A Perfect Day

A PERFECT DAY

I opened my eyes and didn't want to get up. The night before vaguely
returned to my mind, as I looked across at the sleeping female form,
whose blond hair spilled across the pillow situated next to mine.
Trying to remember her name, I gave up after a few seconds. I was due
to be riding at Newcastle that afternoon, a three hour journey up the
motorway and I wasn't looking forward to it.

Struggling into an upright position, I lurched across the room and into
the shower. My eyes flew open as the pins and needles of the cold water
shocked my system back to life. After scrubbing my teeth, I decided to
dispense with a shave. Looking into the bathroom mirror, as I pulled
the comb through my long damp hair, I looked into a face that could do
with more sleep; but who would have to wait until another time.

Pulling on jeans and T shirt, I began tying my shoes, when the blond in
my bed stirred and sat up. As the sheets fell away from her, exposing
her upper body, I suddenly remembered her name and why I had invited
her home with me. Stunningly beautiful, she smiled as she stretched
voluptuously. I moved to her and covered her mouth with mine, exploring
her teeth with my tongue. The excitement of the kiss prompted a
re-enactment of the passion of the previous night and, by the time we
had recovered our senses, I was really late for my journey up
north.

Resisting the temptation to linger any longer, I explained that I had
to be on my way and invited her to stay until she was ready to leave.
Her eyes sparkled as she lay back on the pillow and, with an effort, I
tore myself away and made for the door. The sacrifices I make for my
sport of race-riding!

Climbing into my car, I headed for the signs that would point me
northwards. As I pulled out the sliproad and manourved into the fast
lane, I thought again of the girl and I smiled.

The journey proved uneventful, though boring, and I eventually turned
into the racecourse car parking area of Gosforth Park; the home of
Geordie racing. Although my unexpected exertions had contributed to my
lateness, I had made up some time on the motorway and, as I entered on
to the course, I headed for the jockey's changing room to look for my
valet. Dick Norton had been a jump jockey in his own right, until a bad
fall had retired him, leaving him with memories of racing and a
permanent stiff leg as his legacy. He was now a full-time valet and was
invaluable to the collection of jockeys, including myself, who employed
him. My first race was an hour away but, reliably, Dick had my riding
colours already laid out in readiness.

I'd had nothing to eat all day and was starving. I was lucky in having
no major problems in controlling my riding weight; being in the envious
position of many of my contempories by not having to worry that much
about what I ate. Not tempting fate, however, I decided on a salad. As
I munched my way through my plate of tomatoes, lettuce and onion, I
looked out at the gathering crowd who were assembling on the course.
Although the journey was a long one for me, I enjoyed riding at this
northern track. There always seemed to be a large crowd at Newcastle,
as the folk supporting the meetings clearly enjoyed their racing.

Upon re-entering the changing room, I prepared for the forthcoming race
that was soon to be run. Changing into my racing silks, I chattered
with the other jocks who would be racing against me about the various
mounts they would be riding. A couple were optimistic about their
chances, while others ventured that they were just in there to make the
numbers up. When asked for my opionion about my chances, all I could
contribute was that my agent, who had booked the ride for me, had
stated that the horse had shown promise in training but, being unraced
and unproven on a racecourse, was untried and therefore an unknown
entity.

Novices, (the name given to inexperienced horses), are the most
unpredictable of animals; in that they usually gain their racing
experience by competing against their counterparts on flat racing
tracks, before embarking onto the jumping scene. This experience counts
for little however, as, faced with eight hurdles barring their way,
even the most exceptional flat racer can be reduced to the lowest of
the low. During my career, I've seen some brilliant top-class flat
racing animals being introduced to racing over hurdles; some taking to
it naturally and progressing to the highest acholade; some being
utterly unable to adapt and failing miserably in the attempt.

The horse I was about to ride in the first event of the card was just
such a horse; a novice. Even though good reports had eminated from the
stable, as regards to his competence over hurdles; this was just to be
treated as a guide, as the hurdles over which he had been schooled were
jumped at a much lesser speed that the pace at which he would encounter
in the heat of a competitive race.

As I entered into the weighing room with the other jockeys taking part
in the race, we all proceeded through the ritual of the scales. With
us, we took our helmet, whip, number cloth and saddle, along with the
lead weight, which comprised to make up the weight difference between
our body-weight and equipment, to that of the weight allotted to each
competing horse, on an individual basis.

After weighing out, I proceeded into the parade ring to meet the
trainer and owners of the horse. The trainer was a local man named
Cooper, who had a good reputation for producing very fit horses. He was
ruddy-faced, the produce of an outdoors life, had a strong handshake
and was very forceable in his assessment of how I should ride my
mount.

His riding instructions were that as, in his opinion, the horse was a
natural hurdler, was in the best shape of fitness that he could
produce, and that because the field were all inexperienced novices, the
best tactics would be to take the lead at flagfall, force the pace and
trust to God and providence. With these words of encouragement ringing
in my ears, he led me across to meet the owners.

The owners, in this instance, appeared in the forms of a local pub
owner and a syndicate of seven patrons of his establishment. They were
all in a high state of excitement, as this was their first attempt at
such an enterprise. Northern lads all; they were a mixed bunch who
varied from flat caps and trilbys to shaven heads and tattoos. All
insisted in shaking my hand and wishing me luck. Their excitement and
good humour were so infectious that I hoped that all would go well and
that I could produce a winner for them.

The horse was the thing though. No matter how much training; how good a
rider; how much one wanted, prayed, hoped and fretted; without the
power, strength, and force of character that the horse itself
possessed, everything else was irrelevant. I was now led to the animal
that would carry me in the race.

The horse's racing name was Ronin. As he was led towards me, I quickly
assessed what my eyes beheld. He was a big horse, around 17 hands tall;
black as coal, with his coat glistening in the sun like polished ivory;
and yet, for his size, he had a spring in his step as though dancing on
hot stones. Up into the saddle I was hoisted and, as I adjusted my feet
into the stirrups, I was led round the parade ring, with his owner
admirers proudly looking on.

Cantering down to the starting gate, I had my first experience of how
the horse performed in motion. The going was good to soft and suited my
horse's running style perfectly, as he moved effortlessly, with a grace
that belied his size.

Milling around behind the tapes, waiting for the starting time of the
race to arrive, I felt relaxed and secure in the power I could feel in
the horse under me. There were twenty runners in all, a large field for
such a race, but I was assured in the confidence that the trainer had
radiated in the belief of his animal.

The starter called us into line and, after a few seconds jostling for
position, waved us on our way by dropping his arm which held the white
starting flag.

A flurry of half-ton bodies crashed from a standing start to thirty
miles an hour within seconds. I had taken up a position near the rails,
hoping to get a fast enough start in an attempt to adopt the trainer's
instructions by taking the lead. My mount showed his inexperience
however by starting slowly and getting boxed in behind several faster
starting horses. By the time we had reached the first obstacle, we
raced in midfield. As the first hurdle approached, I steadied Ronin in
an attempt to match his stride with the moment when we would have to
jump. We took the hurdle in our stride, gaining two places with the
ease and perfection that was simply poetry in motion.

Settling down into the rhythm of the race, we ran at a steady pace,
making up ground on the leaders each time a hurdle was reached by
measuring and jumping it perfectly. My mount raced easily on the bridle
and I was in no hurry to push him harder. We raced now in fourth
position, only a half dozen lengths adrift from the leading
horse.

We had now reached the halfway stage of the race and were just
approaching the next obstacle when the horse immediately in front of us
clipped the top of the hurdle, stumbled and fell heavily. Following so
closely behind, we were unable to avoid him and cannoned into the
fallen animal as he fell. The impact forced me up my horse's neck and
almost unshipped me but, somehow, I was able to cling on and keep my
seat. We had been virtually stopped in our tracks however and had been
lucky to avoiding the flying hoofs from the fallen horse on the
ground.

The task ahead seemed hopeless, as we had been relegated several places
into tenth position, the leaders a good twenty lengths away from us. I
was just about to pull up and retire from the race when Ronin took hold
of his bit and started to race once again. Allowing him to stride on,
it seemed as if the incident had given him a resolve to get back into
the race. Thinking that if the horse was willing; then so was I. We
accelerated ahead, progressing back through the field and,
unbelieveably, gaining ground. Three hurdles from the finish, we had
regained a couple of places but were still a long way from the front
runners. At the third last, we simply pinged it and landed in a fluid,
running motion; all the time keeping up a momentum that was increasing
stride by stride.

At the penultimate hurdle, we had worked outselves into fourth position
and had reduced the deficit to a bare ten lengths behind the three
leading contenders, who raced on together. As the hurdle approached, I
dug my heels into Ronin's flanks and the horse responded with a
majestic leap that gained us further ground. The leaders were coming
back to us, slowly but surely.

The final obstacle beckoned and Ronin would not give in. With a
terrific effort, he extended his legs and, with a great spring, took
off ten yards before the hurdle, flying it and gaining two lengths on
the three leading runners. The run-in to the line displayed the horse's
character as, assisting him as best I could by pushing and pumping his
head in a forward movement, he clawed back the leaders with pure will
and effort, overtaking them in the final twenty yards to gain a hard
and well deserved victory. As we flashed past the post, I was
breathless with the riding effort that I had exuded in encouraging my
mount and, bouyed by the exhileration of the adrenalin that was pumping
through my veins, was on a high that no illicit drug could
induce.

As we were led in to the winner's circle, the crowd, who had just
witnessed the bravery displayed by the novice hurdler, erupted in
appreciation. Myself, being on board, was also subject to the
celebrations that followed. Sliding off my mount's back, I had my
photograph quickly taken with the horse and, before my back could be
slapped completely raw by the ecstatic Geordie owners, made my way to
complete the formality of the weigh in. Here, I was again weighed and
assessed the correct and same weight as I had been adjudged as carrying
as when leaving the room minutes earlier.

Having no rides in the next couple of races, I was invited by the
jubilant winning syndicate to join them in the bar for a celebratory
drink. By the time I had changed out of my riding clothes and found
them in the bar, the champagne was flowing freely. Allowing myself a
single glass of bubbly, I was entreatied to give my account of the race
to Ronin's adoring owners. As I recanted the story of the race, the
final description of the run-in brought loud cheers from all listeners.
A few minutes later, excusing myself to prepare for my next race, I
left a scene of happiness personified.

For myself, it was the pluckiest performance by a horse that I had ever
experienced and I hoped I would be invited to partner Ronin again in
the future.

The highs and lows of racing are common-place. After the excitement of
riding the brilliant winner of the first race, I rode two more
engagements in the following races, both finishing well down the
field.

Following these two failures and, having no more rides that afternoon,
I left the course an hour before the completion of racing, in order to
make an early exit for my journey home and also to avoid the crush of
the outpouring crowd at the completion of the meeting.

The drive home seemed relatively shorter than my initial drive to the
course, perhaps because of the remembrance of Ronin's performance.
Driving home, I found myself in a great mood, singing along to the
music of the radio.

Reaching home and turning the key in the lock, I wondered what could
possibly cap such a satisfying day. Opening the door to the
mouth-watering aroma of steak frying, I entered the room to be greeted
by a familiar voice with beautiful golden hair, who said, "Hello
Darling, welcome home".

I smiled.

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