SPECTATOR SPORT
Round Britain whizz
Frank Keating
LIKE the man said, 'the seasons alter, so hoary-headed frosts fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose'. There is no putting off the winter, what with the clocks gone back, the morning eiderdowns of fog, and seeing Peter Scudamore looking healthily eager and businesslike in Hereford the other day.
Betting men might turn up their noses, but for romantics National Hunt racing is the game. The Flat could be on a different Planet, with its Arabian shekels, its haughty highly-strung, scared-eyed thoroughbreds, and midget millionaire mounties with wor- ned, wasted, waxwork faces. The sport of kings and foreign princes, sure, but the six- month winter cavalry charge over the hur- dles and the hedges is far more of, and for, the people . . . the houndstooth checks and the headscarves, the twill and the tweeds; the comradeship; the crumpet in cashmere; the snow and splosh, the sleet and the steambaths; the hoorays and the hipflasks; the overworked ambulancemen; the white breath and the hot broth, and the remorse- less and thrilling tattoo of coconut-hooves over the frost-armoured earth. Not to men- tion the uncomplicated gallantry of the Whopping great hunters and their manly, man-sized riders.
Mind you, the jump jockeys themselves know such trilling twaddle to be utter hog- wash. If this grand and broken-boned band are the masochists, then the sadist is the fellow who plots the racing calendar in the first place, having them at, say, Folkestone one day, Newton Abbott the next; then up to Ludlow, and back down for five more rides the following afternoon at Fontwell. Round Britain whizz. Racing spends far more time in its cars than in the saddle.
The engaging Scudamore, the acknowl- edged ace, is a Hereford man. His pa still trains in the blissful hillocks up above Hoarwithy. It is more central for his crazy daily zigzag — there is also morning school- ing to be done at his 'stables' at Taunton and Lambourn — for Scu to live in Nicholas Ridley's honey-mellow corner of Gloucestershire.
He does not plan his days so much around horses, courses, or even miles. 'Don't ask me how far anywhere is in miles. Like any jockey, I just know times. Like Fontwell's two hours 35 minutes, Wincan- ton's two hours 55, Ludlow's two hours ten.' And he laughs at himself, 'and even if you win the battle on the M25 it's still three hours 40, there and back, just to take on those ruddy slippery slopes at Plumpton; sometimes I wake up in the night and make a firm resolution — "never ride at Plump- ton again"; why do I always break it?'
Scu's pal, the veteran Richard Rowe, concurs: 'Ask any jockey his favourite course, and he'll always reply, "the one nearest home". I live near Arundel, so Fontwell, only 12 minutes away, is the loveliest course in all England. And Ludlow is the most horrid. I loathe Ludlow with a venom.'
Once they retire and get out from behind their steering-wheels, they become more aware. Dick Francis, the author, spends much of his year in Florida, but usu- ally comes home in the autumn to launch his latest chart buster with a party at a race track.
A couple of Novembers ago, he invited me to his 'day' at Plumpton, and he con- tentedly sniffed the old smells and senses of his beloved scene. 'From Cheltenham and Sandown, Cartmel, Aintree, Devon and Exeter, each place had its own personality. No two alike. Each its own flavours, oddi- ties and customs; almost its own insignia, like ribbed woollen stockings on the girls at Chelt, rain at Haydock, straw-bale grand- stands at Bangor-on-Dee — and that terri- fyingly slippery take-off at the water-jump down by the railway-line here at Plumpton.'
The onliest Terry Biddlecombe loved Cheltenham and Hereford best. The two tracks nearest his home, of course — 'but Hereford was especially handy if you were on a lazy old thing, because the stables are right next to the winning post, so once you turned for home they'd step on the juice to be quicker to a pail of oats and a rub down'.
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