In memory of Kauto Star. With love and thanks.

Kauto Star is dead.

Those are four heavy words to write. I never even met the bold beauty, yet, as so many people in racing did, I loved him as if he were my own. There are mighty horses that come along once in a generation, that have a sprinkle of stardust about them, that gallop straight to the heart. Kauto Star was such a horse.

For years, I tried to work out what it was about him that was so thrilling, so visceral, so lovable. I think it was because he had it all. He had dash and power, a supreme natural talent, and, in the early days, a rather terrifying and exhilarating recklessness. He sometimes seemed to be having a little joke with the crowd, ploughing through the last fence, miraculously finding a fifth leg, before picking himself up and storming to the line. He had a lilting exuberance, a dancing stride, a joy in him, as if he really loved his job.

But he had dour courage as well. I’ve seen him win on the bridle, as he liked, leaving good horses floundering in his wake, and I’ve seen him put his head down and scrap through the mud and the rain, straining every sinew to get his nose in front, his will to win gleaming through the gloom and the murk. He could shine like the sun, and he could fight like a tiger.

His partnership with Ruby Walsh was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in racing. They had a harmony and communion and understanding which is rare and glorious. They knew each other and they liked each other. ‘Ah,’ said Ruby, that hardened professional, on live television, to an audience of millions, ‘I love him.’

He was the beating heart of Ditcheat, ridden every day by his devoted Clifford Baker, loved and cherished and honed by a remarkable team, who kept him sound and kept him fresh and kept him loving his job. To bring any horse back, season after season, with all the physical and mental demands on those fragile legs and those sensitive thoroughbred minds, is something. To keep them winning at the highest level is an achievement beyond compare. Paul Nicholls deserves every single superlative in the book.

Kauto Star was as handsome and filled with charisma as an old school film star, and like any great presence, he knew how to please a crowd. He did it in so many different ways, whether it was becoming the first horse to regain a Gold Cup, or dancing to his fourth King George victory by an imperious distance (which means so many lengths that the officials could not be bothered to count), or, in perhaps his most moving and stirring moment, coming back when everyone had written the old boy off to win his fourth Betfair Chase at Haydock. There really was not a dry eye in the house on that grey afternoon.

He had that extra indefinable something which the great ones have, what my mother calls the look of eagles. Arkle had it, and Frankel had it, and Desert Orchid had it. Horses are flight animals, easily alarmed by noise, but when Ruby Walsh would canter Kauto down in front of the stands after a majestic victory, with shouts and cheers ringing out into the winter air, the bonny champion would lift his head and turn his intelligent eye on the roaring thousands as if knowing that it was all for him. Pride is a human word, but I think he felt it.

Very few horses go beyond the racing world. But Kauto Star, with one of those mighty, streaming leaps, the ones when he took off outside the wings and landed as far out the other side, jumped from the back pages to the national headlines. For years, he was the perfect Christmas present, soaring round Kempton as if it were his spiritual home. His relentless, rhythmic gallop rattled into the minds and hearts of many people who hardly knew one end of a horse from another. But they knew brilliance and beauty when they saw it; they knew class and guts and glory. He was a supreme athlete, but he was also a great character, his bright, white face recognisable and beloved the length and breadth of these islands.

Like any storied character, he had his troubles, but he always came back. There seemed something indestructible about him. There were no doubters he could not defy, no fence he could not jump, no record he could not smash, no peak he could not scale.

It turns out, after all, that he was destructible. One freak field accident, and a superlative equine hero is brought to dust.

It was a privilege to have seen him. He gave me more joy than I can express. I loved him with that pure love I always feel in the presence of greatness. It is all sunshine in Scotland today, but it feels as if a light has gone out.

He has gone to run another race, somewhere we cannot follow him. I hope he has springy green turf under his feet and the wind in his mane and the echo of those adoring crowds in his dear old ears, as he passes his final winning post.

 

Today’s pictures:

Just one photograph today. I cannot show you a picture of Kauto, because I am strict about copyright. You can find wonderful shots of him all over the internet, many of them taken by the exceptional Edward Whitaker. Here is a picture of my blue hills instead. These hills are my cathedral. Whenever anyone I love dies, I commit them to the hills. The Scottish mountains were here for millions of years before I was thought of, and shall stand for millions of years after I have gone. I find a curious consolation in that, and a sense of peace and perspective.

PS. As I finished writing this, and was about to press publish, I had to go back to the internet, just to check. My magical mind was saying: it must be a mistake. The big fella cannot possibly be gone. But he is, and so I make my farewell. He will live on in my heart, and in those precious memories which no amount of time can erase.

The last day. Or, different kinds of winning.

I wake up thinking: ‘Oh, Bob.’

Today is the Gold Cup, and little Bob’s Worth is taking his second go at it. My first morning thought is how lovely it would be to see a two-time winner of jumping’s greatest race who is known to everyone as Bob. Every time Nicky Henderson says the word Bob, his face lights up with fondness and hope. Sometimes, someone from Seven Barrows posts a picture on the internet, of Bob, dozily hanging out in his barn with Oscar Whisky. The two of them live together, like a pair of crusty old bachelors, in a rambling, rather scruffy old barn. I love that too.

Yesterday, neither dream quite came true. Jonjo O’Neill and JP McManus, those canny old campaigners, snatched the prize with More of That, under a perfect ride from Barry Geraghty. Annie Power, a stern look on her chestnut face, chased him home, but could not get past. People will say she didn’t stay, or wasn’t as good as everyone thought, but it was her first go at three miles, her first time on the big stage, and it was clear the occasion got to her a little. She’ll be back, and she’ll be brilliant, and in some ways I love her even more, now that she has been roughed up a bit in battle, rather than strolling about having everything her own way.

Big Buck’s looked ravishing, the look of eagles still in his eye. For half the race, he travelled like the Titan of old. He jumps a hurdle like no other horse. The really brilliant ones, like Hurricane Fly, ping their hurdles; it’s not really a jump, it’s a kind of flip, bringing the obstacle under them whilst still running, as if the hurdle becomes part of their stride. It’s quite hard to describe. Big Buck’s does not ping, he flows and floats, as if he is in slow motion, but so fast that he loses not an inch of ground. It’s a glorious thing to watch.

He travelled, he flowed over his hurdles, he looked as mighty as ever. Sam Twiston-Davies gave him a lovely, quiet, intelligent ride. And then - after all the brilliance, after all the dominance, after all the years when nothing could get him off the bridle – he was asked the question, and there was no answer. Age and setbacks at last had him in their crocodile grip.

But he was not disgraced. He ran on to finish fifth. Fifth in a World Hurdle, after fourteen months off with a tendon, at the age of eleven, is pretty impressive in its own right. I’m glad they gave him one last go at it. And I’m glad that at once, after the race, Paul Nicholls said they would retire him.

The gracious, athletic racehorse, his head low, his ears pricked, walked round the paddock one last time, in the glancing afternoon sun. As the news came over the loudspeakers, the crowd stood and applauded.

It was a thank you. Thanks for the mighty days, the jubilee days, the hats in the air days.

You could set your watch by Big Buck’s. All horses have mysterious bad days, even the most brilliant. For eighteen runs, Big Buck’s never had a bad day. It’s hard enough to get an ordinary horse to win three races in a row, let alone eighteen. To do it at the highest level is a sort of joke brilliance.

That is why the crowd rose. It knew greatness when it saw it. It knew that ones like this don’t come around very often. Respect, and gratitude, was due.

Rose Loxton, who looks after Big Buck’s, was in floods of tears. Paul Nicholls, who is a professional to his bones, let the ordinary, vulnerable human shine through, patting his great hero on the shoulder, walking round with him, his eyes light with love and as much pride as if the old fella had won.

He did win, in the end. Winning is not just getting past the post with your head in front. There are other victories.

The most lovely thing of all is that Big Buck’s will retire to Ditcheat, and stay with his beloved Rose. I think of him teaching the young ones, who come over from France, raw and gangly and not knowing anything, how to go steadily up the hill. Every yard needs an old-timer who can show the young ones how to go up the hill. Perhaps every human does, too.

So, funnily enough, even though the impossible dream did not happen, it was a day with its own loveliness.

I had two thrilling winners, both with jockeys I particularly like. Dynaste came back to his best, under a smiling Tom Scudamore, much to my delight. And Fingal Bay, after time off with injury and a disastrous brush with chasing, was patiently nursed back by the Hobbs team, and fought all the way to the line, under the great Richard Johnson drive, winning by a nose. I have hardly any voice left at all.

But it really is not all about the winners. Perhaps the keenest pleasure I had all day was watching one of my most loved stalwarts, Double Ross, run a huge race to finish third in the novice chase. He jumped some of the fences as beautifully as anything I’ve ever seen, seeing a perfect stride, coming up out of Sam Twiston’s hands. And dear old Hunt Ball was back, in the Ryanair, rather thrown in the deep end at 25-1. But he got into a lovely rhythm and galloped strongly and jumped accurately, and he finished an honourable fourth. After all the noise and scandal and the mad trip to America, that bonny horse coming back where he belongs, showing that his talent is real, that he was no flash in the pan, was winning indeed.

Today, there is Bob.

Why does one love one horse and only admire another? I can’t tell you. I love Bob because he’s just a little unassuming fellow. He is tiny, by chasing standards. He’s got a short neck and a small, intelligent head. You’d walk straight past him, never thinking he was a champion. You might think: that looks like a bonny, bright fella. But you would not think a world-beater.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even jump that well. He can muddle over a few. He can hit a flat spot in his races and seem as if he is labouring. He does not do the huge leaps or the raking stride of some of my equine heroes.

Here is what Bobs Worth does. He fights. He puts that little head down and he battles and battles and battles. In that small, compact body, hides the heart of a lion. ‘He’ll never stop galloping for you,’ says Nicky Henderson.

You know how I feel about a trier. Bob tries, like nothing else.

I’m a great admirer of Silviniaco Conti, and I hope my big, bonny old favourite, Teaforthree, might run into a place. But I’m shouting for Bob, even though winning two Gold Cups is one of the most Herculean tasks in racing. If it could be done on heart alone, then Bob would be home and hosed.

Could one more dream come true?

Today traditionally is the day I would always call Big Buck’s day. I would wake up like a child at Christmas, my heart beating at the thought of the magnificence to come.

Now, as the new pretenders start to rear their glorious heads, it may be Annie Power day.

Annie Power is the queen in waiting. She may be one of the great race mares, spoken of in the same breath as Dawn Run. She is tough, strong, and enthusiastic, with a dash of stardust about her. She has found everything she has done so far ridiculously easy.

The received wisdom is that she is a glittering star, and that Big Buck’s is a waning moon. He’s eleven, which would make this task tough for him even in the best year. But he has not had the best year. He’s been off with a tendon; his last run was a losing battle. The Irish, whose eyes are indeed smiling, think that Annie will scoot up the hill, leaving the old champion trailing in her wake.

I love her. She thrills me. I hope she stays around for years. I think she might one day take her place in the Gold Cup. If she can win today, which is in itself a tremendous ask, I shall throw my hat in the air.

My absurd old heart still belongs to Big Buck’s. He has delighted everyone who loves racing for so long. He is in a class of his own.

He should not win. All the odds are stacked against him. But he is Big Buck’s. He is, as the old racing hands say, different gravy. If anyone can pull it out of the fire, he can.

Anything could happen. The old warrior could pull up, or he could battle up the hill to regain his crown. The young queen could find the big stage too much, and go out like a light. She has never run at this level, and she has never gone this far. Or she could rise to the occasion, and soar to new heights. The anticipated duel may not materialise at all. At Fishers Cross could refind his brilliance and beat the both of them.

It’s not a betting day for me. I’m up on the meeting; my punting race is run. It really is a love day. Big Buck’s owes his adoring fans not one thing. He has given so much. If he can make the improbable come true, it will be the story of the festival, and it will truly be a dream to dream. It would also be the training performance of the year from Paul Nicholls, who keeps the faith with his mighty campaigner. He has said that he tips his hat to the brilliance of the great mare, but ‘mine won’t go down without a fight.’ It would also be the ride of his life for young Sam Twiston-Davies, one of the brightest lights in the National Hunt game.

Win or lose, I hope Big Buck’s runs his race, and comes home safe, with his head held high.

Even though he is the emperor of my heart, I do thrill to the good mare. You know how I feel about the mares. This morning, I gave Red a breeze. She was light as air, smooth as silk, so sweet and responsive that I really let her go. Out loud, in the cool Scottish air, I stood up in my stirrups, threw the reins at her, and cried: ‘Come on, Annie. Go, go.’ She went. As I slid off, and congratulated her, for her own private brilliance, I said, seriously: ‘You are my own little Annie Power.’ She blew through her nostrils. She nodded at me. She gave me her velvet nose to stroke. She knows. She ran round at the back on gaff tracks, but in her own mind, and in mine, she is the champion to end them all.

 

My own private Annie:

Cheltenham, day four. The glory of Big Buck's; the hopes for Kauto Star.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Well, he did it.

HE DID IT.

I know I told you of the fears and strains and nerves yesterday, but I’m not sure I quite realised how wound up I had been until I found myself bursting into shouting tears of joy and relief as Big Buck's flashed past the post.

It was a completely disproportionate reaction to a horse race. Funnily enough, I remember having the exact same thing when Desert Orchid won his Gold Cup, and Kauto Star regained his. It is what my old Irish godmother used to call ‘tears coming out at right angles’.

It’s a bit primal, I suppose. It’s about watching something above the rest, something so pure and true. It’s the sight of greatness and grit, brilliance and cussedness, glory and guts. It’s the thing when something is so far above what is normal.

Humans are used to normal; to muddle and compromise and all the little chips and scratches of which daily life is made. We don’t get perfect, hardly ever, and that is just as it should be. I don’t think life was made to be perfect, and whenever I see someone who has one which looks like that on the outside, I get a bit suspicious.

But, every so often, it’s not bad to have a fleeting glimpse of perfection.

Yesterday, Big Buck’s did something perfect.

All the superlatives and clichés may come out to dance. It was poetry in motion. It was a far, far better thing.

After the race, I went up to see Red the Mare, who had arrived from the south. The World Traveller brought the great-nieces up as a welcoming committee, and they fed her apples, which she ate graciously, from their tiny, flat palms. ‘This is your new family,’ I told her. She looked very relaxed, and very happy.

This morning, I got up at half past seven and went up to ride her for the first time in her new glen. She looked about all over the shop; the other horses galloped round the hill to greet her. She was a little startled, in this alien environment, and I was babying her a bit to start with.

Then, with the firm encouragement of the very strict Riding Expert, I kicked on and decided to take charge. Horses do not need any kind of aggression or bullying, but they do crave firmness. It makes them feel safe to know they have a boss. I suddenly realised I was not thinking like a boss, so I switched my mind-set, Red sensed it at once, and by the end, we were walking about in the shadow of the blue hills as if we had been together for ever.

I had one finger on the buckle of the reins, and she stretched her neck out, and ambled on, calm and docile as an old dog. The Pigeon scampered alongside, still a bit confused about what she clearly regards as a vast red canine.

‘Let’s just pretend you are Kauto Star,’ I said to the mare. I looked down at her little, golden neck. (She is only just 15.1, which is small in horse terms, and quite delicate, with all her thoroughbred breeding.) ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘you are more like Kauto Stone, his slightly less talented brother.’

All the same, she is a champion to me.

And now, finally, the huge day comes. I have been so keyed up for this, for so long, that I thought I would be quite hysterical by now. Oddly, the great victory of Big Buck’s yesterday has calmed me. It was as if I had my fairy tale moment; I can’t expect any more. And there is something very soothing about being able to go up and see my own lady.

I’ve gone fatalistic, now. I don’t expect miracles. You can’t dismiss statistics, especially at Cheltenham. Big race stats tend to play out, pretty accurately. No twelve-year old has won the Gold Cup for forty years. There is a reason for that. The Gold Cup is three and a quarter miles of hard, undulating gallop, over big, unforgiving fences. Kempton, where Kauto won last time, is a sharp, flat track. It finds out horses in a different way, because it is so fast, but it does not quite ask the same, searching questions.

There are a lot of very, very good horses in this race. Long Run runs on like a steam train and stays all day. Burton Port is a smart, improving type. Dear old Midnight Chase, on whom I have a tiny each way bet of love, will jump and stay until every last cow is home, and adores this course. Weird Al is very talented. Diamond Harry can’t be discounted, if he is back to his best. I think Synchronised might need softer ground, but Jonjo O’Neill’s horses are running out of their skin.

I try to put emotion aside and think rationally, and forensically. Kauto Star has looked, this term, as if he is as good as he has ever been. When he is at his best, there is nothing to touch him. There are mutters about him not being so good around Cheltenham, that perhaps he won’t quite stay the extra two furlongs. This completely ignores the remarkable fact that he has run in five Gold Cups, won two, been second once, and third once. I don’t think you can say he does not stay, or act on this track.

The two worries are the old legs, and the schooling fall three weeks ago. Kauto was brought to his peak for the Betfair Chase in November; to maintain such a high level of fitness into March is a major training feat. Having said that, he looked in sparkling form on his last racecourse canter at Wincanton. Reports are that his latest school was foot perfect. Only time will tell whether there are any lingering effects from his tumble, which reportedly left him bruised and sore.

The thing that has won him his last two races, apart from his blazing talent and his relentless galloping and his mighty jumping, is his joy. This sounds absurdly sentimental, madly vague, fatally anthropomorphic. But I’m not sure I ever saw a horse loving his work so much as Kauto Star was loving his on Boxing Day, when he notched up his record-smashing fifth King George. If he brings that joy today, then the lightning could strike.

The head says, the form book says, the logical self says: the young legs of Long Run will prevail. The always unpredictable nature of Cheltenham makes one think that something quite else could roar out of the pack, and beat the both of them – Burton Port, or Synchronised. Hot favourites have been overturned this week; nothing is certain in racing.

My aching, yearning heart says, hopes, whispers, that if the auld fella has that extra dash of magic still in him, the miraculous something extra that has fired him to an extraordinary sixteen Grade One wins, from two miles to three and a quarter, then the dream might come true.

If it does, I shall shout and cry like I have never shouted and cried before.

But the rationalist in me thinks of his age. It is the toughest class race of the racing calendar. I’m not sure history can be made again.

All I want now, actually, is for him to stand up. I want him to get round safe, and come home happy to his box. I don’t want to see him disgraced. I’d hate for him to be pulled up.

But he owes us nothing, not one thing. No horse I know has tried so hard, and produced so much, season in, and season out. He does not just have a once-in-a-lifetime talent, he has toughness, and a great, big, bottomless heart. He might skip around on good ground, but I have seen him battle through rain and mud to win by a nose. He has been described as a prince, but there is something in him of the yeoman’s heart.

In a way, asking him to win today is too much. If he even makes the frame, it will be an outrageous achievement. The fairy tale might strike, and I have money that says it will, because my money must always be where my mouth is, but the likelihood is a little more prosaic. The odds are against. But the heart still beats a little faster at the very thought of what could happen.

No horse gets to be this good, for so long, without a remarkable team around him. It’s not just the brilliant trainer, Paul Nicholls, but the assistants, the head lad, the lass who looks after him. Clifford Baker, who rides him each morning, and Rose Loxton, who looks after him, have done amazing work, and deserve a sincere tip of the hat.

And then there is Ruby Walsh.

RUBY, RUBY, RUBEE roared the crowd yesterday, as Walsh paraded Big Buck’s past the stands after his World Hurdle triumph. His name is hymned for a reason. He might be the most complete jockey I’ve ever seen.

Over the years, he has developed an almost telepathic sympathy with Kauto Star. The old warrior gives more for Ruby than for anyone else. Watch them, going into a fence; Walsh sits quiet and still, seeing the perfect stride a mile out, getting the horse to take off almost by osmosis. There is no hassling, no kicking and booting; just perfect harmony, between man and horse.

After the remarkable 2009 Gold Cup, when Kauto regained his crown, Ruby, smiling all over his face, his eyes alight, made a lovely, simple, declarative sentence. He told a nation, on live television, of his bold horse: ‘Ah, I love him anyway.’

Ah, I love him anyway, too.

Big Buck's, his big old ears pricked, and Ruby Walsh, passing the post ahead of the gutsy mare, Voler La Vedette:

Photograph by Reuters.

Kauto with his trainer, Paul Nicholls:

Photograph by Getty.

And at full stretch:

Photograph uncredited.

The Wheel of Fortune turns

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Just as I sat down to write the blog last night, all filled with The Cousin’s birthday, I saw the news on Twitter that Kauto Star had suffered a fall in training, and was doubtful for the Gold Cup.

I felt as sick and sorry as if it had been my own little mare, the one I have been riding each morning for the last two weeks. It’s an odd, dual feeling. There is the crashing regret that I think anyone might feel when a great athlete they admire undergoes an injury. It’s a sadness from afar. The champion exists on the mountain top; I only watch from the foothills.

But because I love horses, and because I have been living with horses here in the south, and because I am growing increasingly connected to one horse, also a gentle thoroughbred, there was an extra empathy, a disproportionate whack to the stomach. When I read that he had fallen in training, I could almost hear the crunch, feel the heavy thud of a half a ton of horse hitting the earth.

The birthday was still going on, when I got the news. I did not write anything here, or say anything to the Cousin. It was her special day, and I did not want to put the mockers on it. I attempted to call in the perspective police: it is only a horse, whom I have never met.

But the melancholy lingers. He may shrug off the stiffness, get fit enough for his final blue riband. After the first shock and sorrow, my raging optimistic instinct kicked in. He’s a horse in a generation; he’s as brave and bold and strong as the steeliest lion; he has a heart the size of twenty houses.

My fantastic, romantic, narrative sense went into overdrive: this will be the story of the century. Not only was he written off at the beginning of the season, not only was he considered too old, past his prime, but just at the moment when people thought he could break all records by winning his third Gold Cup, this happened. If he could come back from this and storm up that hill, then I never need watch a race again. It would be every fairy tale in the world, rolled into one, glorious, impossible story. People would talk to their children and grandchildren of it, for years to come.

Then, the low, rational, realistic mind asserted itself. Horses come back from falls all the time. The racehorse, despite being a finely bred creature, is also tough as nails. But, like humans, they are tough when they are young. A seven-year-old can get bashed about a bit, and recover quickly, the scars of battle healing, the stretches and strains knitting back to wholeness. At the age of twelve, which is sure veteran country, a horse is slower to get back on his feet. Two weeks is not long. It may be the end of the road for this fine, brilliant creature.

The thing which has marked Kauto Star this season is his joy in racing. I have watched his victories at Haydock and Kempton over and over, not just because he was magnificent, but because he was having so much fun.

I’m not sure I ever saw an animal delight in his galloping and jumping so much, not since the wild days of Desert Orchid. It sounds fanciful, but I have wondered whether he beat Long Run because he broke the younger horse’s heart, just a little. It was something in the joyous, dancing way that Kauto ran his last two races, which even the determination and gift of Long Run could not match.

Even if they could, by some miracle, get Kauto Star fit enough for the last day of the festival, the danger is that that rampant joy would be gone. There would be the sense memory of his training fall, instead of the muscle memory of the soaring leaps that won him the prize last time out. He is an extraordinary horse, but he is also a sensible horse; he might just decide, quite rightly, that the giddy fun was no longer there. He might take it easy, take it slow, be cautious and careful. The heedlessness might be gone.

It is hard to judge the mind of an animal, especially one which owes so much to its wild, herd heritage. Anthropomorphism is bred of human sentiment, of category errors; it is also not useful, in this context. On the other hand, anyone who has ever worked with horses will tell you that they remember. Even if Kauto is back to fighting strength, which would be a training feat in itself, will he remember the dull Friday at home when he tumbled, or the arching triumph in December, when he made history?

He owes us nothing, not one damn thing. He has done more than any other horse in the last twenty years. He has thrilled and soared.

He has made me cry, laugh, shout, roar, stamp and jump. He has made the Pigeon bark her head off and shoot vertically into the air. He has won me ready cash.

Cheltenham this year will not be the same without him; it will be a drabber, poorer place. (Oddly, I sometimes think of the world like that, without my old dad in it, and he was a little bit of a racing legend too, in his own way.)

If it should be time for the auld fella to go out in the field with the sun on his back, it is the very least he deserves. Even if my fairy tale heart whispers, oh, oh, if only.

A couple of lovely Kauto pictures for you -

Winning The Gold Cup:

Photograph uncredited, from Sportinglife.com.

Look at those front legs. Hard to believe that a horse that can do this could make a schooling error. But they are fallible creatures, not machines:

Photograph by the Press Association.

With his trainer, Paul Nicholls. That man would never let harm come to that horse. Whatever decision he makes will be the right one, for the right reasons:

My own daily ride. Not quite as grand, but very, very dear:

She doesn't look bad, does she, considering she's just come out of the muddy field?

Some garden colour:

The Pigeon, doing her sphinx number:

Trotting on:

Then turning, and looking quizzically, as I dawdle behind, as if to say Are you coming?

Just spoke to my mother. Her fervent wish is that Kauto Star will now retire, and we can remember the glory days, and spend future weeks watching old victories. I sort of know she is quite right, but I can't help but dream of one, last, glorious time.

A rather surprising Friday; or, a shaggy horse story

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Now, Dear Readers, I hope you are sitting comfortably. I am going to tell you a very, very naughty story.

I have had an amazingly busy day. Several rather marvellous things happened, which have made me feel as if I am turning some kind of corner. You know that thing where you feel as if you are metaphorically dragging your feet, wading through mud? You bash on and bash on, and it’s not hideously awful, or even anything especially specific to complain of, but you are struggling very hard to see the light? It’s been like that for a few weeks.

Suddenly, today, it was as if the dusty pane of glass through which I was seeing the world was given a glorious, spanking clean. Some existential force got out the Windolene, and now the view is clear and glittering. I am not so wet behind the ears to think that this means everything from this moment on will be glorious, but I feel a sense of hope.

As all this was going on, I remembered that there was some really good racing this afternoon. My racing day is usually Saturday, when I sit with the Racing Post, and examine the form, and ring up my mother and make her tell me about the glory days of Arkle. I put my punting boots on, and channel the spirit of my dear old dad, who was a Saturday racing man to the tips of his toes.

Last Saturday’s meeting at Newbury was frosted off, so they ran the races today instead. The main feature was Long Run, who is a horse I wanted to watch, since he shall be the main rival to my beloved hero, Kauto Star, in the Gold Cup in March. I saw that, and it was interesting and fine. Long Run ran well and won, but I still think the mighty Kauto might have the measure of him. That is my dream, and I am sticking to it.

Then, there was a fascinating hurdle race, a trial for the Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham. There was a really nice horse called Zarkandar running, and I fancied him a lot. I took a quick look at the form, but I had work to do, and errands to run, so I could not spend much time on it.

I called my mother: ‘I like that Zarkandar,’ I said. ‘But I’m not going to have a bet.’

‘Quite right,’ said my mother, who is always rather relieved when she hears me say that. I think she has memories of my father gambling away the housekeeping money.

Then, I have no idea why, perhaps because of the good day and the corner being turned, I had a rush of blood to the head, and put on forty quid. This is a lot for me. I usually bet in fivers, unless I am very bullish or very defiant (usually when the doubter are out for Kauto). It was a purely emotional, instinctive bet. It is not the way you are supposed to do it, at all.

Then I was so freaked out by my intemperance I decided to go to the post office instead of watching the race. I recorded it, and thought I could see it when I came back, and was slightly calmer.

I ran all my errands. I had a lovely chat with the postmistress, whom I revere. I came home, still busy, busy. I turned on the recorded race. I was too nervous to watch, so I put the volume up very high, and did things in the kitchen. As I heard the commentary I suddenly realised two things.

One, it was one of those cavalry charge races, with a huge field of runners. Usually I avoid betting on those, because so much can go wrong, especially with a young horse. You need a tremendous amount of luck in running; there are an astonishing amount of variables.

Two, I heard the names of several horses I really liked, and that, if I had gone through the race forensically, I would have considered. It was the kind of race where I would have put myself off my initial fancy, if I had had time to think about it.

For the first couple of minutes, Zarkandar was not even mentioned. Oh, you idiot, I thought to myself. He’s obviously right off the pace, probably going backwards. It is his first run of the season, he’ll surely need the race. What were you thinking? I asked myself.

The commentator said: ‘There is Zarkandar, being niggled along.’ Being niggled along is not a good sign. It does not fill the heart with hope. Niggled along, six out, is usually a sign of absolute disaster. But then, it was the great Ruby Walsh on board, one of the loveliest jockeys it has ever been my privilege to watch, and if Ruby is niggling, he is doing it for a good reason.

Finally, I plucked up my courage, came out of the kitchen, and watched the last three hurdles. There were a couple of things romping along in front; Zarkandar was behind, boxed in, not really going vastly well. Ah well, I thought, that’s racing. Silly me.

Suddenly, Ruby picked the horse up, and they flew the second last like a bird. But there was a wall of three horses in front, and one of them was hanging in, so that there was just a tiny gap before Zarkandar. He is only five; despite being vastly talented, he is a young horse with limited experience; he has not run since last April.

It takes a really genuine, brave horse to drive through a narrowing gap like that. It had been quite a rough, tough race; things were getting hampered; poor Tony McCoy took a crashing fall at the third last.

Oh, go on, my son, I yelled. And the good horse stuck his neck out, did not hesitate, powered through the gap, and lengthened his stride to the line. In the final push, he had his head down, every single atom in his body speaking of a refusal to be beaten.

If he had lost, there would have been a hundred perfectly legitimate excuses. It was first time out; he was not at the peak of his fitness; it was not a true-run race. (They went off at a very slow gallop, which can make it difficult for some horses who need a strong pace.) The familiar expression ‘he needed the race’ would have been, quite correctly, used. There would have been not an iota of disgrace in defeat. That it was not a defeat was, in the end, a really great combination of horse, jockey, and trainer, all at their crest and peak.

Some horses are made of special stuff. They just have that magical extra thing, a sprinkling of stardust. They are the ones who make your heart lift and, idiotic and soppy as it sounds, a tear come to your eye. Or my eye, anyway. They are the magnificent ones, the ones you feel very lucky to have been alive to see. Zarkandar is still a baby, but I think he is one of those horses. And the fact he came along on this curious, hopeful day felt like a bit of a sign.

And, if I am going to be very, very vulgar indeed, the lovely fella won me a hundred and fifty smackers, which is really not bad for a Friday afternoon.

 

Now, for today's pictures.

These are the beginnings of the daffodils. I need to mark them, because I am going to the south, and they shall probably be out by the time I get back:

The Pigeon has been putting on her best orphans in the snow face. This is because she has seen me packing up the car, and she is clearly convinced that she is going to be left behind:

No matter how much I say to her 'You are coming with' she still gives me this look:

Two hills today, for the price of one:

And here is an absolutely lovely photograph of Zarkandar with his brilliant trainer, Paul Nicholls:

Picture by the Press Association.

And here he is, powering through the gap, on his way to victory. Look how perfectly poised Ruby Walsh is:

Picture sadly uncredited.

PS. I suddenly realised some of you may wonder why I describe my Zarkandar tale as naughty. It is because I really should not be wagering that much money in such a reckless manner, but most of all because I should be doing serious work and not watching the racing on a school day. It is at times like these that I am very grateful that my publisher is far too busy to read this blog. The secret shall remain between us.

On the road for the next couple of days, so blogging may be intermittent. I am going down to be with The Beloved Cousin and the children whilst her husband is away for work. Business as usual on Monday.

A Boxing Day fairytale; or, the Old King versus the Young King

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

This is another of my shaggy horse stories, and very long, so you might like to get yourself and nice cup of tea and sit down. I would apologise for length, but it's Christmas, so I am giving myself the present of self-indulgence.


I grew up in a racing household. My father was a jockey, and then a trainer. This should make me less sentimental about horses, not more. We wept over horses disappointed, horses lost, horses failed. But at the same time there was a brusque, all in a day’s work attitude to the whole shooting match. I remember looking, with clinical fascination, when I was six, at the hole in the neck of a horse called Dolge Orlick. He had a breathing problem; in those days, the vets used to cut into the windpipe, and insert a silver plug. Being plugged, it was called. Looking back, I think it was quite macabre, but as a child I found it interesting, and normal.

My dad was a man who regarded racehorses as the tough, working creatures that they are. He was a hard betting man. He generally bet with head over heart, although he did have a fatal tendency to listen to the last person he met on the way to the rails. There’s a whisper for this, they would say, and Dad would throw all his morning’s studying of the form out of the window.

So it is quite odd that I have developed a passionate love for certain horses, which waxes stronger as I get older. I still sit up late at night watching my old Desert Orchid videos (so old that they are actual videos, which are practically museum pieces), and weep ancient tears of joy each time I see him win the Gold Cup against impossible odds.

The horse I love the most, just now, is Kauto Star. The regular readers will know something of this; I have written of him before. Today, he goes out to do the improbable, perhaps the impossible. He is, at the age of eleven, attempting to win his fifth King George VI chase.

The King George is the great Christmas tradition of the National Hunt world. It is second only in prestige to the Gold Cup at Cheltenham. In some ways, it is a tougher race to win. Kempton is a flatter track than Cheltenham, but this means that the horses run faster and freer. As a result, you will often see the field strung out back to Sunbury, as John Francome likes to say; there are times when even good horses get pulled up, having gone much too fast in the early stages; sometimes, only a handful of the starters actually finish. It is a classy, tough, questioning race. It requires great talent, and great stamina, and great guts.

Last year, Kauto Star, the owner of that race, got beat out of sight by a young fellow called Long Run. He had already been beaten in the Gold Cup; in his last appearance of the season, at Punchestown, he was actually pulled up, something almost unheard of for this mighty animal. Everyone said he was finished. He was too old, he had lost his enthusiasm, his majestic talent had faded. He was now a footnote, in the racing history books; a nostalgic memory of Christmasses past.

Then, in November, he came back to Haydock, for one last try. Long Run went off hot favourite; Kauto was a patronising six to one. People were even saying that his brilliant trainer, Paul Nicholls, was an idiot to run him. There was an air of crossness, that the old horse was being asked too much.

He jumped like a stag; he galloped and stayed; he had his ears pricked as if it were a joyful walk in the park. To the screaming delight of the crowd, he came back to his great glory, and won by eight easy lengths. Long Run looked ordinary, tired, prone to amateurish mistakes.

And so the debate began. The interesting thing about racing is that there are so many unknowns. It is very much like that mad Donald Rumsfeld pronouncement: there are the things we do not know we do not know. You can follow the form book religiously, and still something will trot up at 20-1, out of a clear blue sky.

Thoroughbreds are high, aristocratic creatures; they have temperaments, and delicacies. They have moods. There have been days, in the past, when the real Kauto did not show up. No one knows why. I have seen him be so good that nothing could touch him; I have seen him be pedestrian. This is why, sometimes, after a race, you will hear trainers, or jockeys, say: there are no excuses. There is just the mystery.

For some reason, the old Kauto Star came back to his glorious best that day in November. So the debate is: was that an anomaly? Did Long Run, the great, youthful challenger just need the race? Will the form book be vindicated today, and the old king relinquish his crown?

People who know, people who follow these things, are saying: head, or heart? What they mean is that in their heart they want the auld fella to have one last, valedictory, victory, but they think the young monarch will stamp his class on the thing.

I am all heart. In this, I am not my father’s child; I defy my upbringing. I want this great, old horse to win so much that I can feel it racing through my body like electricity.

As I write this, I think: why do I love him so much? I have never met him, have no connection to his yard. Paul Nicholls was not one of the trainers I knew in my young life; Ruby Walsh, his marvellous jockey, is a man I have never encountered.

It is all about the horse. I love him because he is beautiful. I love him because he often races with his ears pricked, which is quite rare. I love him because he can jump so outrageously that it makes you catch your breath. I love him, at the same time, because I have seen him make crashing mistakes and still stand up. He is a very well balanced horse; what this means is that he can commit an error which would bring anyone else down, but he somehow finds a fifth leg.

There is something else too. Sometimes, with very talented horses, when things do not go their way, they fold under pressure. This sounds slightly counter-intuitive, but it is true. It is a bit like humans; those who are brilliant at something are often not grafters, because they never have to be. They are not trained in it; things come too easily to them; there is no muscle memory of scrabbling and scraping. But I have seen Kauto Star fight, through the mud, under great challenge. I have seen him stick his damn neck out in the closest of finishes and refuse to give up. For all his perfect conformation, he’s not just a show pony. He’s a battler. I think perhaps I love him for that most of all.

My head says: that day at Haydock was his last great glory day. It is too much to hope that he could smash all records, defy the experts, rewrite the history books. The young fella has everything on his side: the form, the age, his own considerable talent. On top of this, racing is such an imponderable business, there is quite likely the possibility that some rank outsider should come and steal the crown. When Desert Orchid first won this race, he was 16-1; everyone who knew anything said he would not stay. To the utter amazement of the experts, he jumped out in front, tore along like a child off to a party, and never came back to his field.

And beyond all that there is what the old boys call luck in running. This means: no one bumps into you, squeezes you out of the rails, causes a traffic jam in front of you. There is the thing called half-lengthing. This happens when two horses are running up alongside each other. One is a half length ahead. It takes off at a fence; the one just behind takes off, instinctively, at the same time, without being in striking distance of the fence, and crashes into it. Kauto is too canny a campaigner to be caught out by such a huckster’s trick, and yet, it is always a danger.

And there is the old, old thing, that the real Kauto might not show up.

I want him to win because he is the most marvellous, complete, brave, talented racehorse I have seen since the unforgettable Desert Orchid. He is a once in a generation creature. But my low realistic mind says: if he does not do it, that’s all right too. He has given us so much joy. He has nothing left to prove. His name is already carved with pride. He has broken more records than I can count. I have cheered him home, watched Ruby’s gleaming smile, cried tears of joy.

Perhaps it is too much to ask. Perhaps all I want is for the auld fella to come home safe.

By 3.45pm, the result will be in. I shall either be literally jumping for joy, whilst The Pigeon barks her head off, or the two of us shall be stumping up the beech avenue, coming to terms with a fairy tale that could not quite come true.

Here are some lovely Kauto pictures for you.

On the left, with the great Denman on the right, photographer unknown:



Battling through the mud to beat Imperial Commander by a nose, by the Press Association:



After this year's Betfair Chase, photographer unknown:



Ruby riding with one hand, by the Press Association:



At this year's Betfair, with Long Run trying to get on terms on the right, photographer unknown:



Winning his 2009 King George, by Getty Images:



This year's Betfair. That is an eleven-year-old horse who everyone said had had his day. Watching him leap like that I think: he does not know he is past it:



I love this one, by Edward Whitaker. The lovely fella out in the field, free as a bird:



And by Tom Jenkins, loafing away in his box:



This was one of the Gold Cups, not sure which one; photographer unknown:



Another lovely shot, photographer unknown:



Ruby pats him as they win their fourth King George, photographer unknown:



With his trainer, Paul Nicholls, photographer unknown:



Right. That's enough Kauto madness. Here is a quick avenue, Pigeon and hill:



One of the Dear Readers hoped that The Pigeon would get a really, really big stick for Christmas. SHE DID:



Rather moody hill:



Well, my darlings, let's wish the old horse the best of British luck.

PS. Suddenly realised that, in all the excitement, I have not even mentioned that the lovely Master Minded is also running in this race. He is a two and two and a half mile specialist; we have not seen him stay before. There is so much attention on the Kauto-Long Run clash, that the brilliant Master Minded is almost forgotten, even by me. I am not quite convinced that he is a three miler, but who knows? He could be the one who springs the big surprise. I love him anyway, and I hope he jumps a clear round and goes well.

A day at the races

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

It started off as a very ordinary day. The sun was muddling through an autumn mist. The Pigeon was looking very regal. We went to watch the Godson do some riding. There was delicious chard from the garden for lunch. I am always rather amazed that anyone would have a garden with delicious chard in it.

Then, I noticed in the paper that Master-Minded and Kauto Star were both running today, at Ascot and Haydock. I have been so out of touch that I had not realised this was happening. For those of you who don’t follow National Hunt Racing, this is a bit like Vanessa Redgrave and Judi Dench appearing on stage together.

They are not only two magnificent champions, but they are real old troupers. Master Minded is not actually that old, only eight, but he’s been racing in this country since he was four, so it feels as if he is an enduring fixture.

What is interesting about him is that people have often been keen to write him off. If you look at his figures, you find an extraordinary list of victories: 13 out of 18 races in Britain won. I think it was that when he first started winning big races he did it in a way people hardly ever see. He would demolish highly talented fields as if they were a bunch of selling platers. He would jump and gallop everything into the ground with soaring disdain. He was so much better than everything else it almost felt embarrassing. He would win at Cheltenham by 19 lengths, and pull up as if he had only just gone for a mild training canter.

So it did not even take for him to get beat for people to start sucking their teeth and saying he was not really as good as all that. If he won a race by 9 lengths instead of 19, the knowing sages would nod their heads and all but tap their noses and say he was on the decline.

I’ve always stuck with Master Minded, because I haven’t seen that many horses as truly majestic as he in my lifetime, and it’s almost as if I want to reward him for that brilliance by keeping faith with him. (I’m a bit sentimental about racing, in a way of which my late father would certainly not approve; when it came to betting he was flinty as a hedge fund supremo.) As a result, I’ve lost a bit of cash on him over the years, but I’m a great believer in putting my money where my mouth is.

He lost his last race; he looked lovely on the first circuit, flat on the second, got fairly easily beaten. My twenty quid went down the drain. Never mind. I was not down-hearted. There is a thing about very great champions, a mystery, an enigma that will never quite be solved: some days, the world-beater shows up, some days, it’s just a very good horse, who can be beaten by something else on its top form. I still thought the real Master Minded would pitch up later in the season.

And then there is Kauto Star. He is eleven, which is old, in racing years. Not geriatric, but a sure veteran. The young pretender, Long Run, had come last season and taken the Gold Cup. Worst of all, he had usurped Kauto Star’s crown in the race he had made his own, the King George at Kempton. Bear in mind Kauto is the only horse in history who had won that race four times in a row, the last time by over 30 lengths, against some of the best chasers in the country.

He is the mightiest and most beloved champion since Desert Orchid: first horse ever to win a Gold Cup, lose a Gold Cup, and come back to regain it; first horse ever to win fourteen group one races. There was a time when he seemed almost unbeatable. In his early days, he used to put in terrifying mistakes, quite often over the last fence when it seemed as if he had everything sewn up; in his later years, he could put in exhibition rounds, making such mighty leaps that it seemed as if he had wings.

The thought was, though, that his great days were all behind him. People were muttering about retirement. Today, he was facing three tough miles, up against much younger horses, at least four of whom had big wins under their belts. He might fall, be pulled up, get tailed off; the talk was that if he did not run well today, he would be retired on the spot, and that is the last we would all see of him.

I’m going to give both my heroes another chance, I thought. I got distracted by children’s lunch, and did not get my bet on Master Minded on in time. Still, it was a great delight to watch him prove his knockers wrong, and trot up, back to his talented best.

Then there was an hour before Kauto. I’ll just put on a little twenty, I thought, mostly out of love. I was not sure he could do it. Long Run is a very, very good horse. I was acting on sentiment. Then I got a bit more forensic. Paul Nicholls had trained Kauto to the minute for this race; Long Run would be being saved for later in the season, and often does not run well first time out. I’ve always thought there is a little question mark over his jumping; he can go a bit flat and careless.

I examined the form. There were definite drawbacks over another of the two main dangers. Sod it, I thought; this really could be Kauto’s moment. Five minutes before the race, I put on another twenty. Sod them all, I thought: my boy is not done yet.

I explained some of all this to the children. They got very excited. They watched the quick replays of his earlier triumphs that Channel Four was showing, and decided they loved him. ‘Come on Kauto,’ they said.

Off the horses went. Kauto Star was jumping very well, but almost too stupidly well, standing off outside the wings. I was worried he would take too much out of himself. The lovely Ruby Walsh, his regular jockey, took him to the lead, and kept him there. He can’t stay in front for three miles, I thought, not at his age. But he kept pinging his fences, and was bowling along as if he did not have a care in the world. Ruby was so relaxed half the time he seemed to be riding with just one hand. It was delightful to see the two old pros in such perfect tune with each other.

‘Maybe he can do it,’ I said.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ cried the children.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He can’t do it. It’s too much to ask.’

But Long Run was making mistakes, and running a little ragged. Kauto was collected and foot perfect. He’ll fade, I thought. The younger fellas will come and pick him up.

Into the last four fences. I was on my feet. ‘Come on my son,’ I shouted.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ yelled the children.

The Pigeon was also on her feet, barking her head off, which is what she always does when I shout at the racing.

Three out. Kauto Star still in the lead, against all the odds. At this stage, I actually jumped onto an armchair and was bawling my head off. ‘Come on, you beauty, ‘ I yelled.

The Pigeon was jumping up and down on all fours.

‘Come on, come on,’ shouted the children.

The younger horses were gathering themselves for their final effort. Ruby still had not asked Kauto the question. ‘Oh just steady,’ I shouted. ‘Just stand up.’

The heavenly Ruby Walsh kept the old horse balanced and straight and steady, using only hands and heels, preserving all his energy for the final push. Everyone else was scrubbing away. I suddenly thought the mighty champion could do it.

Over the last, everything else faded away. Kauto was tired, but he’s not only a once in a generation talent, he’s got enormous courage. He does not give up. He just went on galloping to the line, brave and true, seven lengths in front.

The crowd went nuts. Paul Nicholls jumped in the air for joy. Ruby Walsh fell on the horse’s neck, hugging him. I was shouting and crying. The children were yelling Yes, yes. The Beloved Cousin looked at me in amazement. ‘He looks as if he could go round again,’ she said.

The King was back in his castle. He walked back to the winning enclosure, his ears pricked, his head held high. The crowd gave him three cheers, twice. No one could quite believe it. It was one of the best things I ever saw in racing.

So, it went from an ordinary day to an extraordinary double from two remarkable horses. I wish my dad had been here to see it.

Master Minded, spring-heeled at Ascot today:



Photograph sadly uncredited, from the RTE website.

The old campaigner, Kauto Star, with the young champion, Long Run, to his right:



Photograph by the Press Association.

Ruby and Kauto, two of the most glittering talents in the National Hunt game, putting their heads down and getting serious over the last, on their way to wonderful, improbable victory:



Photograph by Alan Crowhurst for Getty Images.

And my own little champion -

This one was a bit blurry because of the fading light, but I love it so much I could not resist showing you:



And here, in all her perfection:



I'm afraid to admit that sometimes I do look at her and say: 'You are my own little Kauto Star.'

PS. Wrote this rather quickly, and very tired, so please forgive if it is not quite the most flawless prose. I just wanted to tell you that story.