I’m not a big fan of the horses, American-style. It seems a bit industrial and at-a-remove, even when you have a media credential. The tracks in Southern California are big and a bit impersonal and seem mostly about separating customers from their money.

The races at Deauville, however, were intimate and accessible — almost boutique-y — and well worth the commute and the time invested.

A former colleague of Leah’s at the International Herald-Tribune now is a professional horse trainer in France, and we caught a ride to the track at Deauville, a Normandy resort on the North Sea, to see one of her horses run. It was great fun.

We reached the train station at a tidy western suburb at 9 a.m., and within a few minutes we were on our way on the national highway 13, going west, in a Toyota hatchback. It was a bit tight in the back seat because the two of us shared it with the jockey, a supremely fit woman of about 28. It was a picturesque ride, though, through rolling hills of tillage and pasture. One of our hosts described the area as “France’s Wisconsin.”

About 90 minutes later, after a ride that seemed to hit speeds of about 100 mph, we pulled into Deauville, perhaps best known as the Santa Monica of Paris, the quickest and easiest beach from the capital.

But it also is horse-racing country.  The town has two tracks, and we were at the tonier one, the Hippodrome de Deauville-Clairefontaine.

First, a word about the surroundings. The whole track is in Norman style; everything is half-timbered (or appears to be) and the little grandstand has slate roofs with high angles. The sun was out, and the trees haven’t yet lost their leaves, and it was all a visual delight of flowers and trees and well-dressed patrons — hard shoes and jackets for the men, sun dresses for the women.

We got to the track about 45 minutes before the first post, so we had a quick bite to eat in one of the two restaurants in the clubhouse. Some Kir, a bit of Normandy cheese, a little salad …

Then it was over to the barns for an up-close look at how a trainer (who took us into a no-access zone) prepares a horse to run. A groom was walking the horse, Pixie’s Blue, an Irish-bred with impeccable breeding but apparently odd mental patterns. A handful, that is.

Pixie’s Blue was to run in the fifth race, in what our friend the trainer called “the handicapped handicap” for horses without great resumes. When the third race finished on the long, grass track, we went over to watch the horse being saddled, which is a delicate and even complicated business when the horse is a bit jumpy. The saddling went on inside the No. 18 stall, perhaps so Pixie’s Blue couldn’t bolt. A groom and even the jockey helped the trainer get everything just so. Already, the jockey was wearing the silks of the Scottish owner — your own personal silks being, apparently, one of the first things an owner sees to when he or she buys a race horse.

We asked as many questions as we thought reasonable, given that our friend the trainer was working and the jockey was getting ready to compete in a demanding, dangerous sport. A bit more walking, in the shade of the barn, a trip or five around the circle where bettors can get a close look at the field (all 18 horses of it), and then the jockey is boosted up on the tiny saddle, and the horses head out to the grassy track.

At this point, we joined the trainer and her husband on the open space between the little grandstand and the finish line. We tried to follow things on the one big television screen, in the infield, but it was difficult, especially after 18 horses broke from the gate.

According to our friend, French horse races — whether they are 1,400 meters or 2,400 meters (about 7 furlongs to 1.5 miles) — tend to turn into quartermile races. No one likes to run out front, everyone tries to settle about fifth or sixth or seventh, and then charge for the finish down the home stretch — which comes from your right, on a clockwise-oriented track.

Pixie’s Blue, a slender, jet-black thoroughbred, disappeared into the mass, and we had trouble finding her on the back side of the track. Actually, I never saw her at all till the final 100 yards,  right in front of me.

Turns out, the horse and rider dropped back a bit too far, then were bracketed by slower horses and didn’t get any open space until the last 20 or so jumps, getting up to eighth in the 18-horse field. Ah, mal chance!

Then came the fun part. It seems a French track is also something of a county fair. Some area artisans were selling Normandy cheese,  and chocolate,  and fruit and Normandy cider. The trainer and her husband invited us over for dinner, and she had a plan, as well.

Once she had Pixie’s Blue safely in the trailer and on the way back to Paris (and despite a black eye the nutty little filly dispensed by kneeing the trainer in the face, after the race), we bought some Normandy cheese, then drove over to neighboring Trouville, across the river, and to a fresh-fish market where we purchased two sizable sea bass, a half-dozen giant prawns and two dozen oysters — though neither I nor the trainer planned to eat any of the latter.

Then it was a drive back to their home in the leafy suburbs, and a walk with the three dogs around the grounds of the old chateau … and then firing up the barbecue for dinner as the long European sunset began.

We sat in the yard and talked horses and journalism, etc., for several hours, and enjoyed a bottle of Mumm’s champagne and a bottle of white. A French neighbor came over to chat, and while she was there she expertly boned the bass, which was quite tasty,  with melted butter and lemon. And the oysters got rave reviews, as well.

It was a nice break from the city, and a long but very full day by the time we were back in the apartment in the Marais.

If American horse racing were like this — and maybe it is at small tracks — I might go more often. Just for the outing, not necessarily for the racing. And certainly not for the betting.