2010 Trainee Views

December, 2010

It’s amazing how quickly things can change. England has come and gone, as Ireland did before her, and now we sit here on the verge of our two week Christmas break (if you can’t pick up any excitement in the tone of that last word, go back and read it again, because I assure you it’s there). As we look back on the course so far, one is filled with that inexplicable association with time: it feels as though so much has happened - that sunny morning in Ireland when we first arrived seems a lifetime ago - and yet somehow, it could equally have been yesterday.

Miraculously the ‘Machiavellian Mansion’, our term of endearment for our home in Newmarket over the past month and a half, did not ever regress as far as we may have originally feared. Visions of quarrels over the TV remote, verbal wars in the kitchen, locked doors and silent treatment, were all in the predictions for our time here. And in fact, it’s a testament to the other 10 guys here that a dozen people who had only recently been introduced to each other were able to live in such close confinement without the scene entropically morphing into the island from the Lord of the Flies. This is only a testament to the other 10, because since the time we arrived us ‘Team Leaders’ have been secretly stealing other people’s food, discarding our dirty plates around the house, throwing bleach into our housemates washing, hiding the toilet paper, sporadically setting off the fire alarm, while always ensuring there was never quite enough hot water for all the girls to have a warm shower in the morning. Yes, ladies, that was us.

To the bluegrass of Kentucky we go next then. And although the dozen of us did manage to coexist without killing each other these past weeks, there is the feeling that everyone is quite looking forward to a break and to starting the new season afresh again in the U S of A. Everyone, I am sure, will have some reason or other why they will sigh with relief as they close the chapter on their time in the Machiavellian: a roommate who reminded you of the days of old in Africa, where you woke up in the middle of the night startled and in cold sweat certain that the noises coming from the bed beside you were that of a wounded buffalo or birthing elephant, anything, but surely not human; or whether you perhaps grew a little tired of the person sitting next to you choosing to ‘harmonize’ every time your favourite song plays on the radio; or even perhaps you won’t miss having to keep to the timetable of 11 other people and live in a perpetual glacier-paced bureaucracy. Yes, yes, all good things must come to an end. However, that is only after we share some of what has happened here.

Since the last review was posted we have had many an entertaining day. A day of media training with Rishi Persad saw us put together an array of mock post-race interviews and fabricated previews to hypothetical Breeders and Dubai World Cups. Some of the acting performances were not too far off Academy Award level! We bore witness to moments of poignant excitement when members of the team came face to face with their respective equine heroes: our Englishman and his unabashed love affair with the Cheveley Park juggernaut sire, Pivotal. Two other occasions saw the team meeting up with two far more unlikely horses to find reverence among the group: Michael Jarvis’ Sajjhaa, and a flashy chesnut yearling colt by Manduro out of Twiggy's Sister who is fast becoming the group’s pet-horse. A certain biased member of the group has even been overheard spreading rumours that this horse is so brilliant it saddles itself up every morning. A sociable lunch with Martin Mitchell at Tattersalls, a fun afternoon with Jonny-Peter Hoblyn on the beautiful estate of Shadwell, a visit to Oasis Dream, Dansili and the other regal-breds at Juddmonte hosted by Kevin Sommerville, a dinner with John Ferguson and a host of Darley staff and DFS graduates, and a tour of the Rowley Mile racecourse were a few more of the highlights of this last month.

The story which will forever be synonymous with our time in England, however, is really the story of a curry, a Vindaloo curry to be exact. And the discovery that in the eternal quest for some to constantly eat a hotter curry, eventually one crosses a bridge too far. As has become tradition, in order to celebrate Brianne ‘if I die PLEASE let me come back as Christine in the Phantom of the Opera’ Sharpe’s birthday, we went to the local Indian restaurant. At the time our Brisbane lad, Michael Morrison, was firmly engulfed in the autobiography of Takeover Target (yes, Morri seemed so infatuated with this rags-to-riches Ozzy superstar at the time, I am pretty sure he could have been convinced the horse wrote the book himself). The author of the book, the owner of ‘Takeover’, made reference to this spicy and tasty curry he ate in Newmarket, and so without us verifying this was in fact even the same restaurant, Morri proceeded to order the ‘hottest meal you have’. To speed the story up a bit, let’s just say that about half an hour later we were about four jugs of water down, and his face looked like he’d just come out of a steam room. About an hour on, and we hear the first complaints his stomach isn’t doing too good. Later that night, he checks himself into a hospital. Next morning, he is short one appendix.

Ok, it is a stretch of the imagination to think that the curry was the cause of his appendicitis, but the coincidental timing was amusing. The Tattersalls December Mare and Foal sale had just begun, and so he missed out on joining the rest of us up there in the howling snow blizzard. Those of us from Africa and Australia were lucky to leave there not losing all our fingers and toes to frostbite. Perhaps more suspicious, however, was that at this time we also had the deadline to our principal assignment while based in England!

Kicks at Morri aside, one had to feel for the poor guy, for he did miss out on quite a bit. Newmarket is abuzz come sale time. Besides inspecting yearlings and bumping into all sorts of people in the day, come evening time the bar at the sales ground and local institutions like The Yard and De Niro’s are teeming with racing folk from all countries and walks of life. In any one circle sharing a drink you may have a French stallion lad, an Irish bloodstock agent, an Aussie stud owner, and a British vet – it makes for interesting conversation! All the while during this time he was drinking soup lying incapacitated in his bed, which we had set up in the living area, as racing from Southwell blared in the background.

At about this time we all spent a week at the British Racing School. For many (Leah) this was a highlight of our time in England. During the week here we were given lessons in clipping, eating massive breakfasts, saddling up for racing, plaiting (Barry was particularly proficient at this as it has long been a favourite pastime of his), but principally the goal was to teach us to ride like Frankie Dettori. At this point it would be fitting to grant an apology to Frankie for as amazing an improvement was that week, it may still be some time before you find any of us fighting out a finish at Ascot. In fact, for one of the authors at least, it may even be some time before he is able to fully straighten his legs again, still tight with cramps from crouching aerodynamically to fight out the finish to the infamous not-completely-voluntary match race of Harlov versus Wonder Weasel.

We may not all leave Newmarket as professional jockeys, but we certainly will leave here with a profound respect for the job they do, as well as a host of memories which will forever link us to this horseracing fantasy town. And so as we pack our bags and prepare to bid farewell to the UK, we thank all the people here who were so accommodating to us and made our time here so worthwhile, in particular the staff of Dalham Hall, Hamilton Hill, British Racing School and the training yards in which we spent time. This town has left an indelible mark on all of us. In contrast, the most indelible marks we may have left on the town were those broken fire hydrants and worn out gearboxes left by the American girls in their driving lessons...but hopefully we left behind a little more than that.

Goodbye England!

Matt Prior and James Trotter

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Leah riding a yearling at Hamilton Hill