Human frailty. Or, humility is hard.

I write quite a lot about humility, and hubris. There are times when, in a paradoxically arrogant way, I think I’ve got them licked. I think I have pride and vanity under control, and then something crashes in and shows me, in the most definitive way, that I have a long, long way to go.

I did something stupid and careless not long ago, and upset someone. I hate upsetting people. I think I am so damn thoughtful and sensitive, but in fact I can just run off at the mouth and say things that are not meant to wound, but do. I got incredibly bent out of shape about the whole thing, and despite issuing abject apologies for my crassness, I could not pull myself out of the spiral of self-recrimination.

I kept trying to call in the Perspective Police, but they were out on a mission. I listened to an interview with Salman Rushdie yesterday, and he was so measured and thoughtful and interesting, and I thought of him being under sentence of death for so many years, and yet carrying on, still writing, not complaining. People are often rather rude about him, for a reason I do not understand. I think he is not only a beautiful writer (Midnight’s Children is one of my favourite 20^th century novels) but a brave and stoic man. I thought of the people in Afghanistan and the Middle East, where bombs are going off and whole villages being razed, and that they really have something to worry about. Compared to that, my own small drama was, well, small.

At the same time, in this moment of fragility, someone was critical of my riding abilities. In the scheme of things, this is so small that it can hardly be seen by the naked eye. You would need an existential microscope. Yet I felt quite undone, smashed and bashed about the heart. I could not work out why such a minor thing could cause such a excessive over-reaction. It took a lot of thought and soul-searching, and then I finally worked it out.

It was because it was true.

Despite my banging on about understanding hubris, I had not yet quite got it. I was stupidly over-confident in my skills. The fact is, I was good at horses, but that was thirty years ago. If you could play Mozart when you were fifteen and then hardly saw a piano until you were forty-five, you could not just pick up where you left off. You would not go straight back to sonatas. You would have to do scales and arpeggios, resurrect the muscle memory, practise until your fingers ached. For some reason, my pride was so invested in being able to do this thing, I thought I could just leap onto a Thoroughbred and be exactly where I was when I was fit and schooled and riding every day, in several different disciplines.

In fact, I finally realise, with the proper humility, my legs are weak, my position is sometimes unbalanced, my seat can be loose. I have to send myself back to school, return to the arpeggios, take small, stern, daily steps to get better, to remember all the things forgotten, to do justice to my horse.

The mare, in her crazy life lesson way, rammed this point home this morning. After yesterday’s dream ride, today she reminded me that it is always one step forward two steps back. She was tense and nervy, for whatever reason. The wind was up and the cows were mustering (sometimes they alarm her) and when we went out into the stubble she was spooky as all get out. It was not just the crazy birds, she was seeing terrors everywhere. I keep having to remember that she has never gone out alone in her life before, and that this environment is still relatively new and strange to her. Oh, the jumps and starts and swerves and theatrical freak outs. I had to concentrate very hard to stay on, and, what with being recently reminded of my severe limitations, I almost gave up.

Then I thought: no, come along, you can do this. So on we persevered, and in the end, the harmony returned, there was calm, and instead of wild bronco tricks, there was a collected canter and a loose rein.

I wondered about all this, and why it matters so much, and why it cracks my heart. I think it is to do with my dad. I think a lot of this horse business is to do with keeping a pulling thread to him. He is not here any more, but the one great thing he did was ride a horse. Although, as I was contemplating this, I laughed quite a lot, because he was not a beautiful rider; he would never have won style points or been admired by dressage experts.

What he did have was outrageous courage. He broke everything, including his neck and his back, and he still got back on and rode in the Grand National, against doctors’ orders. I don't have to be the most perfect rider (what am I trying to prove, after all?); I have to work hard and humbly at getting better, so that Red has a good enough pilot.

But what I would like to do is remember my father’s bravery, and emulate that. In my mind, what this means is not hurling myself over steeplechase fences, but being brave enough to face my own failings, and not to give in to despair, but to go on, day by day, working hard. Not to prove a point, or show off, or congratulate myself, but so the horse has the rider she deserves.

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In other, happier news, friend of the blog Shirley Teasdale had a lovely winner yesterday at Musselburgh on the excellent Imperial Legend.

A few weeks ago, she was hauled up in front the stewards when the horse she was riding went off a true line and caused interference. I thought they were rather harsh, since the whole thing happened so quickly and there was little she could do. I wondered if she felt a bit like I had, knocked flat, back to the drawing board.

Being an apprentice is a tough road; race riding is an incredibly difficult discipline, and it is not only the stewards who are strict. Punters are ruthless in their judgement of jockeys; some of them are still screaming about Joseph O’Brien getting Camelot beat by coming too late in the St Leger, which I think is a harsh verdict. Even the masterful Richard Hughes and William Buick get screamed at on the internet if they are considered by armchair jockeys to have made an error.

One of the interesting things about Buick is that his boss, John Gosden, once admiringly said of him that he is always the first to admit he made a mistake. That’s the thing, I think, in riding, in life. Admit the mistake, learn from it, move on. Humility is so hard. Pride, preening, defensiveness are easier, in a way. But it must be done. Perhaps I have to go back to arpeggios with that, too.

Anyway, it was lovely to see Shirley back in the winner’s enclosure, and I had a little bet on her which I had rather forgotten, and when I opened my William Hill account this morning there was a nice plus sign.

So, I think, rueful and chastened, on we all bash, mistakes and frailties and freaks and all.

 

Today’s pictures:

Woods and grass and moss:

Red’s View:

Pretending she has never seen a scary bird in her life:

Nor done a four-legged cartoon sideways leap:

The Pigeon came with this morning, and despite everything, maintained her poise and serenity throughout:

A tale of two worlds. Or, a story of racing and rudeness, of the triumphant and the taciturn. Or, mighty dynasty, nil; Shirley Teasdale, one.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I like almost nothing more than an illustrative vignette, and it turns out I have one for you. It’s quite a long story, so you might like to get a nice cup of tea.

Yesterday was the Eclipse at Sandown. The Eclipse is one of the most storied races in turf history. It was founded in 1886, as Britain’s richest ever race, with a prize of £10,000 donated by Leopold de Rothschild. It was named after one of the greatest racehorses that ever lived, the mighty Eclipse himself.

Eclipse was an extraordinary horse. He was foaled in 1764 during a solar eclipse, hence his name, and he was never defeated. He had to be retired because no one would take him on any more. When he went to stud, he produced a rattling roll of honour of great classics winners.

His own pedigree is equally stellar: he had the Godolphin Arabian on his sire’s side, and the Darley Arabian (my own mare’s ancestor) on his dam’s side. This means he is descended from two of the three founding sires of the entire thoroughbred breed. Almost every horse racing today can trace its bloodlines back to him.

This year, the race was very exciting. It was packed with quality horses, who had won races all over the world, from Italy to Dubai. The favourite was the progressive Farhh who was a fast-finishing third after getting boxed in at Ascot. The question mark in the race was the lovely big colt Nathaniel, who has class and stamina in abundance, but had been off the track since October. He had been seriously ill with mucus on his chest, and his preparation had been seriously affected.

His trainer, the thoughtful and brilliant John Gosden, had given some very downbeat interviews, talking about how difficult it had been to get the horse right again, and warning the betting public, very correctly, that he was not quite sure his horse was completely match-fit.

It’s very hard to get a horse tuned up for a big race without a run first. You often hear in racing the expression ‘he needed the race’. There is only so much you can do on the gallops at home. Often, these mysterious, sparkling creatures need the heat of battle to bring them to their best. The catch-22 is that often you can’t quite tell how near their best they are without running them.

Nathaniel went off in front. They all came at him; the Italian raider, the Dubai winner, and one by one he fought them off. Then, out of the pack, on the wide outside, came the blue colours of Farhh, with Frankie Dettori crouched over his neck, finishing like a train.

This was where the fractured training preparation would show; fitness and strength would be tested to the limit. Some horses would fold like a house of cards under a challenge like that, after a mile and quarter in front on testing ground. Not Nathaniel. He stuck his big, bonny head out a little further, and kept on galloping. He had a look in his eye which said: none of you buggers is getting past me today.

You couldn’t really call Nathaniel an underdog. He is a top class horse from a top class yard under a top class jockey. He holds the distinction of being the horse who has finished closest to the imperious Frankel, getting to within half a length of him when they were two-year-olds. But because of him having been sick, because it was first time out, because there were whispers of poor performances on the gallops, because of the doubts of Mr Gosden, he felt like the underdog. It made the victory a very sweet one indeed; he won that race on talent, but he won it also on heart and guts.

So, all was joy. Commentators were throwing about words like brave and brilliant. Everyone was delighted with the remarkable training performance from John Gosden and the stellar ride from William Buick, who was grinning all over his young face. Into this cauldron of happiness went Mike Cattermole, with his Channel Four microphone. He politely approached Lady Rothschild, the owner, and congratulated her, and remarked on the astounding fact that this was her seventh winner in two weeks. (She had just won the Lancashire Oaks with one of the nicest three-year-old fillies I’ve seen in ages.)

‘So they tell me,’ she said, rather oddly. I wondered what this could mean. Who were this mysterious They? Did she delegate minions to watch the races for her?

And then she ran away.

I’ve never seen anyone do that after a race. She actually scuttled away from poor Mr Cattermole, who was left on live television with no one to interview. Someone must have said in his ear that the gentleman standing in front of him was Nathaniel Rothschild, the son of the owner, after whom the horse was named.

In tones of joyous relief Cattermole said: ‘So you are Nathaniel!’

‘Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild.

Cattermole at this stage was clearly going into some kind of cosmic broadcasting nightmare.

‘Nathaniel is nicer?’ he said, hopefully, hopelessly.

‘We like Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild. A woman standing next to him giggled, as if this were a great joke.

Mike Cattermole made a doomed attempt to get him to say something, anything, about the horse, the race, the occasion. Nothing. There was an indecipherable mutter, and then silence. Eventually some sort of spokesman stepped forward and made some anodyne remarks, and poor Mr Cattermole must have been led away and fed valium and brandy.

I try not to do ad hominem, because I am thin-skinned enough, and I don’t like bitching people up when I can’t take it myself. But occasionally I am driven to it.

That little scene was one of the most peculiar, ungracious, downright rude things I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. Nathaniel Rothschild had just led his winner in, punching the air in triumph, as if he had ridden the horse himself. Would it have killed him to have said something nice to the good people at Channel Four? Could he not have paid tribute to the patience and cleverness and hard work of John Gosden? Could he not have mentioned that it takes a team of dedicated people to get a horse like that to win such a race?

If it had been me, I would have thanked the vet and the farrier and the head lad and the travelling head lad and the damn postman. I would have pointed out that the horse would not have been there without the devoted care of the person who looks after him every day, and the person who gets up at the crack of dawn to ride work, in rain and shine.

I would have hymned to the skies the determination and skill and strength of the young jockey, who timed his fractions to perfection, and got every last ounce of stamina and speed out of his horse. I would have sung a song of the horse himself, of his genuine character, his courage, his marvellous will to win. I might have had to be dragged away before I started on a paean to the long line of champions from whom he was descended. I would have been speaking of the Darley Arabian as some desperate producer shouted: ‘Cut to advertisements.’

I don’t know about the Rothschilds. Perhaps they were having a really awful day. Perhaps their dog just died or something. But what I don’t understand is that it is so much easier to be nice. Grace and manners not only add increments to the sum total of human happiness, but they are much easier to do than taciturn sullenness. It was a most inexplicable lack of sophistication or charm.

At the other end of the scale, Shirley Teasdale, the young apprentice I wrote of the other day, took the time to leave an incredibly polite and charming message on the blog. Teasdale, unless her family secretly owns Yorkshire, does not have Rothschild millions, but she could teach them a lesson in manners. Apparently, reading what I wrote about her made her mum very happy. This is one of the good miracles of the internet. I am almost more delighted by the fact that I have made Shirley Teasdale’s mum smile than by anything else that has happened this year.

Radio programmes often have regular contributors; this is a friend of the show, the host will say. I am going to make Shirley Teasdale a friend of the blog. I’m so impressed with her that I’m going to follow her through her season and report back.

I told my own mother about Shirley Teasdale today. She was enchanted by the whole story. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’d take a bet on her being the first woman to win the Derby. I might ring up William Hill and ask if they are making a book on that.’

My mother fingered her iPad, on which her own William Hill account was showing. She was considering having a little punt on Andy Murray in the tennis. ‘It’s called the patriotic bet,’ she said. ‘7-2 to win the first set and then the match.’ But I could see her wondering if she might not be better off betting on Shirley.

 

Pictures of the day:

It’s been a rainy old two days, so Red and I have not been riding. Back to groundwork: circus tricks yesterday; moochy old donkey today. She was so sweet and biddable this morning that I only worked with her for twenty minutes and then just spent the next twenty rhythmically rubbing her neck, which is the consistently of velvet after the rain. I know I have my theory about not babying a horse, but that does not mean Red does not get the love. She adores the neck rub so much she goes into a hazy trance of pleasure.

Here she is this morning:

Later, the Pigeon and I played ball. Are you going to throw the damn thing?:

YES YOU ARE:

Hill, under a flat white sky:

So much for flaming July.