NEW ORLEANS -- A few miles away, the mighty Mississippi flowed slowly toward the Gulf of Mexico. On a warm, humid Sunday afternoon at the Fair Grounds, I felt relaxed and pleased that I was about to bet on a live race at my 64th track. That's nothing to carve on a tombstone, but it's worth mentioning, especially to fellow degenerates, who are always impressed.

I escaped the chilly Northeast with my wife and our two teenagers the night before, and the fine weather in The Big Easy made me feel as if I was getting away with something, such as being paid for chronicling my misadventures as a horseplayer. My four dollars went down on a cheap, Louisiana-bred claimer whose name I forgot immediately. It didn't finish in the money, but I didn't really care. The important thing was I had just wagered at my 39th track in North America.

This pari-mutuel journey has been going strong for almost 24 years, and like Ol' Man River, I just keep rolling along. It's encompassed seven countries and four continents -- from Hong Kong to Chantilly, from San Diego to Dublin, from Rio de Janeiro to Montreal. Whenever I'm asked why I'm willing to wander the Earth in pursuit of more losing tickets, I quote this Zen proverb: "It is not necessary to live. It is necessary to travel."

Oddly, I resisted starting this long, strange trip. During my senior year (1971-72) at Boston University, some friends suddenly became obsessed with playing the horses, and they tried to drag me along to Rockingham Park, Foxboro Raceway and Suffolk Downs. During meals in the dorm, they studied the Form and babbled constantly about horses. It drove me nuts. Here's some verbatim dialogue from 33 years ago that still echoes in my head:

"I don't like this horse. I love him."

"I not only guarantee that your horse will lose, I will pay you if he doesn't. I absolutely hate him."

"I'm not just saying this horse will win, I'm saying that there's no need even to run the race. He is the total lock of the century, and he'll be at least 4-1."

What they were doing seemed as idiotic as they sounded, and I took secret, mean-spirited pleasure in their accounts of bad beats and financial setbacks. How could you predict how some dumb, half-ton animal would run by studying a bunch of little numbers? When I felt like being obnoxious, I would quote James Joyce, who said: "I know that one horse is faster than the others, but I do not care which one it is."

I didn't care, either, and throughout that fall and winter I refused to accompany Dave, Phantom, the Turk and Mike on weekend visits to the track. Finally, on a warm May morning in 1972, I grudgingly agreed to take the trolley with them to Suffolk Downs. I wasn't impressed with the seedy scene in East Boston. I lost six or eight bucks and had no desire to return to a track. For nine years, I didn't.

In the summer of 1981, I was living in New Jersey when my friend Rick proposed a day trip to Monmouth Park. As a baseball nut, I was very bored during the major-league strike that began the month before. So I said OK, and since it was July the 7th, for absurdity's sake I decided to play the No. 7 horse in the first race of the seventh day of the seventh month. It paid $27.40 to win, and it occurred to me that I might have judged this game too harshly.

Although beginner's luck soon wore off, I was hooked anyway. I started buying the Form every day and reading every handicapping book I could find. A little knowledge led to confusion and anguish, and I watched loud dirtbags exult over scores as I ripped up tickets and cursed. I refused to give up, figuring that if these idiots could beat this game, I certainly could. A month later, baseball was back, but I'd already found a new love. And after all this time, we're still together.

The racing bug bit me hard, and I've scratched the itch all over the world. Not that I'm setting any records, or even coming close. A few years ago, Andrew Beyer wrote about a schoolteacher who claims to have visited almost 250 tracks in North America alone, so for me he's the uncatchable Hank Aaron of racetrack road trips. My long-term goal is a hundred, and that may not even be hittable.

But so what, and I don't care that I'm in the red for life on the betting ledger. The quest keeps me interested and on the move, and without horse racing, my adult life would have been so much duller. It's not whether you win or lose, but how long you keep playing the game and where it takes you.