keep Battling
By C. H. BLACKER ON a winter afternoon some years ago I was walking . drearily back to the dressing-room at Sandown Park after a fall on the far side of the course. My boots were tight and- my spirits low. For some weeks now the Fates, whom I always visualise as a set of capricious and cantankerous old ladies, had been contriving to frustrate my racing plans insa variety of ingenious, irritating and sometimes painful ways. Nothing ever seemed to go right Already imagining the cool reception I should shortly be receiving from the horse's owner, I plodded dejectedly on, wondering (if the truth be known) why' on earth I continued to take part in such a frustrating sport. A passing acquaintance, seeing my de- pressed attitude, tried to console me. " Never mind,' he called out. " You aren't beat yet. Just keep on battling." I was reminded of this remark as I listened to the broadcast of the concluding stages of this year's Grand National, for if ever anyone has " kept battling " against adverse tides it is Bryan Marshall, the rider of the winner, Early Mist. Here surely is not only a great rider, but a personality with qualities of will-power and determination which are altogether exceptional.
By the time war broke out, Marshall had begun his riding career but was still comparatively unknown. He could, I imagine, have withdrawn to his native land, Eire, and there _continued to build up his reputation and bank-balance. He did nothing of the kind; he volunteerdd for the Army, and was soon granted a commission in my regiment, the 5th Innis- killing Dragoon Guards, in which he served with distinction both in and out of battle. In 1945 he was demobilised and resumed his career. By that time his natural weight was over twelve stone, and he well knew that no steeplechase jockey weigh- ing more than eleven stone could hope to reach the top. So at the outset he was faced with, the prospect of living for an indefinite period at over a. stone below his natural weight, with all the effects on his health and stamina which this must entail. And in fact within a few months of demobilisation .he was able to weigh out (saddle included) at ten stone nine pounds. Despite this considerable handicap, he was very soon acknowledged by the experts to be probably the finest steeple- chase rider, with the possible exception of Martin Molony, that this generation has seen. , He has achieved this pinnacle not only by expert horseman- ship, which enables him to perform almost as well in the show-ring as on the race-course, but by exceptional dash and nerve. I remember early in the war seeing him mounted, not on a horse, but on a motor-cycle. The occasion was a motor- cycle race organised by brigade headquarters, the competitors professional-looking soldiers drawn mainly from brigade work- shops—and Bryan Marshall, whose experience in this field was known to be extremely limited. Nevertheless he won the race, by the simple expedient of riding his machine- a great deal faster round the corners than his opponents dared do. How he stayed on nobody knew, but he did. Small wonder there- fore that he was able to achieve such success on horseback, his natural elenpt. . The Fates hayenever been`particularly kind to him in respect of falls and t trfies, but it was not until April, 1952, that they became pos' ively vindictive. In the Scottish Grand National he f d broke his leg high up near the hip. " That will finish lit or a season or so," one can imagine those horrid old la saying with relish. But it did nothing of the kind. I im in July, some four months after his accident. He on crutches and looked far from well, but announced cheerfully that he would be race-riding again in a month. And sure enough within six weeks he was not only riding in races but winning them.
Enraged by this cavalier treatment, the Fates retaliated almost immediately. Within a fortnight of his resumption he had a very heavy fall. His horse was killed; he himself was badly concussed, and a vertebra in his neck was cracked and dis- placed. A week later he was back again; both his first two rides fell, and the second fall injured him once more. A day or, two later he came back for more, and immediately had another fall. And so it went on throughout the season. In November he received a full-blooded kick on the nose; in January he badly strained his " riding muscle," and for the next two months was unable to grip with his knees without considerable pain. At Cheltenham he cracked his fibula, a large bone in his leg. Suffering agonies, he rode in the next two races; he won one and was third in the other, but later in the • day had to forgo a ride in the Cheltenham Gold Cup because he felt he would not he able to do his mount justice. By this time, also, the vertebra he had injured earlier in the season was causing him trouble, and consequently he was some- times forced to ride with his neck encased in a plastic collar.
But is not steeplechasing a hard and dangerous game, and must not the professional jockey expect a run of hard luck now and again ? Certainly he must; he earns his living race- riding, and has little alternative but to come back for more, hoping that some day his luck will turn. There is nothing very remarkable about that. What is almost inevitable how- ever, is the toll that such a run of luck levies on the rider's nerve. In racing every fall exacts its price in the form of a payment from the rider's reserves of courage, reserves which are not replenished and which when low spell the end of his career whether he likes it or not. Gradually he becomes more cautious and less willing to take risks; unerringly he transmits this feeling to his mount, and inevitably his successes, his skill and his reputation decline. He has, it is said, " lost his dash "; has " seen the red light." And if he is in his late thirties, is living considerably below his natural weight and has broken his leg six months before, this process is likely. you would imagine, to be accelerated.
What is remarkable, therefore, about Bryan Marshall is not that he is still riding, but that he is riding as well as ever, that his nerve appears not only unbroken but completely un- affected. Recently; when the tide of his misfortune was at its height, I saw him ride a thoroughly erratic jumper, a horse which had fallen at the first fence with him last time he had ridden it, and which he had -every reason to suppose would fall again. It was an unforgettable sight to see hint sailing along in front, the picture of carefree confidence and skill, riding as if he were twenty years old and the horse the safest in the word. Again, most jockeys, when they realise that their mount has hit a fence and is beginning to fall, " abandon ship " with great rapidity in order to avoid being rolled on. Bryan Marshall clings like a limpet so long as there is the faintest dhance of the horse regaining his legs, and frequently pays the penalty.
But, although his nerve was unbroken, the effects of the last twelve months were becoming increasingly apparent in his appearance. A week before the National I saw him limping to the paddock at Sandown, looking tired, bent and, if he will forgive me, rather old. All round people were saying, " It's quite time Bryan gave it up. He can't go on like this." But the Fates, who despite their many unpleasant characteristics have a soft streak in their natures and know a real man when they see one, were probably holding a conference at about this time. There was a horse called Early Mist, trained in Ireland, whose usual jockey had selected another mount for the National. Might not something be arranged to benefit Marshall. that tiresome fellow who would not give in ? Perhaps it might. And so, on a March afternoon not fcing ago, I knew that the cheering I heard on my wireless was the Aintree crowds' salute not only to the winner of the 1953 Grand National: but to a supreme artist of the saddle.
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