the fascination of horse racing.

​My fascination with horse racing began when very young. How young I cannot fully recall, though no more than ten or eleven, perhaps a few years earlier. My first vivid recollection of those early days is not focused on any particular horse or jockey but the opening credits of Grandstand and the revolving lens of a television camera in which were snippets of the sports featuring in that Saturday’s transmission. The first colours I recall were that of the Macdonald-Buchanan’s, white with black armbands or something similar. I have it mind that the jockey riding in those silks that day was Jimmy Lindley, though could have been anyone from the mid 1960’s.
It has to be said I had no connection with either horses or racing, though I dare say my father might have had an annual bet on the Grand National, people did in those days. Not that I remember him ever winning. Yet for an obscure reason, even though, as I know now, I had limited idea of the hows, whys and wherefores of the sport, no doubt thinking horses to be indestructible beasts that went on forever, I was consumed by the moving pictures that came via the black and white television, with Saturday afternoon becoming my own personal Sabbath, as it remains.
Back then, and for a couple of decades after, I shared my love of the sport between both codes, even if the holiest of my holy Saturdays was the day of the Grand National. Always was, always will be. I don’t think, even though I remember running home from school to watch Arkle win one of his three Gold Cups, I even realised the significance of the Cheltenham Festival, even though it was staged not that far from my Bristol home.
I have written in the past that the first horse to take up residence in my heart was Spanish Steps, as, going by the evidence provided by the contacts to this site, he did for so many other people, but, having given the matter a good deal of thought and remembrance, it must have been Mill House as one of the few memories I have of my childhood is insisting to my father that he would beat Arkle in this race or that and the feeling of inadequacy on my part when ‘Himself’ proved his supremacy time and time again. Like many people, I might even have shed a tear when Mill House regained the winning thread when winning the Whitbread Gold Cup. Incidentally, if anyone is in any doubt of Arkle’s status as the greatest racehorse (not just steeplechaser) of all-time, remember that Fulke Walwyn, the trainer of Mill House, the Paul Nicholls of his day, had no hesitation in naming Mill House as the best he ever trained.
It was, though, for many, many years, Spanish Steps who resided alone in my heart, the little horse who turned-up for every major steeplechase, winning a few, including a Hennessey, and running gallantly to be placed in most of the others, beating the track record for the time in the Grand National when chasing home Red Rum, giving him 21Ibs, Crisp and L’Escargot. I still believe that Crisp’s performance that day was the greatest I have ever witnessed. If you disagree with me just answer this: could any horse of any era give 23Ibs to Red Rum at Aintree? Crisp came within a whisker of achieving the impossible and to this day Richard Pitman blames himself for the defeat.
My fascination, and devotion, to this sport lies not with the potential it allows for winning huge dollops of money from bookmakers, but because of the golden memories it provides. If I have bad day, or just need a cheery moment, I will watch again Sprinter Sacre winning the 2016 Champion Chase, perhaps the only race, with the possible exception of the 2019 Ryanair, to rival the 1973 Grand National in my eyes as the most momentous race of my lifetime. Or Desert Orchid winning the Gold Cup, or Kauto Star winning the first of his Betfairs (for some reason I rate that higher than either of his Gold Cups or King Georges) or Denman’s awesome display when winning his Gold Cup. I still believe that if it wasn’t for his heart problem it would be Denman who would stand second to Arkle in the pantheon of all-time best chasers.
Horse racing, at least in my understanding, is a mixture of hard reality and fluffy-cloud fantasy, with the former usually winning out over the latter. Which, of course, is why it is so life-affirming when Sprinter Sacre wins back his 2-mile Champion crown or when Bryony humbles us all by winning the Ryanair on the horse who presently resides in my heart, Frodon. I understand why people bet on the sport and its hand-in-glove relationship with the sport. But to me, financial investment in a race spoils the spectacle. I don’t want a horse to fall so that I can beat the bookie. On this site I occasionally give my views on a big race and sometimes my judgement is correct and sometimes it is not. I believe, for instance, that Frodon, given the opportunity, will get the trip in the Gold Cup, even though his trainer, along with the majority, I suspect, is doubtful. Not that I shall invest money on him if he does run on the Friday.
The fascination is the wonder of the sport, the memories stored away in random order to flicker on to the mind’s eye when inspiration or a better mood is required. The sport has rarely failed to lift my spirits. I have made sacrifices for it, allowed its importance to me to cloud my judgement and if reincarnation is fact and not fiction, I hope in the next life I could come back as a groom or even a racehorse. From childhood it has always been there for me, if only latterly through the medium of television and the Racing Post. And on the last day of my life, as sure as eggs are eggs, either here or in Ireland, at a Leopardstown or Cheltenham, a Down Royal or Hexham, a horse or jockey will add one final memory to the treasure trove.