BALTIMORE — There is a narrative awaiting oxygen in which the Preakness is just a very big horse race in the middle of May. In which it is not dependent on the bigger race that precedes it or tethered to the sometimes-bigger race that follows; and not described disparagingly in terms of which horses are not participating, rather than glowingly in terms of which ones are. In which it is not subsumed by the need for a story larger than its own. In which its crumbling physical home (not for nothing, it’s been crumbling for a while now and still standing, obstinate, as if it has heard all the disrespect and wants to prove a point) and uncertain future are made less relevant by what transpires on the racetrack in the here and now.