‘Racing is 99.9 per cent disappointment,’ said the trainer philosophically, as I sat in the yard sipping coffee, waiting for the vet. She arrived in her pick-up a few minutes later and wound down her window.
‘Am I in the right place?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, still in sardonic mode. ‘It depends what you’re looking for.’
I leapt up and showed her the way to the far stable, where Darcy was standing on only three good legs. The foot that trod on the screw was now fine and she was sound on it. But then, during a short hack on the common, she had gone suddenly very lame in front.
Imagine a large high-performance car poised on an axle not designed for its weight and four capricious tyres apt to blow on every outing, and then you’re some way to understanding a thoroughbred horse.
The buggeration of it all was that I was about to bring her home for the summer.
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