It takes a little bit of magic to train any racehorse. It takes plenty of magic to keep a 13-year-old sprinter bursting with energy and raring to go. I’m there applauding the superstars of British racing on many big occasions, but my racing moment of the year came in a woodland paddock behind Liphook Golf Club in Hampshire where, as he nuzzled his trainer John Bridger, Pettochside, a battle-hardened bay by Refuse To Bend with a white dab on his forehead, gratefully nibbled a few Polos from my hand and sniffed inquiringly at my notebook.
In racing we tend to form loyalties: loyalties to an up-and-coming apprentice jockey whom we have spotted heading for the big time; loyalties to heart-on-sleeve trainers whose joy in their charges’ success is totally infectious; loyalties to horses who have done us a good turn on the racetrack at a decent price. A few years back, my friend Derek Sinclair and I began noting the bounding enthusiasm of a gutsy five-furlong specialist with a particular liking for Goodwood and Ascot and we have followed every step of Pettochside’s career since.
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