"I want to be alone," mourned Greta Garbo as she stepped up to the payoff window at New York's Roosevelt Raceway. Or if she didn't she should have. Peering out at the assembled horseflesh from under a characteristically floppy broad-brimmed hat, the Solitary Swede picked winners in six out of nine races, but so, alas, did a lot of other people, and all her winnings totaled was a measly $26.

Pausing at the end of a deft figure eight in Cleveland. Dr. Benjamin Spock {below) bubbled, "I used to fall down quite a bit, but now I can keep my feet." The 6-foot 4-inch onetime (1924) Olympic crewman who gave up rowing to become the nation's top babysitter has now turned to skating to regain his old athletic shape. "It's excellent exercise," he said and, remembering his field, quickly added, "and a sport you can do with your children."

Back in Russia after his American visit, world-record-holding high jumper Valeri Brumel could not resist tattling on his old rival in a Moscow newspaper. "John Thomas, having graduated from Boston University, is not working at his profession—physical training instructor—but is working as a salesman of medical equipment. In the U.S.A. it pays better," reported Soviet P.E. Instructor Brumel, who seemed to be doing a little ink-stained moonlighting of his own.

As movers carried a 9-foot 6-inch sailfish, a 44-inch northern pike, a pheasant and the head of a whitetail deer into the den of his new home, Press Secretary George Reedy, the portly successor to portly Pierre Salinger, boasted happily: "You might say I was brought up fishing, and I've loved every minute of it. From time to time I bowl and play golf with my children, but fishing is my No. 1 sport and hunting is second."

With the snow melting on the Alps, Olympic Downhill Champion Egon Zimmermann slipped into the kitchen, put on his apron and beat his way right into another gold medal—this time for the best Apfelstrudel in Austria.

With papa's billions making life for him an odds-on bet, Gordon Getty could not quite decide whether to invest in a gambling license for the luxury motel he is planning to build in Reno. "I'm really not a gambler myself," explained the 30-year-old son of J. Paul Getty, whose first baby furniture was a jackpot.

Give the average American businessman a day off and he whips out to the local golf course. But give Golf Pro Billy Casper a day off and he picks up his fishing rod and heads for deep water. Billy would rather put down a sinker than sink a putt, any day. And 53-year-old Jimmy De-maret would rather fiddle with the automatic direction-finder on his brand-new four-place Beechcraft Debonair than hit a 300-yard drive. "A direction-finder," says Demaret, "is what every golfer needs."

Against the day when he may meet up with some of his old associates, Cosa Nostra's top canary Joe Valachi, according to latest reports, is conducting a one-man fitness program in jail. Each morning he throws his feet over his head and pedals an imaginary bicycle for 10 minutes. Then he dangles his 160 pounds from an overhanging pipe and chins himself. Finally he reaches under his cot and pulls out a portable muscle-builder for several chest pulls. How does he cool off? By reading the racing results and looking for his name in the gossip columns, of course.

Life as a movie star was proving aquatically rougher than winning Olympic medals for former Aussie swim star Murray Rose. Filming Ride the Wild Surf on location amid the breakers off Hawaii's Sunset Beach, the much bemed-aled merman hopped on a foam board, caught a big wave and was promptly battered into the sea. Bobbing around and under like a wayward cork, the Aussie finally surfaced only to have his handsome profile crunched and several teeth knocked into the Pacific by his new competitor—the surfboard.

Leaving the horses back in the stable for a change, Jacqueline Kennedy, Caroline and John-John headed north to Stowe, Vt. for an Easter weekend of skiing with the brothers Kennedy. While experts Bob and Ted schussed the rugged Nose Dive, beginner Jackie and her small fry made their debuts leaving sitzmarks on the bunny slopes.

"He must have flown it in. You can't drive in there," said a California state policeman peering down at what was left of Singer Vic Damone's sleek silver-gray Ferrari. Unwilling pilot Damone had barely warmed up his brand-new, $15,000 sports car when he took off from the highway, landed 50 feet below in a canyon with lots of pine trees but no landing strip. The 35-year-old crooner is fine, but the 5-hour-old Ferrari is finished.