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BIRDBRAINED
Grown men around the world are racing pigeons for fun - and some really big bucks.

Text: BRAD MACKAY

WALLY SABELL ARRIVES AT THE SILVERTON HOTEL & CASINO AROUND 6:30 p.m. on Thursday and elbows his way through the maze of slot machines and blackjack tables. The 72-year-old dodges the keno waitresses, ignores the call of the all-you-can-eat buffet and slips into a back room of this Las Vegas casino. Unlike the herd of silver-haired low rollers outside, Wally is uninterested in your run-of-the-mill video poker. Right now, not even an underground poker game or baccarat session will do. Tonight Wally is answering a higher calling - that of pigeon racing.

While pigeon racing has existed for centuries, it has largely been a regionalized hobby, with like-minded men pitting their birds against one another in a race back to their home lofts. But the recent growth of high-stakes one-loft races has helped change all that. As the name implies, in one-loft races, a large number of pigeons are raised at one location, which allows them to be treated equally with feed and medication. With big purses and a common finish line, one-loft races have added a much-needed shot of drama to a lonely – and admittedly strange – pastime.

It’s fitting, then, that this high-voltage gambler’s mecca is playing host this weekend to the world’s top feathered athletes in a trifecta of one-loft pigeon racing. By Saturday, more than 1,000 pigeon breeders and fanciers from Italy, Belgium, China and the Philippines will descend on America’s playground for a trio of long-distance races with a combined purse of more than US$1.25-million. By the time Wally arrives at the Silverton Showroom, a good half of them are waiting patiently for tonight’s kickoff of the latest race, the Vegas Classic – a 515-kilometre aerial marathon with US$40,000 for the first-place bird. An affable, bright-eyed landscaper from Denver, Wally has been raising homing pigeons for almost 60 years. Clad in a blue satin jacket with a larger-than-life pigeon design on the back, he trades banter and rumours while waiting for the proceedings to begin.

Each breeder is given a three-minute audience with his bird before it is registered and locked in the race trailer. (Following the inspection, the 382 birds will be kept under lock and key overnight before being driven by race officials to the Mexican fishing village El Golfo de Santa Clara and released.) If you’re not around, your bird is left in the hands of race officials. Wally doesn’t like the sound of that. "Look at that guy," he motions with his head. "He has a hand like a foot. I don’t want him anywhere near my bird."

When his name is called, Wally makes his way through cigar smoke to stacks of metal cages and is handed his pigeon beak-first. He begins a pre-flight checklist. First he grabs a wing and holds it outstretched, waiting for it to tremble just so. Next he pushes on the feet – a test of muscle resistance. Uncertain, he peers into the bird’s red and yellow pupils and inspects the colour of its wattle. Then he suddenly flips the bird over, parting its feathers and exposing its breastbone. Squinting, he leans closer, sticks out his tongue and licks the bird’s pale pinkish skin to clean off the excess dander. He says he’s looking for a tiny blood vessel that is visible only in first-class racing pigeons, and he apparently likes what he sees. "Could be a winner," he says nodding, as the bird is secured in its cage.

As bizarre as this seems, Wally’s personal voodoo is re-enacted many times over the next three days. Owners here will do anything, including staring down the birds’ throats and examining their tail feathers, in an attempt to decipher something that is essentially unexplainable. Although homing pigeons date back to ancient Egypt, their ability to return to their home lofts remains inscrutable. Besides being prized as couriers during two world wars, the birds have beguiled everyone from Kublai Khan to Charles Darwin to Queen Victoria. They even sparked a pigeon-fancying craze in late 19th-century Europe, complete with its own social clubs. This culture lingers on in Belgium, the heart of global pigeon racing.

Come Saturday afternoon, Ed Sittner’s back yard is awash with well-maintained beer bellies and once-proud pompadours. It’s a perfectly balmy day, and about 400 farmers, cowboys and businessmen are feeding on barbecue and peach cobbler, just metres from the race loft-cum-finish line. Released around 7:30 a.m., the birds are expected to return to Ed’s 25-metre custom-built loft around 2:30 this afternoon. Ed, the organizer of the Vegas Classic, has been responsible for raising these men’s birds since they were shipped to him from across the globe last summer. Each entrant dished out $1,300 for a team of three birds, the bulk of which is funnelled into the cash prizes.

Calabrese, a Californian wearing a solid-gold pigeon around his neck, believes that one-loft races have changed the sport – and not necessarily for the better. "It used to be you won $75; you’d take your wife out to a dinner and a show," he groans. "Now everything’s just mind-boggling." These heightened stakes lend a whiff of intrigue to today’s event that is usually reserved for more established sports such as horse racing. By 1 p.m., the crowd is swapping rumours in a mash of English, Spanish, Chinese and other languages. Near a set of bleachers, some Mexican guys, up from Los Angeles, share trade secrets with me. "Cocaine," whispers one, prompting me to nervous laughter. "Don’t laugh, man," adds another. "It happens." Steve Bueller, a man with the spreading paunch of someone who loves his barbecue, confesses that such tactics, including the use of steroids, can never be ruled out: "When you’re talking about this type of money, people will do a lot of things."

As the clock drags closer to 2:30 p.m., people stop talking and begin scanning the sky. "This is like watching a baseball game," says a guy wearing a "Fly or Die" ball cap. "In January." To ease the monotony, Wally tears off the top off a cardboard beer box and starts taking side bets on the arrival of the first bird. "What time you like?" he croaks, grabbing at the bills being thrust his way. Shortly after a teenage boy and I place a measly one-dollar bets, we catch sight of a pigeon that has apparently snuck into view from the north.

"Bird! Bird! Bird!" I find myself hollering, complete with a repeated jabbing of my finger. After the boy begins silently jumping in unison, an old-timer interrupts. "Nope," he says dryly. "That’s just a commie." Common pigeons have a more laboured stroke than homing pigeons, he explains, and often coast on updrafts.

Surprisingly, only five birds will arrive today, the rest straggling in tomorrow morning and over the next few days. (The winner, Andy Rodriguez from Texas, walks away with $40,000 plus an additional $10,000 from the breeder pooling.) Still, most fanciers remain steadfast until sundown, wrapped in blankets, awaiting their birds in the desert chill.

"There’s something about them being let go miles away and still deciding to fly back to this stupid little loft," Donald Giunta, a New York contractor, explains. "Let’s face it – they could just land at any time in a nice cornfield somewhere and that would be the end of it."

But they don’t. And that’s a neat kind of magic.