The turf
Cheltenham charm
Robin Oakley
The first Cheltenham Festival of the new millennium could scarcely have been a more glorious spectacle. The sun shone, the rain stayed away and on egg-sandwich going — firm on top but with plenty of spongy moisture underneath — races proved the ultimate test, many run in record time. You will not see a better finish than the one in the Queen Mother Cham- pion Chase when Tony McCoy on Edredon Bleu, having been headed up the run-in by Norman Williamson on Direct Route, came back again to snatch victory by a nos- tril on the line. My money, of course, was on Direct Route, the penalty for having suggested here that Edredon Bleu had lost a little of his front-running sparkle this sea- son. My apologies to trainer Henrietta Knight, who had, of course, judged his preparation just right.
McCoy and Williamson, who had talked a good race together in the Queen's Arms at East Garston the night before, were quite superb. And we really are running Out of superlatives about A.P. McCoy. Going out in front and judging the pace in such a way that you burn off the opposition without exhausting your own mount before the finish is the hardest way of winning races yet he does it to perfection time and again.
You will not see a novice chaser given a better ride either than the one which Mick Fitzgerald, deservedly the Cheltenham champion once again, gave Tiutchev in the Arkle Trophy. On two previous outings the horse had proved an iffy jumper. On the day, against the hottest of competition on the daunting Cheltenham course, Fitzgerald made up the horse's mind for him whenev- er there was any doubt and produced the perfect round. But we should celebrate the amateurs too. The way in which Mr Paul Flynn (surely not an amateur for very much longer) produced What's Up Boys out of the pack in the Coral Cup to storm past seven or eight horses after the final obsta- cle and tear past Native Dara as if the sec- ond was standing still was a revelation, especially as I had a small saver on him at 33-1. Then 40-year-old Alex Charles-Jones, on Cavalero, did the same thing to Real Value in the Foxhunters, emerging out of the pack and charging past the others up the finishing hill as if he had been dropped into the race between the last two fences. Mr Charles-Jones gave a new meaning to the term equine artist, which he is. And since the 16-1 Cavalero was for me the sec- ond half of a 136-1 double with Francois Doumen's Snow Drop (come on, I had to tell someone) he is welcome to a large drink anytime he cares to accost me. I get up doubles at those sort of odds about as often as Julia Roberts invites me for dinner a dewc or my children offer to lend me money.
For one hoping shortly to finish writing a book on Lambourn there was an even big- ger bonus. With four Festival winners for the amazing Nicky Henderson, one for Mark Pitman and Noel Chance's triumph in the Gold Cup with Looks Like Trouble, the Valley of the Racehorse scooped no fewer than six of the 20 prizes on offer. It was as good a result for Lamboum as any- thing in the heydays of Walwyn and Win- ter. And here we will pause for a small commercial.
It is no great mark of distinction for this column to have given you Monsignor and Istabraq as winners. Nelson would probably have fallen off his column if they had failed. But I did last week, and earlier in the season, urge the claims of Looks Like Trouble for the big one, and he could scarcely have obliged more handsomely. We can't get them all wrong and I will remember until they lower me into the ground the sight of Looks Like Trouble powering up that final hill, drawing ever further away from Florida Pearl after Richard Johnson's positive ride. And never mind the form, I had known before the race that stable confidence was high. Mary Chance's fine fur hat was clearly bought in anticipation of an appearance in the win- ner's enclosure. They are a fine, friendly team and they deserve their glory after the tougher times.
Sadly for the Cheltenham crowd, and especially for those of us who had joined the chorus urging owner Terry Neill and trainer Martin Pipe to run the brilliant ath- letic six-year-old Gloria Victis in the Gold Cup instead of resting content with the spoils of a lesser contest for novices, there was a pall cast over the celebrations of a famous victory in a truly run race. When Gloria Victis, who had led all the way until then, tumbled as they began pressing him at the second last, it was obvious that he was badly hurt. The dreaded green screens went up and although the sedated animal was able to get into the horse ambulance it soon became clear that his limb was too badly shattered for him to be saved. It always seems to be the boldest and the best who go that way — Buona Notte, Dunkirk, Dawn Run, One Man. Why of the 350 Festival runners, with .several suf- fering tumbles with no more than a few bruises, did the Fates have to select such a star to be the ritual sacrifice to our plea- sures? Why should it be Gloria Victis's lass who had to go back that night to an empty box in Pond House stables where previous- ly there had been half a ton of exuberant, nuzzling equine athlete, especially since the poor girl had less than a year before lost Eudipe in the Grand National? It is a hazard awaiting every horse sent out to jump fences. But it is hard to think that we will never see Gloria Victis's poten- tial developed. And those who reckon jock- eys like Tony McCoy hard on their horses should reflect that that relentless rider was in tears for an hour after the race and hardly inclined to speak above a whisper for the next two days. Those of us who watch from the stands can never truly mea- sure the bond between man and beast. But McCoy's tears were not the tears of frustra- tion for the victories there might have been. They were the real tears of a coura- geous man who gives his all, unconsolable at the loss of a horse he knew to be a kin- dred spirit.
Robin Oakley is political editor of the BBC
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