It hits me on the first cool morning of the season, a nip in the air and the scent of fall. We're almost done. I try to ignore it. I avoid the inevitable. The days slip by like furlongs, heading down to the wire. I want to embrace them, get here early, stay here late. I don't want to leave. This morning, I stood by the rail in the glow of the dawn and clutched my cup of coffee, just listening to the sounds of Saratoga. The horse vans rumbling, shippers loading into deeply-bedded stalls for the trek back to Belmont or on to Keeneland. Polo wraps and quilted bandages. Chain shanks and hay bales. All of us taking different paths to different places. Another year gone by. Call me sentimental, but I always get a little choked up when I think about leaving this place. Saratoga is racing as it was meant to be, as we find it nowhere else. If you can't love the game in this town, you can't really love it at all. Sure, surviving up here is tough. Doesn't matter if you're an owner, a trainer, a jockey, a journalist. This track will test your limits. These people will test your resolve. This game will break your heart if you let it, so you just have to decide that it won't. You have to live life like a gutsy runner. Fight back when challenged. Lay it all out on the line. No holds barred, and no regrets. It's been a fulfilling season of great stories created by even greater runners. Tuesday, I go back to the real world. Until then, I'm content to soak up these next few days with the people, the horses, and the sport I love the most. So here's to Saratoga. I'm gonna miss it.