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Looking back on the life of Best Mate makes me realise just how lucky Terry and I were to have trained such a special horse. Many racegoers have memories of him, but most will agree that his magnificent appearance and flawless jumping set him apart from his contemporaries. It was a privilege to have had him in our midst. I wrote several letters to the newspapers in order to thank his fans for their support – it would have been impossible to have replied to every letter and card. I am reprinting here the one that I sent to Horse & Hound. This weekly magazine, one of my favourite publications, had always given the horse maximum publicity and often featured him on its cover. I wrote:
I have been surrounded by horses and ponies all my life. There have been plenty of wonderful moments, but inevitably, tragedies as well. One learns to enjoy the highs, but it is important to accept the lows, too. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the shock of losing Best Mate, suddenly, at Exeter Racecourse. It was a poignant and unbelievably sad day, not only for everybody connected to this brave and beautiful horse, but also for his thousands of admirers. He became a household name and won the hearts of the people. We received an amazing amount of flowers, letters, cards, e-mails, faxes and calls. We have been overwhelmed and deeply touched by so much kindness. Your support and sympathy have been hugely helpful, but we must not dwell on his tragic death and should be thankful, as well as honoured, to have been part of his life – part of the life of a great horse who inspired a nation and did so much for the sport he enjoyed. He was a talented athlete with a great temperament. He loved the crowds and responded to them by giving them memories to cherish. Thank you, Matey, for always being yourself and for being such a special person. You will never be forgotten.
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Later in 2005, I was at Cheltenham Racecourse, in Sam Vestey’s box, when renowned racing poet Henry Birtles came in and asked if he could read out his poem on Best Mate. After Best Mate’s death, I had received many poems, along with letters and cards, but Henry’s was the best by a long way. It was beautifully framed and illustrated and I now have it hanging up in my sitting room. Even Terry agreed that it was exceptionally good. Each year on Cheltenham Gold Cup day, Henry recites it to the crowd, beside the Best Mate statue. It reads as follows:
A call to arms, upon us fast, that week in March now looms.
When thousands gather for the craic, when spring smites winter’s gloom.
When stories get wheeled out again, those great Gold Cups of old.
It’s minus two without the gale, yet no one feels the cold.
And so this year we’ll celebrate a recent hero’s past.
A horse whose place in Cheltenham lore not just in bronze we’ve cast.
A horse who proudly holds his own with legends of this track.
A kindly horse with looks and style and quality to match.
Now factor in his entourage, a most unlikely team.
Led by a former schoolmistress and harnessed by her dream.
A dream she shared with Biddlecombe, fine jockey of his time.
A dream they lived to realise, once they’d put aside the wine.
The owner, good Jim Lewis, vintage Brummie through and through.
His songs the only downside, his silks claret and blue.
The colours worn by Villa when they last brought home The Cup.
Engrained in racing folklore now, with Jim Culloty up.
They played an almost comic role, when cameras stopped to call.
But mark me now and mark me well, for him they gave their all.
They taught Best Mate that what he had was handed to the few.
They honed his power, they understood they showed him what to do.
And when unleashed in combat, though she couldn’t bear to look.
Preferring racecourse car parks, where with head in hands she shook.
He always brought her running from behind the heaving stands.
To welcome him, victorious, clinging tight to Terry’s hand.
Step forward, Henrietta, racing’s first reluctant Knight.
And take a bow with Terry now for getting it so right.
For giving us the memories of a truly noble horse.
Whose early death remains the only reason for remorse.
A death that robbed a nation, but upon it we won’t dwell.
Let’s celebrate the life of one who served his sport so well.
Best Mate, you never let us down, you lived up to your name.
You ran your rivals ragged, showed ’em how to play this game.
He won with ease and nonchalance; he won with craft and style.
He won the hearts of England and the mighty Emerald Isle.
He gave us what we’d waited for, a Gold Cup crown retained.
An undisputed champion, a king who proudly reigned.
Don’t judge him upsides Arkle, if you don’t judge man by God.
But see him as a winter king, who never spared the rod.
Who poured it on at Prestbury Park, with smiling Jim aboard.
And left this world with three Gold Cups, Best Mate by all adored.
People say that losing a relation, a friend, or a horse, is character-building, but if that is the case, my own character must have been built many decades ago. I have witnessed numerous disasters in my life, but death does not get any easier to handle. One never gets used to it.
With racehorses, trainers have to brace themselves against hardships. Yet, I often wonder whether, without Terry, I would have continued training on my own. Terry was my rock, and I constantly turned to him for reassurance and advice, even though at times he, too, needed to be held up.
It is all about teamwork and trust. I consider that at West Lockinge Farm, we experienced both of these in abundance.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Casting Back
Looking back over the life Terry led during his racing days and assessing his contribution to the National Hunt scene make it easier to understand the reasons for his declining health in later years. His body was hammered in so many ways – not only as a result of racing falls, but also by his wild lifestyle. Many would say that it was an amazing feat for him to have survived for as long as he did. Nowadays, due to vast technological developments that have occurred worldwide over the last century, there have been colossal changes within the racing game. Current Health and Safety regulations, together with more and more red tape, have definitely prevented jockeys in this age from living like they did in Terry’s era. The structure of racing has altered beyond recognition and I find it extremely interesting to pinpoint the changes.
It was no mean feat to win three National Hunt Jockeys’ Championships in the 1960s, but Terry achieved this. He was successful in the seasons of 1964–5, 1965–6 and 1968–9. From 1958 until 1974 he rode over 900 winners. By contrast, on his retirement in 2015, A. P. McCoy had ridden over 4,000 winners and captured twenty championships. Why the difference? In Terry’s riding days, there was far less racing and no summer jumping. Racecourses used to apply to the National Hunt Committee for fixtures. Nowadays, courses put on as many race meetings as they can, for greater betting opportunities and larger turnover. Fifty years ago, the jump season ended in May and didn’t resume until the end of July or early August. Everything happened at a slower rate. Instead of trainers making entries for their horses five days in advance, as they do today, the entries were made six weeks before a scheduled race. There were no jockeys’ agents, no mobile telephones, no computers and no overnight declarations. None of the daily races was televised and there were no closed-circuit televisions on the courses.
It was decided some weeks earlier where a particular horse would run and, in most cases, which jockey would ride it. Terry used to say that he would look down the entries in the Racing Calendar and be able to work out where he would be going thirty days later – provided, of course, that the horse was fit to run. The whole pace of the day-to-day racing was slower and less cut-throat. Jockeys seldom rang up trainer
s to ask for rides. The trainers rang the jockeys, but the top riders had a good life and plenty of fun.
The riding fee for a National Hunt jockey in 2015 is £162 and the valet fee paid by the jockeys is £16 a ride. In 1960 professional jockeys were paid £7.10s per ride, with no percentage of the prize money, and they paid their valets £1 for each horse they rode. In 1969 the jockeys’ fees went up to £13 a ride. When Terry was asked how much he earned in a year, he said that he reckoned it was £6,000, if he was lucky, and this included a £600 retainer from trainer Fred Rimell, but the day of getting slipped a tip by an owner had gone and he had to pay all his expenses out of his earnings, including travelling and tack.
A. P. McCoy and I have often compared racing today with racing in the sixties and seventies. He acknowledges the achievements of jockeys in Terry’s era but mostly approves of the changes made in racing during the twenty-first century. Yet he thinks that, where jockeys are concerned, there was a greater strength in depth in the olden days. There were more top-class jockeys riding and many more jockeys who had been brought up through the ranks. They were tougher and were proper horsemen.
Indeed, if one looks at the list of jockeys in the sixties and seventies, there are many famous household names. In the present-day statistical charts for the Jockeys’ Championship, there are certainly at least a dozen well-known ones at the top of the list, but then the famous names peter out. There are undoubtedly some good young riders, but I doubt whether too many will make racing history.
Nowadays, a lot of the jockeys have had less overall riding experience as children than they did in the last century. Many have not even come from horse-orientated backgrounds. A number of the modern younger jockeys graduate from the British Racing School, but this can never equal the experience of riding one’s ponies in childhood. In Ireland, there is much to be gained from pony racing or ‘flapping’, plus showjumping and hunting. The young would-be jockeys have a huge advantage because horses are in their blood from day one. No wonder many of the top jockeys are Irish.
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Terry’s best friends in his riding years were probably Michael Scudamore, who lived locally and gave him plenty of advice; David Mould, the dapper, stylish jockey to whom Terry was like a brother; plus Josh Gifford, another champion jockey, who was an outstandingly fearless rider and later became a top trainer. His brother, Macer Gifford, who tragically died young from motor neurone disease, was also a good friend. Michael Scudamore rode Linwell to win the Cheltenham Gold Cup in 1957 and Oxo to win the Grand National in 1959. He was older than Terry, but a wonderful mentor. David Mould rode many horses for Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and he told me that, during his days with Terry, life ‘just flowed’. ‘We shared everything,’ he said. ‘We shared money and we shared fun. We spent a lot of time together and we lived for racing. Terry never minded what he said to anyone – including the stewards – but he always got away with his outrageous remarks. Everybody looked up to him and respected him.’
Johnny Lehane was another amusing mate of Terry’s and rode many winners. Then there was the legendary Dave Dick, who partnered numerous top horses for the eccentric Dorothy Paget. He also won the Grand National on Mrs Carver’s ESB in 1956. Dave’s stories had to be heard to be believed. He was a unique man and the most wonderful company. When I took Terry to his memorial service in Newbury in 2001, he was visibly shaken, and it greatly upset him. From then on Terry vowed that he would never again attend a funeral or service for any of his best friends. He cried his eyes out on our homeward journey. When Josh Gifford died in 2012, Terry stayed at home. Josh’s death hit him hard.
In his riding days, Bob Davies, who married Terry’s sister, Sue, was one of Terry’s arch-rivals but they got along well. They often fought out the spoils until the last day of the season to win the Jockeys’ Championship. In the late sixties, before he got married, Bob used to stay with Terry. ‘We often went racing together,’ he recalls, ‘but we both struggled with our weight and were often in the Gloucester Turkish baths. In the 1960s Cheltenham always gave a dinner for the Champion Jockey at the Queen’s Hotel on the Friday night of the Mackeson meeting, now The Open. This was for men only, with the champion paying for a separate dinner at a later date for fellow jockeys, wives and girlfriends. When Terry and I shared the championship in 1969, that dinner was, as usual, in November. We had a very good evening, with a late night, which of course necessitated a morning in the baths before we rode in the afternoon. Julian Wilson had arranged to interview us that day on the roof of the main stand, which was then the BBC presentation area. It was about an hour before the first race. When we arrived, his first words were, “I hope nobody you know is watching this in colour.” Colour television had just begun and we must have been looking exceedingly rough.’
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Brough Scott, who rode with Terry, remembers that Tuesdays used to be ladies’ day at the Gloucester baths, but Terry would charm himself into the steam room early on and an hour later, a rollicking Gloucester voice saying, ‘Hello darling,’ would scare the non-existent pants off the first naked lady to venture in. ‘One year we spent the morning before the Midlands National sweating in the Turkish baths in Stoke,’ Brough told the Racing Post. ‘Once dried, off we set towards Uttoxeter, he the champion, me the acolyte. Halfway there, he directed me into a pub and ordered two sharpeners to set us right for our four-mile and 24-fence journey. They were Babycham and brandy. “Yes,” said Biddlecombe, with majestic persuasion, “the bubbles will give us sparkle and the brandy a bit of kick.” As it happens we both fell on the far side and he swung me up on the back of his remounted horse and we cantered back as a tandem.’ (Racing Post, 6 January 2014).
Of course, this would not be allowed today. No horses can be remounted after a fall, let alone by two jockeys.
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In Terry’s era, there were no saunas at the races. In order to lose weight before they rode, the heavier jockeys spent many hours in the Turkish baths around the country. A. P. McCoy spent plenty of time sweating when he was riding, but he told me that, during all his days as a jockey, he never saw the inside of a Turkish bath. I told him about some of Terry’s experiences in these buildings and especially when the jockeys attracted the attention of some other, less desirable, inmates. I think he is relieved not to have been on the scene in those days.
In Terry’s own autobiography, Winner’s Disclosure, he described the hours he spent losing weight.
‘As well as the Gloucester baths and my own little box at home, I should think that I’ve visited every Turkish bath in the United Kingdom. There were some amusing and weird incidents in these unusual surroundings and over the years I met some colourful characters.’
When Terry started racing, he would go to the Turkish baths in Gloucester at seven o’clock every morning. ‘They were usually deserted, but the steam room would be ready, so I would switch it on and then weigh myself. I could lose six or seven pounds in a couple of hours – sometimes more, moving from the steam room to the hot rooms, ending with a quick dive into the cold plunge pool. At about 9.30 a.m., Bill, the manager, would come in and ask me if I wanted anything. I would ask for “the usual” which consisted of a Worthington “E” and a port and Babycham. I would pour out exactly half of the beer before going back into the baths and repeating the same routine. When I came out, I would finish the beer, have a quick shower and take off in the car to the races. Once in the car, I would sip my port and Babycham, which made me feel great. I never stopped to dry myself but in all the years that I kept up this routine, I never had a cold.’
Terry maintained that if he had not rigidly stuck to his routine at the baths, he would never have been able to carry on riding, but the sweating took its toll and seriously affected his health in later life. Having damaged a kidney in 1970 through his bad fall at Kempton, the remaining one had to work overtime to get rid of excess fluid and was considerably weaker in later years. The torture that Terry endured in the Turkish baths is hard to comprehend n
owadays.
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Terry’s favourite baths were the Savoy Baths in Jermyn Street. Apparantly they were totally different to those anywhere else. In Winner’s Disclosure, he stated:
If I was staying in London overnight with other jockeys, we would perhaps go to a club, or to the pictures and then return to the baths to lose weight for the next day’s racing. The management was appreciative of tidy people, and I think most jockeys come into this category; if you were there in good time they would keep some cubicles for you, each with two bunks inside. Having secured these, we would go down for a sweat and ask the man in charge to give us a tap on the shoulder in the morning at about 5 o’clock or 6, so that we could have yet another session. To stay in London was expensive, but at the Savoy Baths we had marvellous service for about £1 10s., which included a doss down in the bunks, the use of the steam and hot rooms and a shave in the morning from old Bill, the barber. The masseurs there were all good, but one of them was outstanding. If I was too tired to sweat I went into a steam room to get really hot and then to the massage room. There they had slabs of marble, which were sprayed with hot water to keep your temperature up and the masseurs would get to work. This particular man had an old sock which he put on his hand before beginning to rub my back, my backside, legs, thighs and stomach for half an hour, non-stop. The sweat used to pour out of him and I would lie there, half asleep and think to myself, I’m in the wrong job, I should be doing that! In half an hour he would rub up to three pounds from my body.
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Richard Pitman remembers accompanying Terry to the Turkish baths in Swindon. As usual, Terry was extremely hard on himself and turned up all the knobs to make the rooms as hot as possible. Richard could barely stand it and felt decidedly wobbly. Then he heard Terry’s voice saying: ‘Don’t worry, Pip. I’ve got something that will revive you.’ He duly went to the cold pool where a bottle of Moët champagne could be seen dangling from a string. It was lucky there were no breathalysers at the races in the old days. After an evening out and hours in the Turkish baths, jockeys could still be inebriated when they rode at the races the next afternoon.
Not Enough Time Page 17