Ascot, Day Five. Looking back on the lovely Sky Lantern, and ahead to the beloved question mark that is Mad Moose, and the streak of lightning that is Society Rock.

This week has really been one for the girls. It has had everything, this Royal Meeting. The big battalions of Ballydoyle marched forward, the titan that is Dawn Approach came back to his roaring best, the veteran Johnny Murtagh showed the young fellas how it is done.

The Queen won her race. The memory of Sir Henry Cecil was honoured, with his widow showing the absolute definition of courage, which Hemingway once described as grace under pressure.

The new boys had their moment in the sun, with Olly Stevens in his very first season as a trainer, and George Baker in his fifth, sending out winners, and the youthful James Doyle racking up a quick-fire treble.
But perhaps the memory of the dancing fillies is what I shall most hold dear – Riposte and Estimate on Thursday, and then, yesterday, the lovely grey Sky Lantern.

I have loved Sky Lantern since I followed her career as a two-year-old. She just held on to win the Guineas, but yesterday she had a much harder task, drawn out wide in a big field. To add to her troubles, Richard Hughes, her jockey, has been having an awful week, meeting trouble in running, making one controversial decision to switch right across the track which he himself admits was not his finest hour. All the armchair jocks were up in arms.

How they howl and carp, these online cavaliers, most of whom have never sat on a thoroughbred in their lives, let alone one that is going at forty miles an hour. Every jockey, like every human, will make a mistake once in a while. Racing is as much an art as a science, and tactics cannot be perfect in every single race. But the punters are merciless and shriek with their pockets, accusing good jockeys of riding to lose or stitching a race up, as if these tough, hard-working professionals are metronomic machines who should never make the slightest error.

I stuck with Sky Lantern in the end, because I love her, and even though I convinced myself the draw would defeat her, and the Irish raider might have the edge, I could not desert her now. I got her at a happy five-to-one, and Hughes dropped her out the back, let her find her own pace, picked up her up about three out, went right past the field in the straight, and won as he liked, easing up.

It was the prettiest of finishes, that delightful thing where the jockey does not even need to wave the whip, but can just keep the mighty animal balanced, riding with hands and heels. Hughes was patting her neck and pulling her ears before he even passed the winning post.

‘Well,’ said my mother this morning, as we relived the race. ‘She can do anything now.’

The second most satisfying moment of the day was a little whimsical each-way shout on Forgotten Voice, trained by Nicky Henderson.

It’s always rather funny seeing the National Hunt trainers at Ascot, all guyed up in their top hats and morning coats instead of a dented old Trilby and thorn-proof tweeds.

For some reason, I love these dual-code horses almost more than anything. I don’t know why. I suppose I am an admirer of versatility. Forgotten Voice had once been high class on the flat, but that was years ago. He’s gone for hurdling now, and to come back to the Royal Meeting is something of a stretch.

Yet he was the pick of the paddock by a country mile, his coat so shining and gleaming you could see your face in it, his head held high with bright spirits, his massive quarters packed with muscle. He was 12-1 and who knows what old form a genuine horse may pull out of the bag? It was worth a bit of anyone’s money.
And the dear old fellow damn well did pull it out of the bag, hanging on for the line against all comers, and I shouted so loudly that this morning my throat is quite hoarse.

Today, my own private dramas will revolve around two horses who could not be more different. One is another of the dual code fellas. Mad Moose is a chaser who is pretty good, but not quite in the very top class. His greatest moment over the sticks came when he chased home the majestic Sprinter Sacre.

He is perhaps the quirkiest horse currently in training, and there are days when he gets it into his mysterious, horsey old head not to go. The commentator starts the call, the field jumps off, and the camera pans back to a slightly disconsolate-looking Sam Twiston-Davies, with Mad Moose standing stock still as his compadres gallop off into the distance, a faintly mulish, bugger you gleam in his eye.

‘Nope,’ he is saying. ‘Not today. No thank you.’

Nigel Twiston-Davies is nothing if not imaginative, so, in a rather radical move, he sent his idiosyncratic old fellow off to the flat, at Doncaster. To have your first run in a flat race at the age of nine is a pretty rare thing in racing. To everyone’s utter amazement, Mad Moose won, at 28-1.

He then went to Chester, where, on a dank afternoon, he finished a plugging-on second to the runaway winner, Mount Athos, with some pretty decent horses in behind.

Suddenly, Mad Moose was everybody’s darling. Hopes were high on a sunny Yorkshire day on the Knavesmire, where he lined up again. The stalls rattled open, and the mighty Moose took two slow steps forward and then stopped. Willy Twiston-Davies flapped his reins a bit at the old fellow and then admitted defeat. Mad Moose stood defiantly still, looking quite grumpy and entirely unrepentant.

Twitter went mad with delight. It’s a horrid thing for the owners, and all the connections, and York is a long way from the Cotswolds, but it was just so terribly funny.

The stewards did not think it amusing. The dry post-race report noted: ‘future similar behaviour may result in the gelding being reported to the British Horseracing Authority.’ Everyone else was beside themselves with delighted hilarity. For some reason, it made his public adore him more keenly.

‘We’ve all had days like Mad Moose,’ wrote one tweeter; ‘where we think ‘fuck it, just can’t be arsed.’

‘What next for Mad Moose?’ said another wag. ‘Dressage, equestrian, rugby union?’

Even his jockey could not help seeing the funny side. Willy Twiston-Davies tweeted: ‘Moosey was naughty.’ His hashtag for the day was #doeswhathewants. The Twitterverse was rocking with laughter. ‘Just makes me love him more,’ said one fan.

I suspect there is something peculiarly British about it all. Of course the people of Blighty love a mighty champion, but what they love the most is the underdog. And an unpredictable, cussed underdog with a mind entirely of his own is exactly what the people of these islands cannot resist.

To see a fellow like that at the Royal Meeting is not exactly what one might expect, and it brightens the gaudy carnival that is the summer flat season. I shall back him for sheer love. The good girls have won me enough money this week, so I can afford some caprice today.

My second big hope is another old-timer, Society Rock. He’s six now, and has been round the block. He could not be more different from Mad Moose if he tried. He is a fleet, strong, shiny sprinter, fast as the wind.
He has, however, had similar travails at the start. At this meeting last year, he reared up in the stalls, missed the break catastrophically, and did well to finish as close as he did to the imperious Australian star, Black Caviar. His trainer, James Fanshawe, took him back to stalls school, worked patiently with the colt, and produced him at York this spring for a thrilling victory first time out.

I’d love him to win because he is a brave, tough, genuine horse. He also comes from one of the smaller yards. James Fanshawe is a supremely talented trainer, admired by his peers, popular in his community. But he is not a household name. He does not pitch up at the sales with a prince or a sheikh or an Irish plutocrat by his side, able to hurl cash around. He does not have two hundred horses to choose from like the massive operations which now hold sway. His yearlings will usually cost tens rather than hundreds of thousands.

I’ve got nothing against the big boys, and admire the skill and success of the Hannons and the Ballydoyle posse. But it’s a lovely thing to see the smaller operations outdo the big guns, and it’s good for racing. It’s a mark of real dedication and skill, to be able to produce top-class winners when you can’t just throw money at the problem.

And Fanshawe has had a cruel blow recently, when his other stellar sprinter, Deacon Blues, succumbed to a recurring injury, and had to be retired just as he was on the come-back trail.

The particularly nice thing was that, even in the midst of that crushing disappointment, all thoughts at the Pegasus yard were of the horse’s future well-being. They wrote on their website: ‘He will make a lovely riding horse as he has impeccable manners and he is very easy to do anything with.  His owners will make sure that he has a wonderful home and will be well looked after.  He certainly won’t want for anything.’

Beyond all that, Society Rock is owned by Simon Gibson, a gentleman in his eighties who has done a huge amount for Newmarket over the years. No owner would deserve victory more.

So that’s why he would be my happiest story of the day. He’s in a big field, so he will need luck in running. He’s got some exceptionally good horses up against him. But he has the talent and speed and the heart to win, and I hope he does. His dear name will be the one I am shouting at the top of my lungs, at 3.45 this afternoon.

The mighty heart of Hello Bud

 
‘I just can’t tell you how much I love this horse.’ Sam Twiston-Davies, of Hello Bud.
 
One of the things I love about racing is its vocabulary. There is an entire lexicon of mysterious phrases which must seem impenetrable to the casual viewer. Then there are the straightforward words which may confuse. A great compliment paid to racehorses is that they are honest. What can this mean? That the animal will not cheat you at cards, or run off with your savings? That its word is its bond? What can honesty indicate when applied to a flight animal?

In a way, a horse is only as good as its human. People say that equines are a perfect mirror of their owner. And it is true that they will give you back exactly what you put in. At the same time, they do have their intrinsic characters. There are fragile, sensitive ones, and fiery, confident ones. There are dreamy, idle ones and intelligent, questing ones; there are brave ones and comical ones. Some are independent and self-contained as cat, others adore affection.

Some almost appear to have an acute sense of their own brilliance. This is what my mother calls the look of eagles, when the champions lift their heads and survey their kingdoms. Kauto Star had it, and Arkle, and Desert Orchid, and Frankel; Sprinter Sacre had it yesterday. They seem to know they are emperors.

Honesty, in a horse, is a sort of true straightforwardness. They do not look to left nor right; they are not thinking of alternatives. You ask them to do something, and they do it, with all their good hearts.

One of the most honest horses in training is a wonderful old veteran called Hello Bud. He is a glorious jumper, and his speciality is leaping round over the vast Aintree fences. He does not know how to run a bad race.

He has been ridden by Sam Twiston-Davies since the jockey was still a schoolboy amateur, and they have a glorious and rather touching partnership. Twiston-Davies is twenty now, just at the beginning of what will surely be a glittering career, and dear Hello Bud is fourteen and is cantering into the twilight of his competitive life. Soon, it will be time for him to go out in the field, where the roar of the crowd shall be a distant memory.

I adore him because he jumps like a stag, because he always tries his heart out, because he has such enthusiasm and verve, and because he has that shining honesty, written all over his lovely bay face.

Yesterday was the Becher Chase, over the big Grand National fences. A strong field of class horses was lined up, some of them half the age of Hello Bud. But I always back him, out of sheer love, and so I did again, a tiny bit each-way at 14-1.

I pride myself, absurdly, on my rational mind and my empiricism, but even I cannot resist magical thinking, every once in a while. In my irrational mind, it would be sheer bad manners not to have money on that great journeyman, who has given me so much joy. I could not quite see him winning, but I did think he would hunt round, foot-perfect as always, and if one or two made a mistake, he might run into a place.

Off they set. Hello Bud, under a lovely, quiet ride from Sam Twiston-Davies, was indeed hunting round, jumping from fence to fence, ears pricked, seeing a perfect stride every time. He was up with the pace, bowling along as if he were a young fella, having a ball. This could easily be his last race, and the dancing pleasure of watching him stream over those huge fences was delight enough, whatever the result.

He is not a flashy jumper. He does not make vast, vaunting leaps. What he does, which is so lovely to watch, is measure each fence perfectly; he flows over the great obstacles, never deviating, rarely having to put in a short stride. It is almost as if he and the fences are one, built ideally for each other. Twiston-Davies is intelligent enough and confident enough to let the horse find his own sturdy rhythm; he does not hassle the old fella, or push him into his jumps. ‘He’s cleverer than I am,’ he said, after the race.

As the race entered its final stages, I kept thinking Hello Bud would run out of petrol. The younger legs would surely rush past him; age would take its toll. But there he was, still up at the front, in a glorious, rolling rhythm, finding a little bit more with each brave stride.

He met the last perfectly, and then there was the long, soul-sapping run-in, the awful sward of green where so many dreams are shattered. Five good horses were coming at Hello Bud, snapping at the old heels, their jockeys crouched low for a late charge.

‘I was almost crying,’ said Sam Twiston-Davies afterwards, talking to Jim McGrath. ‘I wouldn’t be one for shouting, but I was roaring at him all the way up the run-in. I could hear everyone coming at me and all the crowd. Look how tough he is, he just keeps sticking his head out.’

Oh, you old beauty, I thought. Hold on, hold on. I was on my feet at this stage, also roaring. I have never met Sam Twiston-Davies in my life, but I was yelling ‘COME ON SAM’ at full volume.

The commentator was screaming; Stanley the dog, who has not witnessed Saturday racing mania before, was barking his head off. The young legs of the chasing pack were rattling down the straight in a cavalry charge, each horse finishing like a freight train, catching Hello Bud with every yard.

‘GO ON MY SON,’ I bellowed.

Hello Bud put his dear old head down, and did not stop. He drew on every inch of his mighty racing heart. This was his moment of glory, and he would not be denied, not by youth, not by class, not by anything.

He kept galloping, gallant and true, and he flashed past the post, the winner by a neck.

Aintree exploded with joy. Twitter exploded with joy. I exploded with joy. I’m afraid to say there were tears streaming down my face.

I’ve seen a lot of glorious things in racing. I used to go and watch the imperious Desert Orchid at Sandown and Kempton. I still think of that sunny day at York when I watched Frankel take apart a top class field for fun. I’ve seen the wonder that was Master-Minded in his pomp, and the doughty courage of Dawn Run, and the fine brilliance of Kauto Star.

But for sheer, heart-lifting joy, I’m not sure I ever saw anything so wonderful as Hello Bud winning the Becher Chase at the age of fourteen. I think that one will go down in the annals, carved forever into the granite halls of fame.

‘I can’t even explain what this horse means to me,’ said Sam Twiston-Davies, afterwards.

There are horses that you may admire. You may be thrilled by their raw talent, their diamond brilliance. There are horses who are so good at what they do they leave you in awe. And then there are the horses with whom you fall helplessly in love. Often, funnily enough, they are not the very best. They do not stalk the land in a shining armour of perfection. They do not have unbeaten records. They are not untouchable.

What they have is a refusal to give up, that lovely honest willingness to offer their all, whatever the conditions, whatever the opposition, to keep coming back even when it seems hopeless. They are the bravehearts of the racing world, filled with courage and grace. Sometimes they will win not because they are the best, not because they have the finest form in the book, not because of stellar bloodlines or perfect pedigrees. They win on guts and heart and love of the game.

Hello Bud is such a horse.

Dick Francis once wrote that you can't expect fairy tales in racing. But yesterday felt like a fairy tale to me.
 
Today’s pictures:







The little herd, in a rare moment of sun:

Myfanwy the Pony, who seems to think she has turned into a princess:

Red the Mare, all soft and dopey in her winter gear:

With Stanley the Lurcher, who is still slightly uncertain about what he clearly regards as ABSOLUTELY ENORMOUS DOGS:

The amber eyes:

The hill, from yesterday:


I would so like to put up a picture of Hello Bud and Sam Twiston-Davies, but my friend The Classicist, who works for Getty Images, has given me a stern warning about copyright. ‘Even if I give all the proper attributions?’ I pleaded. But he gave me the serious look he has been giving me since I was eighteen. He is a man of strict moral compass, and I must be guided by him. Those racing photographers work hard for their living, and I cannot just be pinching their pictures for free. I would be furious if people were reproducing my professional work without asking, so I cannot have my cake and eat it.

So, if you would like to see the hero in action, you can see him here:
http://www.sportinglife.com/racing/report/538979/hello-bud-defies-rising-years-to-win-becher
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/racing/article-2245119/Veteran-Hello-Bud-tales-Aintrees-Becher-Chase-second-time.html

Or just google SHEER GLORIOUSNESS.