The Ride of His Life

Article:
THE RIDE OF HIS LIFE

It was a chilly, crisp morning at the racetrack. The sun was
just beginning to come up over the mountains in the distance as
Dad and I led one of our thoroughbreds out of the stables and
out towards the training track. We were waiting to start track
work with one our best gallopers, Paragon Prince, but
unfortunately, once again the jockey had forgotten to show up.
The particular jockey had tendency to spend many a night out
with the boys getting on the booze and the hangover that ensued
the next morning, inevitably led to his unreliability.

"Damn that blasted jockey." cursed my father, rubbing his hands
together, attempting to warm them. "He's not going to show." I
tethered our horse to the rails and studied my Dads face,
thinking this was going to be another one of those interesting
mornings. He was extremely irate and angry and when my Dad got
irritated with the horses or situations connected with the
stable and coupled with Dad's way of managing things, any sign
of frustration in my father, usually meant trouble. In all his
years of training race horses, I had lost count of the number of
times Dad had flipped out. "What are you staring at." Dad
suddenly snapped at me. "Nothing." I said quickly, turning back
to Paragon Prince, checking over the saddle, bridle and
straightening up the saddle cloth. I slid my hands under his
long thick mane, attempting to warm them, and avoided eye
contact with my father, anything to not to incur his wrath. I
felt even more strongly now that Dad was about to lose his
temper and it was not going to be a pleasant morning.

I guess I should explain why I was so worried about my fathers
temper. In all our years dealing with horses, trainers, owners,
jockeys and the like, there had been many an occasion where
things had not worked out the way Dad had envisioned. Therefore
he would quite often lose his temper, spit the dummy and do some
really off the wall stuff. Let's face it, the racing game and
more importantly thoroughbreds can be very unpredictable
creatures and things can invariably go awry and my father could
be usually seen, should I say throwing some kind of hissy fit.
Like the time, a few years ago, when he couldn't catch one of
our brood mares. Granted, this particular horse could be a prize
bitch when she wanted and this particular day was no exception.
She really didn't want to be caught that day and after two hours
of my Dad and I trying out every plan that we had hatched the
night before, she (the mare) decided to go into the paddock dam
and stay there. My father was infuriated with this blasted
horse, as he called her as well as few other strong expletives
and suffice to say began to hurl stones at her. The mare just
stood there, with an expression of complete arrogance, regarding
my father with absolute contempt. The mare was not going to
budge. She had won this round, and my Dad knew it. Anyone
watching this little performance would have considered my Dad to
be quite mad, but that was just his way of doing things, not
necessarily the right way, but Dad's way nonetheless. This
particular story and many others involving our thoroughbreds
have been told and re-told to family and friends, ending with
everyone rolling around in fits of gut wrenching laughter.

Getting back to the morning in question, My father and I were
cooling our heels still waiting for this jockey to arrive.
Cooling our heels was right, it was bloody freezing. My father
was huffing and puffing, pacing around, totally infuriated with
this apparent 'no show' jockey. My mother would later say that
Dad's temper and rash deeds could've been disastrous to him and
our family. I'll never forget the dressing down she gave him. It
was one of the numerous arguments they have shared during their
forty-five years of marriage, concerning our horses and Dad's
tendency to flip a lid.

I stood there with Paragon Prince, stroking his mane watching my
father pace up and down. He was mad, real mad. I didn't see it
as the end of the world. We could just unsaddle the horse, take
him back to the stable and go home. Tomorrow was another day.
Dad could ring our jockey and give him right blasting for not
showing up. If he didn't have a hangover, he certainly wouldn't
feel too good after Dad was through with him. I was not going to
be bold as to suggest it. Why make my father more furious than
he already was.

Suddenly, Dad stopped pacing and walked over to the horse, with
an expression on his face that spoke volumes, that look one gets
when they think they have a brilliant idea, but in reality the
notion is moronic. This was one of my father's idiosyncrasies
that I have long learnt to fear. He untied the horse and began
to fiddle around with the girth and stirrups. 'Oh no!' I thought
to myself, not fully certain what he was about to do. "What are
you doing?" I protested, a feeling of dread gripping my stomach.
"What does it look like?" He snapped at me, leading the Paragon
Prince onto the racetrack. "Dad." I protested again. "What the
heck?" Suddenly comprehending what he was about to do. Dad was
going to ride the flipping horse himself. "If this lazy jockey
ain't going to show up son, then I'll ride track work." Came his
immediate retort. "You can't." I argued. "I can so, it's my
blasted horse." He shouted stubbornly. I didn't argue, that
would have been useless. You didn't argue with Dad when he was
like this, he was not kidding. I wasn't even sure if he could
ride or not. I had never seen him mount a horse. "Dad." I
yelled, feeling just a bit cheeky, "Can you even ride?" "How
hard can it be?' He asked me, meanwhile hauling himself into the
saddle. He turned the horse and guided him out onto the course,
not the training track, but on the course proper which was
forbidden territory for track work galloping. "Oh My Lord!" I
cursed to myself, thinking that there are a million reasons why
he shouldn't do this. He's not wearing a hard hat, just a stupid
blue floppy thing. He can't ride, obviously. Mum is going to be
livid and will probably kill him, if he doesn't kill himself in
the process. Thoroughbreds are mad at the best of times, but
with my crazy father, with his erratic irish temper who couldn't
ride a horse to save his life on a nervous thoroughbred, this
was not going to be constructive track gallop. "Damn!" I
muttered to myself. Where was my mother when I needed her? If
she were witnessing this, she would have a cow. A total melt
down. "Dad, you can't!" I shouted, but it was too late. He
couldn't hear me anyway, it was a futile attempt. He walked
Paragon Prince around to the 1200 metre starting area and
gathered up the reins. He lent forward, giving the horse an
unnecessary sharp kick in the guts and they took off at a flat
out gallop. Dad just clung on for dear life, grasping at
handfuls of mane and reins. I guess he was hoping the horse
would just carry him to the winning post. They galloped around
the corner into the straight, heading for the winning post. I
ran down towards the straight and stood at the rail watching,
still expecting the worst to come. Then all of a sudden, Dad saw
it, I saw it and the horse saw it. The piece of metal wire that
had been placed across the track to prevent idiots - like my
father, galloping their horses on the course proper. My father
tried and tried to pull him up, but to rein in a thoroughbred
without warning, traveling at around sixty kilometres per hour
is virtally impossible. He leaned back and dragged on the reins
using every ounce of strength he possessed, but it was hopeless
and he knew it. I stood there rooted to the spot, thinking for
sure that my father's number was up. He didn't have a chance in
hell of stopping Paragon Prince before they reached that metal
wire.

All of a sudden, Dad did the only thing he could do under the
circumstances; he bailed. He just plain jumped out of the saddle
on to the ground still holding the reins and it was the funniest
thing you ever saw; my crazy father running alongside this
horse, which he somehow managed to pull away from that lethal
looking piece of wire across the track. Don't ask me how he did
it. It was all so fast, but he did it. I sighed in total
exasperation and relief, leaning against the rails. Dad walked
over leading the horse behind him. "Well." he said, trying to
catch his breath, his expression giving away nothing, "That was
hairy." I said nothing, thinking that his words were a huge
understatement and also knowing full well if I even opened my
mouth Dad would be right in my face, justifying his actions. I
decided then and there to just shut up and agree with him. I
decided leave this task to my mother. Mum would and did lock
horns with him later, she literally had him for breakfast and
then some. As for the 'no show' jockey, well did he cop a well
deserved dressing-down from both Mum and Dad. I don't recall him
ever riding for us again after that day. I assume my father had
to go before the turf club officials over that incident and
furthermore, he probably got into an abundance of trouble over
it. I'm not really sure, I was only about twelve at the time, so
I don't recollect all that eventuated after that day. However,
when I witness that determined, stubborn, cantankerous
expression on Dad's face, I know the ever -dependable hissy fit
is just around the corner and to hell with the consequences. As
far as I know, after the events of that morning my father never
again attempted to ride a horse.

About the author:
A funny story, about a friend of mine and his trials and
tribulation with thoroughbreds, trainers and jockeys

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Monday, October 17, 2011

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