Dubai: Less than a week remains before the race we’ve been waiting all year to see, the Epsom Derby, unfolds at the picturesque Berkshire racecourse in England.

Anyone who has been to the Derby will probably agree when I say that this race offers an experience like no other. It is nothing short of a spectacle.

You’ll find over 125,000 race goers crammed into the historic venue, in the grandstand; men in hats, women in even prettier hats and designer dresses, some sipping bubbly in the stylish marquees, the more adventurous sun-seekers sitting atop double-decker busses, and those who love the sheer smell of racing, crowding the rails along the five-furlong straight.

It’s a sight to behold, particularly if your accreditation gets you the press box located on the upper level of the main Grandstand. From this bird’s nest the view is breathtaking. Never mind if you can’t smell the barbecues anymore or find a bookmaker you can reach before the bell goes for the start of the race. This is the best seat in the house and it inspires some of the best journalists in the world, to deliver their best writing, on the best horse race in the world.

To flat-racing enthusiasts and racing writers like me, at most times the sport is all about picking the fastest horse in the race. As simple as that. But this does not apply to a race like the Epsom Derby. It’s not always the fastest horse that wins the day; but the fiercest, the smartest, the most resilient, the one with the strongest legs, the longest stride, and sometimes, yes something, the one with the best jockey in the saddle.

Forget that the Derby is a race laden with history and goes back centuries.

It is a very British event and one that the Brits proudly call the DAR-bee, unlike the Americans who refer to their version as the DER-bee.

It’s a race that erupts into frenzy as soon as the field of horses are let loose from the starting stalls. The excitement builds with every furlong and almost reaches a crescendo as they come through the dreaded Tattenham Corner and enter the home stretch. After this you can barely hear the nice-voiced English gentleman calling the race as the horses and jockeys begin to blur. It’s hard to focus on the horse you have picked, as the final crescendo builds and threatens to blow the roof off the Grandstand, and all those pretty hats. And in a flash it’s over, the horses have crossed the line. Somewhere among them is the winner.

Was he the one you chose?

Nevermind, we’ve got another chance come Saturday.