For probably only the third or fourth year in a quarter of a century, there was no Higgs family representative at the Cheltenham Festival this week, horse racing's ultimate celebration. Less of a national tradition than the Grand National, less of a lottery, and treated with much greater reverence by the racing community, the Cheltenham Festival is a brilliant celebration of sport, risk, bravery and, of course, the horses themselves. I made my first trip last year, getting a real taste for the experience, but, obviously, I am in Canada this year, so have been reduced to following it via Internet streams and social media.
As I wrote last year, I have a passionate attachment to the Cheltenham Festival that transcends the sport itself, and, as such, my interest in the sport, with Springtime revealing itself in all its glory over Prestbury Park this week, may appear the ultimate fair-weather indulgence. Indeed, judging by social media, for many of us, horse racing is something we indulge ourselves in three or four times a year, but that's not to denigrate its value as a sport. Surely, therein lies the joy of a festival, in the coming-together and culmination of the racing calendar. After all, you don't have to visit six or seven music festivals a year to appreciate the value of Glastonbury or Woodstock.
Cheltenham comes but once a year, and prior to this week, I felt rather annoyed and upset that I'd be reduced to an expatriate bystander this time around. Following it in North America was never going to be quite the same as living and breathing the Festival, and furthermore, 'Horse racing in Canada' is reduced to a quarter of a page on Wikipedia.
As it happens, social media has proved more than adequate in following 'the Greatest Show on Turf'. With no access to
The Racing Post over here, Twitter has revealed itself to be the best vehicle for betting tips and finding the value. Awash with names and numbers every morning, it's been thoroughly enjoyable to filter out and follow where the money is, and who is, or at least purports to be, 'in the know'.
Last year, perhaps overwhelmed with my first experience of the Festival, I went a bit gung-ho and scatter-gun, having at least a look at the odds of every race, and more than often not, putting something on it. This year, I started off with a fiver, and, have been far more savvy, knowing I had to, at the very least, make it last until the showpiece event, Friday's Gold Cup.
It's been a wonderful festival. As I said, I've obviously had to rely on Internet streams (the ultimate frustration, particularly when your horse is set to jump the last fence and the whole thing cuts out), and often I've had to filter through the blogs and articles first thing in the morning due to the time difference, which has made for interesting reading. It's a time of final papers and mid-terms, but there's no way you can just let Cheltenham Festival week slip by without so much as a neigh or a whinny.
They say the two things you need to be a successful gambler are a voracious appetite for statistics, and a complete dispassionateness. Tuesday was all about the Champion Hurdle, and, more out of loyalty from my relatively big win last year, I backed Hurricane Fly for one last hurrah. Loyalty, eh. What was that about dispassionateness? Not much loyalty or indeed dispassionateness flying round when it ambles home in 4th position.
That race, of course, will be overshadowed by the death of Our Conor. It's sad when any horse dies, but when it's one that you've heard of, and, running in such a prestigious race, even someone with no knowledge can see he was obviously a brilliant horse.
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| My photo from last year |
There's been many fantastic pieces written on the constant reminders of the mortality of sport in recent days, and I can't do it justice. But as one horse was tragically being put down, another, almost simultaneously, was reminding us of the emotions of this and indeed almost any other sport, the ups and the downs, the highs and the lows. The brilliant, unstoppable mare Quevega rescued most of us from a loss on Day One, whilst showing us that whilst sport can be tragic, moments of rousing joy are never far from the horizon. And what a horizon. Prestbury Park, in the shadow of the Cotswold Hills.
Day Two was a reminder of the democracy of horse racing. The Queen Mother Champion Chase all about Sprinter Sacre last year, a horse that seemed invincible, but one that had to sit this year's race out, following evidence of an irregular heartbeat. There's that chilling sense of mortality once again. The victory went to Sire De Grugy, a remarkable horse with a pleasantly unremarkable owner.
There's a temptation to think of horse racing as being in two distinct camps- those on the inside, the owners and the trainers, with the riches and the control, and those on the outside, the punters and the gamblers. And yet one of the hottest properties in the sport right now is owned by a businessman from Runcorn, who received Sire De Grugy as a birthday present. It's his only horse. And what a horse. Sire De Grugy, winning the Queen Mother Champion Chase, in that brilliant shadow of the Cotswold Hills.
Day Three, from where I was sat, ended up being positioned as all about the jockeys. There are so many things in sport that are up for debate simply within my own simple mind, and yet curiously, I have no doubt that AP McCoy is the most admirable sportsman in the world. He risks his life four or five times a day, makes incredible sacrifices to remain at a manageable weight for a jockey, and yet more than 4000 winning races later, still has the desire to continue. JT McNamara, who fell at last year's Festival, is still paralysed, and this is the reminder of the perils of the job, and the shadow that hangs over the Cotswold Hills, for the fellow jockeys at least.
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| My photo from last year |
And yet Wednesday was the reminder that even the best can prove themselves fallible. McCoy eschewed the chance to ride More of That in the Ladbrokes World Hurdle, and instead chose At Fishers Cross. At Fishers Cross came a very credible third; More of That romped home to victory. Jockeys appear to be some of the most pragmatic people around. Indeed, it was simply one of those things. They also appear some of the most genuine people around, forever congratulating one another, accepting the rough and the smooth as exactly that- part of the job.
This was why it was so infuriating to read how Ruby Walsh, the most successful Cheltenham jockey of all time, was hung out to dry by animal rights activists this week. Walsh has been painted as having shrugged off the death of Our Conor as being less important than the death of a human- a ridiculous portrayal. Walsh showed pragmatism and perspective, and, yes, perhaps, a natural sporting coldness and detachment. However with his buddy and fellow jockey Jason Maguire having suffered a fall on Monday, and the aforementioned McNamara still in hospital, Walsh was right- there
is a huge difference between the death of an animal and the death of a human.
Day Four- and I would have to have a really bad day to break even. Alas, as the curtain came down on the Cheltenham Festival, I was, like the Grand Old Duke of York, neither up nor down. The Gold Cup race itself was billed as a duel between Silviniaco Conti and last year's winner Bobs Worth. I simply couldn't split the two, and didn't even bother to look at any other prospects, so left it well alone, and decided to just enjoy the race as a pure sporting spectacle.
As Lord Windermere, the 20/1 shot came home in the tightest of tight finishes, my judgement on the matter was vindicated. But, ye gads, what a race! Two false starts and the tight finish only begin to scratch the surface. Even after it had finished, probably the most dramatic, most gripping sequence of the entire Festival was played out. And it wasn't even on turf. Channel 4 took us inside the stewards' room to hear the jockeys' verdicts on whether Lord Windermere had cut across, and should have his title stripped. Even to my untrained eye, there didn't seem to be a whole lot wrong, and, sure enough, the result stood. A fitting finale to yet another scintillating Cheltenham Festival.
As I spoke about in last year's blog, my Dad found the romance and the stories behind the horses and the jockeys far more appealing than the gambling side of it. That's not me being holier-than-thou on his part, as for most of my youth, I couldn't really understand why. And yet immersing myself in blogs, newspaper articles, and the coverage itself, I began to develop a long-overdue realisation.
My biggest victory this year can't be measured in pounds, shillings and pence. It's been the epiphany that in amongst the tips, false prophets and discarded copies of
The Racing Post, my Dad was right. Horse racing is bloody fantastic.
