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​As with many others, I suspect, I have a print of Arkle on the wall. I wonder if anyone has a picture or photograph of Flyingbolt, the forgotten horse of National Hunt?
In a few days, weather permitting, Navan stages the Flyingbolt Novice Chase. I wish they would include the word ‘Memorial’ in the race title to inform younger racegoers that the race is staged in honour of a truly great steeplechaser. Flyingbolt holds the distinction of being rated the second best steeplechaser in the history of the sport, officially only 1lb inferior to his stable-mate Arkle. Yet ‘Himself’ remains as revered as the one lone equine god, the greatest legend of the sport, while poor old Flyingbolt is best remembered, if remembered at all, for the Brucellosis that robbed him and the racing record books of what might have been a glorious career.
He won the Irish Grand National, giving 40lb to the runner-up, the Champion Chase, Thyestes Chase, the race at the Cheltenham Festival that is now the Arkle, the Massey-Ferguson Gold Cup, the Black & White Gold Cup, the Irish Champion Hurdle and what is now the Supreme Hurdle. Has any other horse, including Arkle, won such a diverse number of top-class races over all distances from 2-miles to 3m-4furlongs?
In a quirk of racing history he won his first race at Navan on 9th October 1963 half an hour after Arkle won his only flat race. What an historic day that was, if only anyone knew at the time.
Brucellosis did not kill Flyingbolt, it only took away his brilliance, and when trained by Ken Oliver in Scotland – Tom Dreaper had wanted the horse retired – ridden by Barry Brogan, he did win a handicap chase at Haydock.
When it is said he contracted Brucellosis what we are talking about is quite possibly fistulous withers. A fistula is an abnormal passage that leads from within the body to the outside, usually the withers, and can be caused through an ill-fitting saddle or an infected wound. It is a chronic inflammatory disease of the bursa, the sac-lined container of lubricating fluid near the spine. It can also be caused by a hair-like parasite, Onchocerca Cervicalis. The symptoms can vary from swollen withers, fever and pain, swollen joints, open fistula, lameness, systemic illness, and it can take up to two years from the first infection before any symptoms manifest.
It is thought the most likely cause of infection was through summering at grass alongside infected cattle. But as it can take up to two years for the symptoms to display, and Flyingbolt was a big gangly youngster, it is possible the cause was an ill-fitting saddle rubbing his withers when he was first put into training. If that is the case then he did the bulk of his winning with the disease dormant within his body.
It is generally regarded as unfortunate that he did not run against Arkle as that might have informed us which of the two was the greater. A strict interpretation of the form book through Height O’Fashion and Flying Wild suggests Flyingbolt was superior, yet Pat Taaffe had no doubt who he would have chosen to ride if the two had come up against each other. ‘Arkle with a bit in hand,’ he wrote in his autobiography. ‘He would have broken Flyingbolt’s heart.’ Indeed Pat Taaffe rated Flyingbolt only the third best horse he ever rode, preferring Mill House to him. We might have learned more of the respective merits of Tom Dreaper’s two superstars if Flyingbolt had taken on Mill House in a race over 3-miles, or at least Mill House before back problems reduced his brilliance.
Another quirk of fate was that racing lost in effect both Flyingbolt and Arkle within 2-months as the former was diagnosed with Brucellosis in early November and Arkle broke his pedal bone in late December.
I have no real recollection of Flyingbolt. I wish I had. I wish I could compare Golden Miller and Prince Regent to Arkle. I have to rely on the evidence of the form book, recollections of people older than me who witnessed the exploits of both and not have to rely on black and white footage on YouTube to form my opinions. Arkle won three Gold Cups. Flyingbolt never got the chance to win one. One has the scores on the board, the other has not.
Flyingbolt was rated at the height of his powers only 1lb below Arkle. Even Kauto Star did not achieve such a starry rating. Yet he is almost forgotten. The race run in his name at Navan does not go close to doing his memory justice. If he was running now we would be falling over in homage to him as he wouldn’t have to carry monumental weights in handicaps but would have the luxury of competing at level weights against horses far inferior to him. As would, of course, if he lived in our era, Arkle.
Flyingbolt was a freak of nature. He was the product of an impotent sire, Airborne, who was given a home at a small stud farm and turned out with a barren mare. He was a story from beginning to end. He died aged 24 in 1983. At least he out-lived his more famous stable-mate.

I describe myself as a ‘workaday writer of fiction’, even though I now concentrate on expressing my hopes and concerns for the great sport of horse-racing. Prior to my conversion I did indeed write fiction, initially focusing (as all writing advice begins with ‘write about what you know’) on horse racing related short stories, as it seemed a neglected market. In fact I was naïve and pompous enough to believe I was ‘inventing’ a whole new genre.
In my naivety and ignorance of the world of publishing I was surprised to discover that literary agents and publishers had no interest in horse racing as fiction, especially in short story form, and seemed positively scared of the concept of a ‘new genre’. Of course if your name was Jenny Pitman, John Francome, Richard Pitman or, regrettably, A.P.McCoy, and the book can be marketed and sold on name alone, the almost impossible quest for the previously unpublished writer is easier to accomplish. But as an unknown of the same limited writing ability it can be a quest as impossible to achieve as getting to the moon in a camper van without the aid of Grommet.
So these short stories became somewhat redundant. Now don’t get the false impression that these stories were read and rejected as inadequate. They were not read at all, by neither literary agent nor publisher. There is no market, apparently, no public appetite, for short fiction based on the world of horse racing. Especially as there is no filth, violence or corruption in any of my work.
So in ignorance and a fair degree of desperation and exasperation I self-published the stories as e-books and sat back and waited for the royalties to flood into my bank account. Alas no. My ignorance went as far as making two other rookie mistakes. I self-published as e-books another seven, non-racing related, novels and as I could not afford to market and advertise any of the books, except one advisement in the Racing Post for ‘Going To The Last’, no one ever knew these books even existed. You see, and I offer this as advice to anyone who similarly wishing to see their written work published, it costs very little in real terms to achieve self-publishing but it takes a city investment banker’s income to be able to afford to market and advertise your books. And this is important advice because you do not publish in isolation; the world of Amazon and the other e-book sellers is truly global and you, and I, are only one of millions of others who are also chasing the buyer’s dollar, pound, yen or sou.
The other mistake I made, and this I believe to be my biggest error of judgement, was that I did not employ the services of a professional to edit out the silly mistakes all, and I mean even the best of writers, make due to the ‘lazy eye’ and over-familiarity with his or her work. I have now righted this crass error and have re-published (relaunch is over-egging the pudding as I still cannot afford marketing and advertising) ‘Going To The Last’, and remain rather proud of the contents.
As the most recent of the stories was written over ten years ago the overall feeling of the book, I suspect, is one of ‘days gone, never to be seen again’. I have a fascination for the history of our sport and many of the stories are set in the past and near past. I am also a protector of the integrity of the sport and some of the stories are about the journeyman jockey and the sacrifices and dangers he must endure to earn an income to support his family.
‘Yesterday’s Magic’ I am particularly proud of and is one of my favourite pieces of writing. It is a story that goes against my boast that there is no ‘corruption’ in any of my fiction and was triggered by the theories associated with the horse of Guy Harwood’s that in the act of winning at Royal Ascot veered violently across the course as if avoiding the hounds of hell.
‘I’m Afraid He is. I’m Afraid He Is’ is an invention of mine based on several true stories involving Arkle, Flyingbolt and Tom Dreaper. Both a ‘Grey Day’ and ‘Emily’s Smile of Wonder’ concern Desert Orchid, the former a story based on fact, the latter a dose of sentimentality that I do not apologise for. ‘Pitchcroft Blues’ is a record of an evening’s racing I enjoyed many moons ago with a friend at Worcester. The human characters are changed but the results of the races will be found in the form book of the day.
As with any collection of short stories, the reader will prefer some to others and, again as with any collection, some of the stories are more readable, and just better, than others. But that can only be the judgement of the reader. The stories fit many genres of fiction, thriller (although in truth only a parody of the racing thriller) romance, historical and even the paranormal. But mainly they are simply stories about horses, jockeys and the people whose lives are made more interesting and comfortable because of their association with the greatest of all sports.
The collection can be easily found on the virtual shelves of all respectable e-book sellers and can be purchased at the near giveaway price of £1.99. If I sell a thousand copies I will no doubt earn the princely sum of a tenner. With e-book priced at bargain basement prices you have to ship millions to make thousands. But I will be read, and for the writer that is the greatest gift of all.
Anyone who buys the collection can make their comments known to me through this website. (horseracingmatters.com) Any abuse should be kept within the parameters of good taste.

​Everything is relative, of course. We live, at least in Great Britain, in a veritable paradise compared to the living conditions endured today in, for example, many areas of Syria or North Korea. Indeed our lives are more comfortable than were those of our forebears who lived workaday lives in this country during any period from the Middle Ages to the end of the Victorian era and, in some respects, beyond. Whether racing and those who attempt to earn a living from it are better off than in days of yore is a matter of judgement.
In 1974 Fred Winter was leading trainer having won 85 races worth £79,066. Forty-four years on and the majority of the races at the Cheltenham Festival alone will have a first prize far in excess of that season’s total. If Paul Nicholls or Nicky Henderson only fired in 85 winners in a season they might judge the season as poor. Incidentally, when Fred Winter won the Grand Nationals of 1965 and 1966 with Jay Trump and Anglo (and here is an interesting fact, formerly known as Flag of Convenience) first prize was £22,000.
In 1974 the top trainers would receive more applications for jobs than they had spare capacity, and lads would only look after 3 horses and ride out 2 lots. In 1974 stable employees were mainly male, with girls a rarity. Also assistant trainers were expected to work unpaid otherwise they would be deemed professional and be unable to ride as amateurs.
People rode without helmets in those days, of course, although by this period jockeys were taking the lead by schooling with their heads protected. To watch old footage of strings of horses wending their way from stable yards to the gallops at Newmarket or Epsom with every rider wearing on his head only a cloth cap is like glimpsing on a scene from a hundred and fifty years ago rather than the 1960’s and 70’s. We, or at least those of us from around that era, must have been pretty stupid as I remember when helmets became compulsory there was a chorus of wining and moaning about having ‘choice’ taken from us, and trainers, who had to bear the financial cost of this health and safety measure, trying to convince staff that they were not responsible for purchasing these helmets, only ensuring they were worn.
Trainers, of course, must always be attempting to keep costs down. Horses who chew their rugs or who scrape their bedding into a heap, contaminating clean wood shavings with the dirty, will never be favourites with a trainer working to very tight margins. And lads who leave expensive tack to be sodden with rain or chewed by one of their charges will also be thought of, and perhaps be spoken to, uncharitably.
In 1974 the best oats were £70 a ton. To rent a racing stables in Lambourn cost something like £200 a year. Gallop fees were £40 a year. Training fees were in the region of £28 per horse per week. Travelling expenses for a lad going racing was £1.50 a day. To rent a Telex machine to send in entries to Weatherbys – a thing of the distant past admittedly – could cost £200 a year to rent plus 4p a minute to use. I dare say though the actual cost of entries may have risen considerably, the actual process of entering is today simpler and much cheaper.
And all-weather gallops, swimming pools and horse-walkers were unheard of. As was the 40-hour week.
Although I was ignorant of the financial implications of running a racing stable in the 1970’s, and I was but a small and ineffectual cog struggling to come to terms with an environment that was completely at odds with my upbringing in a large city, when at evening stables the trainer and head lad would inspect every horse in turn, with grooming kit readied for inspection on top on the squared heap of straw bedding, a world that still mirrored the age before the first world war, I can still look fondly on those times and wish I could revisit them and make a better fist of things than I actually achieved.
Relative, though, is the key word. £79,000 in 1974 equates to £774,400 in today’s money, and £28 to £274. £1.50 in 1974 equates to £14.70 now and £40 to £352.
Of course I cannot compare then with now. Only a trainer or an owner can make the comparison. Though expensive then would equal expensive now.
The Grand National to be run on April 14th this year has £1.million in prize money. The first prize won by Jay Trump and Anglo equates today to £215,000. A lot of dosh then, a lot of dosh now. As I said, everything is relative.

​Nicky Henderson could be in for a magnificent Cheltenham Festival. At the time of writing he has the favourites for the Champion Hurdle, the Champion 2-mile Chase and the Gold Cup. Though it must really chafe his onions that his abilities as a trainer do not run to 3-mile hurdlers, with the best he can come up with being L’ami Serge, a generally available 12/1 shot. And for good measure he has the ante-post favourites for the Ultima Handicap Chase and more pertinently the Johnny Henderson Grand Annual. A bumper festival is no doubt in the offing for the Masterful master of Seven Barrows.
Henderson learnt his trade at the feet of Fred Winter and if the Master of Uplands were around today he would offer words of caution similar to: remember 1974, my boy, and entertain no thoughts of celebration until fate has dealt its last card.
In 1974 Fred Winter went to the Cheltenham Festival with the favourites for the Champion Hurdle, the Champion 2-mile Chase, the Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Totalisator Champion Novice Chase, now the R.S.A. He left Cheltenham with only one winner, Killiney winning the latter race, though in a few weeks, due to a fall at Ascot, everyone’s idea of a future Gold Cup winner would be dead, causing the implacable Winter to shed a tear in public.
Interesting Fact: the opening race on the first day of the Festival was the Aldsworth Hurdle. Oh if it were not the case now. The winner of the Supreme is only ever rarely ‘supreme’.
Winter’s tale of woe began in the Champion 2-mile Chase with Crisp, the 8/15 favourite, only to be beaten into third by Inkslinger. 3 weeks later Crisp was second again, only this time it was in the Grand National, putting up what I consider the greatest performance to be seen on a British racecourse, failing by a nose trying to achieve the impossible.
Winter’s luck turned in the Totalisator Champion Novice Chase, though Killiney’s victory, proof positive he was a leading Gold Cup horse, was not gained without the scare of him hitting the third last hard and then, and here’s the coincidence, hanging right all the way to the line.
The racing press considered Bula a certainty to win his third Champion Hurdle, only to finish a disappointing fifth of eight. ‘Lacked his usual sparkle,’ Paul Kelleway commented. ‘Needs further these days,’ was Fred’s opinion.
But he still had Pendil to look forward to in the Gold Cup, only having the two from ‘over the wall’ to worry about. Unfortunately one of the two, The Dikler, got up to win by a nose, with Richard Pitman, as always his harshest critic, blaming himself for not delaying his run a bit longer.
Buveur D’Air is, of course, the banker of the meeting, with the aging Faugheen the only possible danger. He is the Bula of the Henderson ranks. One just hopes for Henderson’s sake that he does not lose his sparkle during the race. After missing the Festival last year Barry Gerraghty deserves the opportunity to sparkle himself.
Altior will never run in a Grand National, of course. Such deeds of derring-do as 2-mile chasers running in Grand Nationals are as likely nowadays as a trainer electing to put up Lady Godiva on a Cheltenham favourite when Richard Johnson was available simply to appease their stable sponsor. Altior is, though, as great a certainty to win the Champion 2-mile Chase as the price of the Racing Post rising by 10p on the Monday of the Festival. What’s to beat him? Oh yes, what’s the name of the half-forgotten Irish flying machine with the leap of a gazelle? 9/2 in places, Douvan. 9/2. The horse that gets Ruby Walsh out of bed every morning. Remember. But this is the question you must ponder: is Willie Mullins capable of preparing a horse to win a championship race first time out? Forget Min. Min will only win if Altior and Douvan both fall down the well.
Douvan is Irish, as was Inkslinger. Crisp was 8/15 favourite. Altior is currently, in places, 8/13.
So without a contender for the R.S.A., the race that brought some cheer for Fred Winter, Henderson might be relying on the enigmatic but handsome Might Bite to do the business in the Gold Cup. Pendil was not handsome. He was dour, a relentless winning machine. I doubt if he races until he is as old as Cue Card that Might Bite will ever be described as dour. In some respect it is Might Bite versus the Irish, with the only British contenders worth a mention in the ante-post markets being Native River and Definitly Red, which is odd when you remember how close both Double Shuffle and Tea For Two were to Might Bite in the King George and he certainly wasn’t going away from them.
Nicky Henderson knows in his heart that all four cannot win. He’ll be frustrated but relieved if one wins, with a second or third winner allowing him unbridled joy and tears. Mainly, though, as we all would echo, he will wish all four to return to Seven Barrows uninjured and in good health. Fate was cruel to both Killiney and Bula, while it was plain malicious to Crisp. I will have to research what fate had in store for Pendil.