I rode my own racehorse and was changed for ever

‘The last owner who tried to ride his own horse got tanked,’ said the trainer, looking up at me as I perched on Darcy, knees nearly up to my chest like a pixie in the racing saddle.

‘After three circuits he threw himself off into the muck heap.’

‘I get the picture,’ I said, running my gloved hand against Darcy’s neck. ‘Please, look after your mother,’ I whispered to her. She was perfectly calm beneath me. Because I raised her, I have always felt like I can trust this horse with my life. I was about to find out exactly what that meant.

It is all very well trusting a horse you have raised from a yearling while cantering her around the woods. It is quite another when that thoroughbred has grown into a gleaming racehorse.

Suddenly, at that point, a thought comes into your head that you believe you have invented and that no owner before you has ever had: ‘I know! I am going to ride my own racehorse! I am going to be like Elizabeth Taylor galloping The Pie to victory!’