School became a huge inconvenience to my plans.
‘Nothing I can learn in a classroom will be any use to me as a jockey,’ I would say to my mother, pleading unsuccessfully to be allowed to skip my lessons to go riding instead.
After classes, I would hang out at the racing stables next door to our house, doing all the menial tasks that no one else wanted, like scrubbing the floors or washing the tack.
Every day, I would ask our neighbour if I could ride one of his horses the following morning and, every day, he would smile and say, ‘Soon, lad. When you’re a little older and stronger.’
So I had spread my wings further afield and started asking other trainers in Lambourn if I could ride their horses. Even those in Upper Lambourn were not immune from my pleadings as I pedalled my way up there on my bicycle.
Just when I thought I was about to win one of them over, my mother announced, out of the blue, that she had accepted an offer from someone to buy our house and we were moving.
‘Where to?’ I asked with unease.
‘Yorkshire,’ she replied. ‘To be nearer to my parents.’
How could I leave Lambourn and go to Yorkshire?
Lambourn was the centre of the universe for British steeplechasing, and all I knew of Yorkshire was my grandfather’s farm in the middle of nowhere high on the moors. And sheep – lots of sheep.
I was in despair.
‘I’m sure there must be some trainers there,’ my mother said, so I used one of the new computers at my school to search for racing stables in Yorkshire and, sure enough, there were lots of them, especially around two towns called Malton and Middleham.
I immediately looked them up in my mother’s road atlas to see if either was anywhere close to my grandparents’ farm.
Middleham was much further west, close to the Yorkshire Dales National Park, but Malton was only ten miles away. So I begged my mother to look for a house in Malton.
In the end it wasn’t my pleading that made the difference but access to an education for me. It felt as if, for the first time in my life, school was on my side as we moved into a rented two-up-two-down terraced house in Malton, on Princess Road.
I started at the local secondary school in October of the year I was fourteen, and instantly asked all my new classmates if any of them had a racehorse trainer in the family.
I was desperate to find a horse to ride, as the sale of the Lambourn house, together with the paddock behind it, meant that I no longer had any ponies available on which to hone my jockey skills.
It was through a school, however, that I got my break – a riding school.
One of the girls in my maths class was the daughter of the owner and she said that they had horses that needed to be exercised. ‘Apart from classes, we also do pony trekking on the moors in the summer, but we have to look after the horses all year round. I’m sure my mum would welcome some extra help.’
So, after school, I pitched up in my best riding kit and was given a docile Dartmoor pony to ride around the indoor arena to assess my ability.
‘Sit up straight,’ shouted the girl’s mother as I crouched over the pony’s withers in the style of Lester Piggott.
It was as much as I could do to get the damn animal to trot, let alone canter or gallop, but at least I didn’t fall off and was quickly upgraded to a full-sized horse, albeit a pensioned-off half-bred gelding aged fifteen that was as stubborn as a mule. But I didn’t disgrace myself on that either and soon I found myself up on something more lively.
‘OK, you’ll do,’ said the mother after an hour. ‘Come as often as you like throughout the winter. But you’ll have to work though, mucking out and cleaning. I’m not a bloody charity.’
And so started the happiest couple of years of my young life.
The girl and I became inseparable, and I even enjoyed going to school just to be with her. We rode together every day after lessons, and all the time at weekends, and I grew to adore the moors, lying on the heather with my new-found love in the summer while our mounts stood by, searching for grass among the twiggy stems.
But all the time, I made no secret of my aching desire to move on from exercising hacks and hunters to riding in races, specifically steeplechase races, and my chance came when the owner of one of the horses at livery at the riding school said he’d seen me riding, and would I like to ride his horse in a local point-to-point?
Would I? I almost tore his hand off shaking it.
But riding in a point-to-point, even in the novice riders’ race, wasn’t as simple as I imagined.
For a start, I had to be sixteen, and that birthday was still a few months away. Then I needed to get my doctor to complete medical forms and have my riding assessed by a qualified jockey coach. And I also had to be a member of the local hunt that was staging the racing.
It all took money, and my mother was not keen to give me any, not least because she really didn’t want another member of her family riding in races over fences. She hadn’t been able to watch my father and she made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t going to watch me either.
So I did menial tasks all over the town, anything and everything to earn a few pounds. I washed cars or windows until my hands were red and sore. I mowed lawn after lawn, and even white-lined the local football pitch for a handful of change. I walked dogs and fed pets when their owners were away on holiday. In the spring, I may have been forced to spend my days at school but I spent my nights at my grandfather’s farm helping with the lambing. All for some pocket money that went into my ‘Becoming a Jockey’ fund.
Fortunately the owner of the horse sponsored me with the local hunt and I was invited to ride with the hounds.
What excitement!
Jumping hedges and ditches at high speed was all I wanted to do. For me, actually chasing foxes was of secondary importance and I was secretly delighted when they got away, as they mostly did. Foxes are clearly not described as cunning for nothing.
Finally I was ready – old enough, passed medically fit and considered sufficiently competent by both the hunt and the jockey coach.
I received my Rider Qualification Certificate from the racing authorities in early January and the big day was set for a Sunday in February at Duncombe Park point-to-point races, some fifteen miles northwest of Malton.
The horse’s owner agreed to collect me from home at nine o’clock in the morning but I was ready by seven. I’d hardly slept a wink, such was my nervous energy. My mother, meanwhile, refused even to get up to say goodbye.
The day was wet with gentle rain falling on already saturated ground.
‘This will make the car parking interesting,’ said the owner as we sped along.
‘In what way?’ I asked nervously.
‘The racecourse at Duncombe Park is not like those you would have gone to with your father when he was riding. For a start, the course isn’t there for most of the year. Moveable fences, a few rails and some flags are set up only for this one day on the parkland close to the stately home. There are no grandstands, just a few marquees and a temporary scaffolding tower for the judge, stewards and commentator to watch from. And everyone likes to park on the grass as close as possible to the beer tent, especially if it’s raining.’
‘How’s the horse getting there?’ I asked.
‘A trainer friend has lent me his small horsebox. He’s driving it over and also bringing one of his staff to act as our groom. I just hope they don’t get stuck in the mud.’
I’d never been to a point-to-point meeting before. I knew that they were run by the local hunts and that they were for amateurs only, both riders and trainers, but I hadn’t realised that they were quite so basic. But it did not dull my excitement. I was going to ride in my first race over fences and, of course, I thought I had a good chance of winning.
I had been riding the horse now for several months, helping to train him, and he was by far the fastest animal I’d ever been on, infinitely more speedy then any of the others I exercised at the ri
ding stables. I’d also been jumping him over some schooling fences that belonged to one of the trainers in Malton.
So we were ready.
By the time we turned into Duncombe Park I was almost unable to remain seated on the passenger seat of the owner’s car, such was my excitement. I felt like I was bouncing up and down already.
My race was the fifth on the card of seven but, nevertheless, we had arrived a good two hours before the first.
‘I want you to walk around the course with me,’ the owner said, ‘so you know the way and the best line to take into each fence, and where to avoid because the ground is particularly soft.’
So we donned raincoats and wellies and set off round the track, which was laid out on the side of a hill.
‘Remember, the course is not railed except at the fences and round the corners, so you must keep all red flags on your right and the white ones on your left. Then you won’t go the wrong way.’
Red flags on the right, white on the left. I repeated it to myself over and over until I was sure I’d remember.
‘Your race is over three miles so you’ll go round the course two and a half times,’ said the owner. ‘You’ll jump eighteen fences in all, two of them open ditches, so don’t go too fast too early. It’s a long climb to the finish here and if you tire your horse too soon, he’ll not have the puff to make it. Just slot in behind the leaders and let them drag you round the first circuit expending as little energy as possible.’
‘OK,’ I said, trying to take in all he was saying.
As we began trudging up the steep hill the rain finally ceased and a watery sun came out. We stopped next to the fence on the uphill run.
‘Now listen carefully. You don’t jump the first two in the home straight on the last circuit so this one here is the last fence and then there’s a long uphill run-in to the winning post. Be particularly careful to get yourself right. Remember, both you and the horse will be very tired by this stage so don’t ask him to stand off and give you a big jump. He won’t be able to do it and he’ll either put in an extra stride that you’re not expecting or he’ll land right on top of it. Either way you’ll come crashing down.’
I hadn’t thought about falling.
The owner walked on from the last fence and dug his heel into the turf. I did likewise.
‘It’s much softer on the inside of the run-in so try and stay out wide in a tight finish.’
I nodded. He must also think I had a chance.
‘But, most importantly,’ he said, smiling, ‘enjoy yourself. I watched your father ride for years. A great jockey. Won plenty of money on him too. I’m very excited that his son is having his first ride in a race on my horse.’
That made two of us, then.
‘I’ll try not to let you down,’ I said, and he smiled.
But I did.
3
‘Miles Pussett to the box,’ announces Tower through the speakers.
The ‘box’ is the starting position for the Cresta Run and I drag my toboggan onto the ice with my heart rate rising in anticipation, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as adrenalin courses through my veins.
Will I ever get used to this excitement? I hope not.
Should I try and go faster on my second run or do I take it safe and steady? Am I content to come third, or even within the top ten? Or do I want to be first?
‘There’s no point in racing if you don’t intend to win,’ my father had always said.
Four of the 21 starters have fallen in the first run, and one more has already joined that number from the early riders in the second.
You have to be in it to win it, so I plan to push hard but not so hard that I don’t make it to the final run.
I hear the bell ring and the wooden barrier is lifted by the starter. Time to get going.
‘Keep calm,’ I tell myself. ‘Keep calm. You can do this.’
Keeping calm, or rather my inability to do so, had always been my problem.
As it had been on my first race day at Duncombe Park.
* * *
I was almost overcome with excitement as I watched the first two races. For the second, I stood behind the rail right next to one of the fences.
I’d been close up to racing horses before, when I’d been to watch my father ride, but somehow this was different with me about to be one of those in the saddle.
I could feel the approach of the field even before I could see them, their hooves striking the turf causing the ground to tremble beneath my boots. Then they were upon me, crashing through the top few inches of birch with noise and colour against the leaden sky. How I had longed to be one of those dashing young men in their bright silks, and now I would be.
During the third, I went with the owner to the administration tent to declare our horse for the fifth race – one reserved, somewhat strangely in my view, for either novice or veteran riders.
I proudly produced my Rider Qualification Certificate and my Medical Records Book for the Declarations Clerk who was sitting at a table.
‘New, are you?’ he said, flicking through the pristine medical book.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘This is my first ride.’
‘Then take it easy at the start, lad. The ground’s pretty heavy today.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
He placed my certificate and book in a box already containing many others.
‘I keep these for now.’ He looked up at me and smiled. ‘You get them back afterwards.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The owner did the rest of the declaration while I went to change.
The jockeys’ changing room was simply a big tent with some wooden chairs placed round the edge and some slatted duckboards laid on a tarpaulin for the floor. Many of the chairs already had clothes on them so I selected an empty one in the far corner.
The riders from the third race came back into the tent, their fronts so covered in mud that it was impossible to tell that they were wearing different-coloured silks until they turned round.
‘I thought I had you there, you bastard,’ one of them said while slapping another rider on the back.
‘In your dreams,’ came the reply with a grin, his teeth shining white in a mud-splattered face.
‘I’d have had both of you if that bloody nag of mine hadn’t hit the second last,’ said a third, pulling his filthy colours over his head. ‘I’ll take you next time, you mark my words.’
The first two looked at each other and laughed.
It was my first experience of changing-room banter. And I loved it. Not that it did anything to relieve my nerves, and it wasn’t helped by the third rider who spotted me in the corner.
‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a schoolboy among us. You lost or something, lad?’
‘Leave the kid alone,’ said the winner sternly. He walked over towards me. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a prat.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘First ride?’
I nodded.
‘We all started somewhere. Enjoy yourself, but keep out of the way.’
He turned away.
‘But I intend to win,’ I said, echoing my father.
He turned back and stared at me. ‘You do that.’
I started to dress in my racing gear, my hands shaking so much that I had difficulty zipping up my borrowed body protector, to say nothing about the buttons on the front of the owner’s black-and-white-checked silks. Finally, I successfully tied my stock round my neck, put rubber bands on my sleeves to stop the wind blowing them open, and picked up my riding helmet and whip.
I was ready. Time to weigh out.
The owner was waiting for me outside the changing room with the saddle I would use, a large heavy hunting affair. As was the case in the majority of point-to-point steeplechases, all the horses in my race were to carry twelve stone. My sixteen-year-old body weighed a little over nine, so I had no need to have a lightweight postage-stamp model like my father had used. But, even with th
e heavy saddle, I still needed many sheets of lead slotted into a weight cloth to bring the total up to the required amount. The weight cloth would sit over the horse’s withers, under the saddle.
I stood on the scale and the needle rotated round the dial and stopped.
‘Miles Pussett, twelve stone,’ said the Clerk of the Scales, ticking off my name on his list. He looked up at me. ‘Pussett? Any relation to Jim?’
‘He was my dad,’ I replied.
He nodded.
‘You’ll do fine,’ said the clerk.
For the very first time, I felt the heavy burden of expectation.
The owner took the saddle, pad, weight and number cloths from me and disappeared off to saddle the horse, while I waited nervously in the changing tent until it was time to go out to the parade ring.
Such was my nervousness that I had to rush to the toilet. Then I was nervous that I would be underweight as a result.
I waited in the changing area, pacing around with a mixture of hope and excitement, combined with a touch of fear.
‘Jockeys out,’ came the call at last, and I exited the tent with seven other novices or veterans. Surprisingly, it wasn’t easy for me to determine which was which as some of the novices looked older than a couple of the veterans, a ‘novice rider’ being determined by the number of previous wins rather than his age.
I walked into the parade ring with my feet feeling that they were somehow detached from my body.
‘Good luck, Miles,’ called a familiar voice on my right.
I turned and there was the daughter of the owner of the riding school standing behind the rail waving at me.
I smiled at her.
Now there was an extra spring in my step. In the absence of my mother, it felt good to have someone there to support me, and especially my girlfriend.
‘You look happy,’ said the owner as I walked up.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘But I’m nervous too.’
‘Not a bad thing,’ he said as we watched his horse being led by. ‘Looks good, doesn’t he?’ He was beaming with pleasure.
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