim marking of orange across its back.
"What are we gonna call this little guy?" Hastings called out to the crowd.
"Sparky," 8-year-old Klyer VanBuren called out.
"OK, Sparky," Hasting placed him carefully beneath the plastic container. "Do your stuff."
But Sparky had a stubborn streak. As soon as the wheel turned and he was set free, he set off, sprinting around the board as if auditioning for the Olympics. Around and around he went, paying little interest to the holes.
"Red! Orange! Yellow!" people screamed, but Sparky paid them no mind. It ran for almost two minutes, then stopped, looked out at the crowd as if wondering who in the heck they were and slipped gracefully into a white hole.
"As indecisive as that one was, we're gonna send it to Juneau next year," handler Andy Gorab joked.
This year, there was a high-stakes side at one end. Instead of quarter bets, dollars were bet, and every bettor got nifty silver chips to play. It cut a little bit more into the pocket, but lucky folks could reap in bigger winnings. Such as Noe Fuerte, who placed silver chips on squares for himself and three kids. They lost a few rounds but quickly rallied when they won on orange, 15 to 1. Instead of changing colors, Fuerte cleverly placed two more chips on orange, and darned if that little rodent wasn't on his side. It looked right at him, shook its whiskers and slid smoothly down the orange hole.
"Daddy," his children screamed, jumping up and down. "Look at all the coins."
Fuerte jiggled the silver chips while his family gathered around to admire his newfound riches.
LONG LIVES THE RAT
The big story around the Elks Lodge last year was when a few big, bad boys at the state attorney general's office tried to shut down the Rat Race (yes, shut it down!) because they claimed animal gaming was illegal. There was a lot of sad talk last year that it might be the final spin for the rats. But justice prevailed, and, according to Hastings, there's no hard feelings.
"The rats still run," is how he put it.
Since every quarter bet is donated to charity, the Elks don't consider it gambling. Instead, they see it more as community service, a way of bringing people together to have fun while helping those who need a little boost. Plus they don't feel there is any danger of people becoming addicted. It's wild and exhilarating, yes, but it happens only once a year.
As far as animal-rights people complaining, he said, the gerbils are treated well, receive generous treats, have clean cages and lots of water.
"There's always someone who says it's so cruel, but in all honesty, it's no difference than letting a 5-year-old have a gerbil and it gets loose. Most run around in those wheels or get stuffed in monster balls, where the cats and dogs bat them around."
The Elks work hard to keep the event clean. They see it as a family event, a way for moms and dads to take a safe chance and laugh and yell along with the kids. And it is funny, watching that rodent scurry around the wheel.
It's ridiculous and absurd. Sometimes the gerbil picks the color you bet on, and you win. Sometimes it picks another color, and you lose. And sometimes it runs mindlessly around the middle and ends up pooping on the board.
Gerbil racing, you could philosophize, is a lot like life.
its a rats race...
