The Sport of Queens

by Dick Francis

  The second bad consequence of the easier hurdles was a little longer showing itself. Not until horses which had raced over French hurdles were put to steeplechase fences was it found that they would no longer bother to jump over the top. Dozens of novice ’chasers crashed to the ground because they had tried to apply to a good hard-built plain fence the experience they had gained over hurdles. Nor could they be blamed, for apart from the difference in height the new hurdles and the old fences looked very much alike.

  In France even the big fences are very soft and offer no serious resistance to horses brushing through them, so no harm is done by having soft hurdles also. It seemed clear, as the tale of riderless horses and grass-stained jockeys grew longer and longer, that if we were not to accept in Britain the French version of soft big fences, it was senseless having soft little ones.

  So the experiment was over, the starch was put back into hurdle races, and the by now more popular ‘forward’ seat prudently retreated an inch or two.

  The forward seat is, of course, used almost exclusively in flat racing. I greatly respect the flat jockeys for their sensitive timing and skill in a finish; but they have little to do in the way of complicated riding. This I am often told, not having ridden on the flat myself, by National Hunt jockeys light enough to have a few rides in the summer. Their unanimous opinion about the amount of horsemanship needed in a flat race is—very little. And, they say, very few flat-race jockeys would stay on over hurdles, so insecurely are they perched on top.

  Do not mistake me. I do not wish to imply that no flat-race jockeys are good horsemen for, of course, this is not true; many of them are. But it is clear that indifferent horsemen can have great success on the flat, and little or none over hurdles and fences.

  It is not easy to explain the difference between a good horseman and good jockey, but if I attempt it, it will be in the same spirit that theatre critics discuss plays and actors: they make very definite statements of what should be done, without in the least being able to do it themselves. So in describing the perfections of horsemanship and jockeyship I am not implying that I myself am capable of them.

  The Perfect Horseman is quiet on a horse. The calmness which springs from confidence in his own ability extends to the horse and quietens him too. Nothing frightens a horse as much as a frightened rider, and nothing will make a horse more restless and fidgety than a rider who cannot sit still. Horses are extremely sensitive to the mental state of the man on their back; some could even be thought to be two different animals, so opposite may their form be with two riders of contrasting skill and temperament.

  The Perfect Horseman’s legs are strong, and by using his thigh and calf muscles he can squeeze and urge his mount to go faster; but he does not wildly clap his heels against the flanks as if he were beating a drum. His hands are strong also, but with a gentle firmness that controls and guides, not a savage grip that fights a continual battle against the horse’s mouth. A fierce pull will only encourage a horse to get the bit in his teeth and bolt, in order to stop the jagged pain at the soft corners of his mouth.

  It is a terrifying sight to see a man being run away with, for he has absolutely no control of any sort, and is altogether at the mercy of his horse. The Perfect Horseman is never run away with. But he sometimes cannot stop when he wants to!

  A few horses are such strong pullers that they can overrule any halt signs from the saddle, while remaining amenable to left and right turn and slow and fast signals. I am thankful to say I have never suffered the former fate, though the latter has sometimes cropped up at the most awkward moments in or before a race. A jockey who cannot pull up at the starting post when he is cantering down always comes in for a good deal of derision from his colleagues as he is carried unwillingly past them, and when a horse makes a habit of this irresponsible sort of joie de vivre he is best trotted, or even led, down to the post.

  The Perfect Horseman’s toes are always pointing forwards or upwards; his elbows are tucked in, and his back is straight. His impeccable style, and the way his mounts respond, are the visible proofs of the Perfect Horseman’s qualities, but just as important is an inner and invisible asset, his intuitive knowledge of what his horse is about to do. A second’s anticipation of a slip or a swerve is enough for the Perfect Horseman’s balance to be elastically in the right place, and for his hands to be ready to give his mount all possible help in recovery. If there really were a Perfect Horseman, he would never fall off: but as far as I know, this paragon does not exist.

  The Perfect Jockey is not unduly concerned with the theory, technique, and the higher points of style. His function is simply to win races.

  His one indispensable quality is determination, for nothing but a ruthless driving will to win will keep a man racing at all. Ruthless, that is to say, to himself, for the Perfect Jockey, though sticking to his rights, is fair and considerate to his opponents. He does not push other riders into the rails to break their legs, or flick his whip in their eyes, or kick their horses in the groin with his toe to unbalance them, or any other of the sweet little tricks in the armoury of Dirty Dogs.

  The Perfect Jockey sees every race as a battle of tactics, an engagement in which strategy should be based on a realistic view of his horse’s capabilities and his position in the handicap, the racing habits of the rest of the field, the state of the going, and the probable blanks in the equipment of the other jockeys. He does not, however, follow his plan through blindly to a possibly bitter end, but changes and adapts it if the race does not develop as he expects. Brilliant seizing of an unexpected opening is his special strength, and when he comes to the last furlong or the last fence he is in the perfect place to make a winning effort with every spark of his genius for speed.

  If there were in fact a Perfect Jockey, he would never lose a race by a short head. But, in considering such a near miss a failure on his part, it might be true to say that were he not a Perfect Jockey he would be much further back, and be beaten by six lengths.

  The backward seat is well displayed in those charming Victorian hunting prints where the stomachs of the galloping horses are almost touching the ground, and the side-whiskered riders are sitting bolt upright with an air of surprise. It is still the natural seat, controlled or comfortable, of haut école riders and cowboys. Sixty years ago it was the only seat known in racing, but now its disadvantages have made it obsolete.

  The rider’s weight is in the wrong place, both for speed and jumping, when he is sitting back in his saddle on the flat, and lying on the horse’s quarters in the air. The misplaced weight affects a horse’s efficiency over fences in three ways. First, and most obvious, it tends to force the hind legs down too soon so that they drag through the fence; and secondly, it acts as a back-wheel brake when the horse lands, so that he has to start away again hampered by a drag on his hindquarters. This can be clearly seen when inexperienced riders bring their mounts almost to a standstill on the landing-side of a fence.

  Thirdly, there is the matter of the length of rein. In leaning backwards a rider lets the reins run throught his fingers almost down to the buckle. There are many times over fences when this position is the best way to counteract a horse’s clumsy jump, but an inexpert jockey is apt to be unable to let the reins slip quickly enough, and the horse feels a jab in his mouth. If the rider is at all unbalanced and has difficulty in restoring himself to a more upright seat on landing, he hauls on the reins and the horse gets another jab.

  The horse begins to expect this sudden and unpleasant pain, and to avoid it refuses to stretch out his head. He no longer jumps freely; he ‘props’ into a fence and gets over it slowly, going up into the air and landing almost on all four feet, losing lengths, and indeed, the race. Many a good horse has been ruined like this, and it is very difficult, and often impossible, to restore any confidence if the damage has been going on during more than one or two races.

  Drawings of races sixty years ago show the riders trying to avoid catching their horses in the mouth by s
tretching forward with one arm, and lifting the other hand backwards off the reins into the position known as ‘calling a cab’.

  Although it is no longer the normal and recognised thing to do, ‘calling a cab’ is. still occasionally seen when a jockey finds himself in difficulties over a fence. When it is a choice between lifting an arm, or falling off, it is obvious which is better; and this choice sometimes presents itself when a horse ducks his head down suddenly as he lands. However, a rider in whom this habit is regularly observed is either a bad horseman, unfit, or scared.

  If he is a bad horseman at twenty, there is hope; if at forty, not.

  An unfit and tired rider, sitting like a sack in the saddle, is a dead weight on the horse’s back. Towards the end of a race he has barely enough strength to control his own leaden-feeling limbs, and none at all for helping his mount. This sorry state of affairs is most often seen in amateurs who ride only three or four races a year, and who rely solely on some spasmodic hacking to toughen them up.

  A frightened jockey leans away from a jump because he is afraid of falling off, regardless of the fact that he would be just as safe if he sat up properly. Should a man find that a fear of falling is taking away all pleasure from his racing, he should not be unduly ashamed of what is after all a not illogical emotion, but he certainly ought to make a graceful exit at this point. If he goes on riding he will find his apprehensions growing stronger, and he will be an anxiety to his family and a danger to everyone else in a race. Worst of all he will be an object of pity in the sharp eyes of racegoers, who are so quick to spot a man afraid that they often overdo it.

  One hears some odd things in the stands. At one time or another I have heard red-faced aggressive men with paunches, who looked as if they had never sat on even a mule in their life, talk through their pockets and loudly assert as a proven fact that (a) Fred Winter, (b) Tim Molony, (c) Dick Francis, or (d) any jockey who had come in last when backed by them, had lost his —— nerve, and it was a —— shame that they were allowed to go on riding, and lose a race that even a —— monkey could have won.

  As far as I know, it is very rare indeed for a jockey who has been racing successfully for years suddenly to lose his nerve. On the contrary, mothers of National Hunt jockeys have been heard to remark that their sons are reckless to the point of insanity, and that one day they’ll break their silly necks.

  I am bound to admit that for the mothers of Fred Rimell, Dave Dick, and Tommy Cusack this would have been an accurate forecast: but they all survived.

  In any emergency at racing speed the forward seat involves the danger of preceding one’s mount over a fence, and the backward seat is apt to send a rider out by the back door. A middle way between these two extremes, although a typically British compromise, is not a weak or indecisive solution, but the most sensible way to deal with British fences.

  For me, in any case, the middle seat has always been the safest and most practical. Sitting lightly upright in the saddle, with the ankle, knee, and thigh joints all at right angles, is a basic, relaxed, and flexible position from which all things (including falling off) are possible. Bend the knees and lean forward, and the weight moves over the horse’s shoulders for easier galloping. Straighten the arms and lean back, and one can adjust one’s balance over a steep or misjudged jump.

  ‘In the middle’ is by far the best seat over big fences simply because it is so easily and safely altered to fit the circumstances: and whatever brilliant racing tactics a jockey may be capable of are quite useless if he is unable to stay in the saddle long enough to bring them off.

  Whichever of the three styles he may favour, staying on when his mount jumps is every jockey’s aim, and the way in which they meet a fence has everything to do with their continued partnership on the other side. The further away from a fence a jockey can judge how his horse is meeting it, the more chance he has of jumping it well. I do not think it would be too much to say that the ability to judge this distance is one of the main things which distinguishes a good from a bad jockey. It is also, mercifully, something which can be learned with practice.

  The best distance for a horse to be from an average four foot six plain fence when he takes off is about his own unextended length. From here he clears the fence at the height of his spring, and lands at about the same distance from a fence as he took off.

  In front of a regulation open ditch the best place to take off is exactly the same spot as for a plain fence. Putting it another way, one should take off at the same distance from the front bar of the ditch as the bar is from the ground. For instance, if the bar is eighteen inches from the ground, a jump from eighteen inches in front of it will clear the fence but not waste time and energy in making an unnecessarily large leap.

  The same calculation is useful for clearing the water-jump. If the fence is three feet high, the maximum height allowed, a take-off three feet in front of it should safely land one on the other side of a ducking; provided, of course, that one is going fast enough.

  A jockey’s aim is to try to make every horse take off at the ideal place at every fence, but there is not a jockey on earth who can manage it, such is the cussedness of those horses which refuse to be helped.

  What one does to put right a horse which is meeting a fence or a hurdle wrong depends altogether upon the sort of horse one is riding. On a good experienced jumper one can urge him, with knees and hands and voice, to lengthen his stride, go a little faster, and so reach approximately the right spot for taking off with enough momentum to withstand a mild collision with the top of the obstacle. Most horses will respond at once to such guidance from the saddle; and just how lost a horse may feel without it is clearly shown by loose horses, normally good jumpers, which approach a fence wrong and jump awkwardly where with a jockey they might have flown.

  With beginners and weak-quartered animals the procedure is reversed. It is no use urging them to go faster for a few strides, because the extra speed will only fluster them and make their mistakes worse. Better to collect them and shorten their stride, so that again they reach the fence at a suitable place for taking off. Steadiness in their case pays as well as speed for fluent jumpers, and gives them a good chance of arriving safely on the landing side. It is easy to see, from watching them run, that green novices have little chance in their first few races of beating the old hands in their own class. They are left behind every time for speed over a fence if they meet it wrong.

  Some experienced and intelligent but wilful horses insist upon looking after themselves, and it is undoubtedly best to leave them alone to get on with it. Instructions from the saddle only confuse a horse which prefers to correct his own approach to a fence, but it is a very odd feeling indeed to sit on a horse, know his stride is wrong, and sternly forbid oneself to do anything about it. One has to have great trust in one’s mount’s abilities, and enough control of oneself to sit still in the face of apparently approaching disaster; but if one knows the horse well, one realises that letting him sort out his own difficulties is the best, and sometimes the only way, to get him first past the winning post.

  It is never an outstanding pleasure to a competent jockey to ride such a horse, because he feels quite helpless after having resigned all initiative to the unreasoning creature beneath him. But a horse which puts himself right to jump is, needless to say, invaluable to an inexperienced rider.

  Easily the worst type of horse is the one which refuses to be helped and is also incapable of looking after himself.

  This sort of horse jumps adequately until he finds himself at the wrong distance from a fence for a satisfactory leap. No amount of squeezing from his jockey’s legs, or any other encouragement, will get him to lengthen his stride, and he stubbornly pulls against a rein being shortened in an effort to collect him together. Straight on to the fence he goes in his pigheaded way, finding at the last second that a too-early take-off will drop him down on to the top of the fence, and a too-late one will bring him almost to a standstill in front of it. An almos
t perpendicular spring off his hocks is then the only way of getting over. Both methods are guaranteed to rid him of his jockey sooner or later.

  Proper schooling teaches a horse a great deal about jumping, but after that his own nature dictates his permanent style.

  The landing-side of a fence also has its problems, and it is here that the state of the ground often has most effect on a horse’s performance.

  Mud, of course, is the downfall of many horses because they cannot pull their feet out quickly enough to keep their balance. Ground which is soft on top and hard underneath, the result of a shower after drought, is extremely treacherous and slippery. Horses often slide down on to their bellies after as many as three or four strides away from a fence because they cannot gather themselves together on their crazily skating feet. It is a most frustrating sensation to feel one’s mount floundering like this, but there is little one can do: an issue of athletes’ spiked running shoes all round would not, I fear, meet with universal approval.

  Paradoxically, extremely wet ground is easy to race on and tires horses less than sticky going. When a horse lands into watery ground his feet go deeply in, but the soft earth makes little resistance to him pulling them out again, and his speed is not checked. The holes he leaves are the nightmare of racecourse managers.

  Worst going of all is dry hard ground with only a thin covering of grass. Many horses refuse to take off from this, and none likes to land on it. The jar from its unyielding surface runs up the horse’s forelegs, often making him shinsore, and sometimes giving him a lasting dislike for racing in general.