Expect The Unexpected

Ffos Las on Saturday afternoon was meant to be a quiet, run of the mill, meeting.

It was a meeting transferred from the ill fated Great Leighs and it was unquestionably the “weakest” flat meeting of the afternoon. There was also a delicious irony that the meeting had been transferred from the UK’s second newest course to its newest.

The “competition” came from Chester, Goodwood and, of course, Doncaster. The latter staging the final Classic of the season, the St Leger.

Consequently, forty five minutes before racing, the press room at Ffos Las was a relatively quiet place, with most of the racing media being at the other meetings.

There were six of us working in there.

Neil Morrice was in one corner, on the phone getting quotes from trainers with runners that afternoon. I am often tempted to mug Neil and steal his mobile phone as he has the most enviable contact list of trainers and others who matter in the sport. Neil was doing trackside live for the Racing Post as well as the report for the Sunday’s paper.

Keith Hewitt, the Raceform and Racing Post race reader, was battling with the hi-tech DVD recorder trying to figure out how it works – muttering about how much simpler video is.

Meanwhile reporters from Radio Wales and Radio Cymru were having similar technological battles in the other corner, attempting to get their broadcast equipment working.

On the other side of the room was myself and commentator Alan Howes, who was doing his last minute preparation for the eight race card.

Then, without warning, the peace and quiet was broken as in waltzed around a dozen members of the Japanese media, replete with television crew.

The reason they had trekked halfway across Wales and were forsaking watching the St Leger, was the presence of one Kosei Miura.

Who I hear you say?

Well Mr Miura is the latest sporting sensation in Japan. Last year, his first year in the saddle saw him ride 39 winners, breaking the record of Yutaka Take.

Back in his homeland he is, according to one of the media guys I was chatting to, treated with the same public adulation and media coverage as David Beckham and Lewis Hamilton combined – in other words he is big.

He was making his UK riding debut at Ffos Las and the Japanese media wanted to ensure the event received maximum coverage back home.

Neil and I were bemused at the attention he was receiving but thought it may make a couple of lines of copy on what looked like being an otherwise dull afternoon.

Miura had only arrived in the UK five days previously and must still have been jet lagged and was attached to Sir Mark Prescott’s Newmarket yard.

Sir Mark explained he had been approached by the Japanese Turf Authority and asked if he would take on one of their promising apprentices for three weeks.

In the few days he had been with Sir Mark, the 19 year old had impressed not only the trainer but all those who had seen him in action on the gallops ……. “a natural talent.”

His one mount was not until race five, the longest race of the afternoon and he was riding Sir Mark’s Royal Diamond.

He emerged from the weighing room with veteran rider Tony Culhane, who put a reassuring arm round the youngsters shoulder as they emerged from the inner sanctum.

He also emerged to a cacophony of camera clicks which he took in his stride.

As they went to post Miura was easily identifiable by his very short stirrups and long reign, he was almost standing in the saddle.

In the race itself he settled Royal Diamond towards the rear and in all honesty it looked like a careful, almost cautious, ride – nothing special at all.

It was in the home straight everything changed. Positioned perfectly and taking cover he slowly edged towards the centre of the course.

Once he had clear daylight ahead, he simply shifted his balance, seeming to be at one with the horse, who responded immediately and eased to the front.

Nothing flash from the rider, seemingly no great effort, just a natural horseman getting the best out of his mount.

He came home the length and a half winner. Some cynics may suggest it was a “jockey’s race” and his weighing room colleagues allowed him an easy win.

That would be grossly unfair to both Miura and the other riders.

It also makes a mockery of what Miura actually did but more of that anon.

Even though his mount was not sent off favourite both horse and rider received a tumultuous reception as they returned to the winner’s enclosure.

After weighing in he returned to the winner’s enclosure and was presented with a bottle of bubbly by the course executive, was interviewed via an interpreter and Sir Mark Precott waxed lyrical, commenting that “unlike most riders, he followed my instructions to the letter.”

It was then the unusual happened.

Normally riders return to the sanctuary of the weighing room after a race.

Miura, instead, came into the press room – it seemed this young lad wanted to be with his compatriots as he “celebrated” his victory.

It was a very revealing twenty minutes. I said earlier he had made the win look effortless … it was an illusion.

He was absolutely shattered after the race and dehydrated in the hot Welsh sun.

What seemed to be an example of a simple synergy between man and beast was, in reality, an exhibition of really hard work and skill – it is just he made it look effortless.

It did not take him long to recover from his exertions though and he was soon giving am impromptu press conference for the Japanese media in the press room.

What struck me was how polite the whole affair was, no media scrum, questions were asked in turn and at the end he was given a spontaneous round of applause.

Once the press conference was over he was happy to relax and chat.

I am ashamed to say his English, whist by no means perfect, is far better than my Japanese but we managed some rudimentary conversation.

He may me a superstar in the eyes of the Japanese media and with the public back home, but I found him to be a very pleasant, likeable, young man, seemingly without arrogance.

It is not very often you will see wizened hacks asking jockeys to sign their racecards, but believe me I was not the only one to obtain his signature, or ask for a photograph for posterity – all of which he did without complaint – although the “price” for mine was being asked to take a group photograph of Miura with the Japanese media contingent.

The hacks and broadcasters who went to Doncaster may well have seen a classic finish to the oldest Classic.

The handful of us who had ventured to Ffos Las were privileged to have witnessed the first UK ride and victory of one Kosei Miura – we were also privileged to have met a really nice guy.

Remember that name as in the not too distant future I predict he will be winning classics himself.

So what looked like being a run of the mill meeting turned out to be something special, one of those “I was there” moments – it is always worth expecting the unexpected.

Disillusioned With Racing

I am about to say something I never thought I would say.


I am falling out of love with racing.


I could quite happily walk away from the sport, never go racing again and it would not worry me one iota.


The last time I felt this way about anything was when I gave up the booze.


I used to drink for England, I virtually lived in the pub. If I missed a night, they would ring to make sure I was OK.


Then one morning I woke up with, as usual, the bird cage bottom mouth, feeling dehydrated, feeling rough and I asked myself why I was doing it?


From that day I went from being a ten unit a day drinker to being a ten unit a year drinker and I have never looked back, never regretted it, certainly not missed it.


With the drinking it was the waking up feeling rough that did it for me.


With the racing it is harder to put my finger on it. There is no one single reason for my disillusionment just a trickle of niggles.


Partly it is the realisation I am getting older and I can’t do the things I did twenty years ago.

Then driving hundreds of miles a day was nothing. Now I am absolutely knackered if I do a 300 mile round trip, do two or three in a week and I am almost done for.


Of course even the shorter journeys are not without their problem – any course that involves having to negotiate the M25 during rush hour automatically increases the stress levels.


That is only a periphery issue though – the racing experience is not as enjoyable as it once was.


Too many meetings fall into one of two depressing categories.


They either have crowds that are so small, the atmosphere – if it can be called an atmosphere in the first place – is depressing.


At a wet, winters Monday afternoon at Wolverhampton small crowds are expected. But when you go to a course like Epsom and it is almost possible to individually greet all your fellow racegoers, it makes you realise something is amiss.


This afternoon at Epsom there were 37 runners and no more than a couple of hundred racegoers – and in a course like Epsom that looks very little indeed.


Read that again – 37 runners and that on a card which had guaranteed prize money of over £54,000 and owners have the temerity to complain about levels of prize money. And that’s another part of the problem, there are too many whingers in the sport but more of that anon.


On the other extreme the courses can be filled with morons who have no interest at all in the racing and their only aim is to pour as much alcohol down their throats as possible, resulting in them becoming obnoxious bores and, as an added bonus, they will throw in a decent punch up as well.


The courses do little to stop the trend, why should they, after all the booze sales are positive goldmines for the courses. I used to hold a licence to sell alcohol and I know from first hand experience it is not only a licence to sell alcohol, it is also a licence to print money.


Lest some poor sop has to queue too long to top up the alcohol levels some courses have big signs encouraging punters to buy their beer in two pint glasses, or they provide mobile vendors to pass amongst the crowd.


And they wonder why new fans cannot be attracted to the sport.


Of course there are fundamental issues with how the sport is run. First of all there is too much racing, spreading the product too thinly.


There are serious and justified concerns around the reduction in the levy, yet what happens the number of fixtures increases so the decreasing money is spread even further.


The influence and power of the bookmakers is spreading like a cancer through the sport.


The more observant will have noticed a sudden increase in eight race cards since the beginning of September. This is not some magical change, it is a change at the request of the bookmakers so they can have more races in which to take money off the mug punters.


More is not better. The races that are being divided are low grade, uncompetitive events.


Take Hereford’s card on September 2nd, one of the first to “benefit” from prolific dividing. Four of the eight races were won my margins of ten lengths or more and the others were 5, 4½, 2 and 1½ lengths – only one of which could really be considered competitive.


There needs to be a significant decrease, not increase, in the amount of racing and that is something I will return to in a future musing.


Earlier I mentioned the number of whingers in the sport.


Wherever you turn there the pessimists whose glasses are always half empty.


Punters who when they have a losing bet, which tends to be most bets, always blame somebody else – usually a “bent” jockey / trainer / horse / official – indeed it is anybodies fault but theirs.

After all heaven forbid their judgement may be wrong and they just happened to have selected the wrong horse.


Of course of the rare occasions they do pick a winner and statistically it will happen once in a while, the result has nothing to do with the skill and ability of the jockey / trainer / horse but it is down to their superb perception, skill and foresight.


Of course it is not all doom and gloom. There are the equine stars which brighten up the otherwise dull firmament.


Sea The Stars has done nothing wrong this season, yet trainer John Oxx comes in for unjustified criticism for not running him in the St Leger, a race that is palpably unsuitable for the horse.


It seems some would rather run the horse into the ground just to claim a meaningless “Triple Crown”.

Greyhound racing used to be a sport for the masses, nowadays it is staged in near empty stadia, run mainly as a benefit and numbers game for the bookmakers.


Racing is in danger of going the same way. I do not want that to happen, it is like watching an old friend go into decline, knowing there is nothing you can do to save it.

Like a passionate affair that has run its course it is better to walk away with dignity and remember the good times – far better than staying and becoming bitter and resentful.

The Ugly Face Of Racing

Much is often made of racecourses which are blessed with being in a really attractive location.


Goodwood, atop the South Downs, with stunning views in all directions – when the fret stays away that is.


Cartmel in its idyllic Lake District setting, Perth set in the grounds of Scone Palace.


The list can go on and on.


But what about the other side of the coin?


What about courses that are in unattractive settings?


By unattractive I don’t mean ugly buildings, like the bland units at Southwell and Wolverhampton. I mean a course set in an unattractive area.


Wolverhampton is situated in the middle of a nondescript housing estate – unattractive but bearable.


For me there is one clear winner, or should that be loser.


Cue drum roll.


Redcar.


It has to be the most depressing approach and setting for a racecourse anywhere, especially if, as
I did yesterday, you arrive by train.


Most arriving by train will come from Darlington and the journey starts off well. Plenty of green fields, as well as the usual views of the back gardens of terraced houses.


I find looking at back gardens from trains so interesting. It tells so much about the residents of the properties.


On the one extreme you have the gardens which have been lovingly tended and which would not go amiss as show gardens.


On the other, there are gardens which make Steptoe’s yard look neat and tidy.


But I digress.


It is when the train begins the final leg of its journey to Redcar – as it leaves Middlesbrough.


Passing, first of all the Stadium Of Light, the last decent structure you will see in your journey.


The vista is no longer predominately green.


First of all you pass through the container port, which looks as though it has seen better days.


Residential buildings are replaced by signs of industry – heavy industry. The predominant colour changes from green to brown and black.


The brown from the predominant, pervasive rust colour that has taken over the myriad of pipes, stretching as far as the eye can see. The black from slag heaps of industrial waste.


All the time industrial chimneys bellowing out goodness knows what noxious substances into the atmosphere.


This view, almost like a vision from hell, goes on for miles, until the urban sprawl of Redcar appears.


The walk from Redcar station to the racecourse goes past Morrisons and Tesco and through a housing estate.


The course itself is not unattractive. The stands have probably seen better days but are no worse than at many courses.


It you crane your neck to the left you can see the hills of the North York moors, but it is the view ahead from the stands that is depressing.


Anyone who has seen racing from Redcar on television will know there is a road and housing estate along the far side of the course. What the pictures usually fail to show id the huge chemical works situated behind the houses. A view that dominates the horizon.


Usually there is a huge flame burning but yesterday all was quiet, well it was initially.


After the second race there was a roar in the distance, almost like the sound of a big gas burner lighting. No surprise as that is exactly what it was – the burner had been lit at the chemical works.


There was also a strong wind blowing across the course, coming from the direction of the chemical works. Not long later what can only be described as an “industrial aroma” wafted over the course. Nothing too strong but it was there.


By the end of the sixth race my eyes were watering and I had a headache, which is most unusual for me.


The only times I get headaches are when I bang my head or, in my younger days, consumed the wrong combination of alcoholic beverages.


As I had neither banged my bonce or imbibed I can only put the headache down to what I was breathing in.


There has been talk of the management wanting to relocate the course to another location – based on my experience yesterday I cannot blame them.


On a totally unrelated topic, although it could be argued it also reflects the “ugly” side of racing.


Am I the only one to find all the blanket, wall to wall, coverage of Kieren Fallon’s return to the saddle somewhat over the top?


Anyone would think it is the second coming, as opposed to the return of a disgraced jockey.