by Dick Francis
Boys sometimes write to me to ask how they should set about becoming steeplechase jockeys, and often their letters say something like this: ‘I am very keen on riding and I always go out twice a week with the riding school in the holidays. I am sixteen now and will be leaving school soon. How can I learn to be a jockey?’
I write back with the best advice I can give them, telling them to write to trainers with details of their age, weight and ability; but as I write the envelopes and realise that they live in cities or suburbs where their gardens are too small for them to have ponies of their own, and the built-up surroundings are hopeless for riding in, I know they have no chance.
I wish I could send them a copy of a talk I once heard on the wireless. A celebrated impersonator was explaining how he graded voices into types and accents when he studied them, and into low, middle and high registers for pitch. It was a fascinating and technical explanation, and was inspiring me to try his methods and imitate hundreds of voices as incredibly as he does, when at the end he said, in a kind voice: ‘There is just one more thing. You must start practising when you are five.’
With mimicry, as with every other occupation which needs some trained physical skill as well as mental ability, an early start must clearly be made. When he is eighteen a young man may decide to be a doctor or a lawyer, but it is too late for him to think about being a pianist or a jockey.
Before anyone decides to be a jockey, as well as assessing honestly his own ability, he ought to be quite clear about three things.
First, he must not be swayed by the glamour which jockeys seem to have for some people, for glamour is always in the eye of the beholder; when one has got used to wearing brilliant shirts and being stared at, all feeling of glamour fades away, but the mud, sweat and bumps are left.
Second, he must realise that luck plays a colossal part in determining the success or failure of a jockey, and that good luck does not come automatically to a good rider. I was extremely lucky, but another amateur who started when I did and became a professional at the same time and with the same sort of prospects, broke his leg in his first professional race, was away for months while it mended, and never managed to re-establish himself afterwards, for other men were riding all his former mounts.
Third, he should not expect to earn a great deal of money, for out of roughly six hundred holding a licence, only about forty jockeys earn their livingbyracing fees alone.
I find there is a widespread misconception about jockeys’ earnings, which are popularly supposed to be astronomical. For some flat-race jockeys this may be so, because they are given large retainers, and there is more stake-money for flat races, but it is quite different for National Hunt jockeys.
I was one of the lucky ones. I rode a good number of races each season, was retained by two stables, and had, as patrons, sporting and generous owners who rewarded me well when I won and did not curse me too much when I lost. Therefore I am describing the financial aspect of a jockey’s life in no spirit of personal complaint.
Very few National Hunt stables offer a retainer, because there are so many jockeys that there is nearly always a good one available. Jockeys sometimes refuse small retainers, saying that because of them they are not free to ride and perhaps win a big race on a better horse than the one they are obliged to partner, and that they are worse off in the end.
At the present time a regular fee of fifteen pounds is paid to every professional jockey riding in any race under National Hunt rules, whether he wins or loses. It is paid through the organisation of Messrs Weatherby and Co., and not directly from owner to jockey. In this way jockeys are certain of being paid for their services, and are not reduced, as some unfortunate trainers are, to having to ask the few unscrupulous owners over and over again for their money.
Out of his fee a jockey pays his heavy expenses, and also his contribution towards the accident fund for helping injured riders.
Flat-race jockeys have their travelling expenses given to them by the owners they ride for (through Weatherby’s), but jumping jockeys pay their own. Theoretically National Hunt jockeys also may claim for their journeys, but none do nowadays, though it was once the normal thing. There are also valets’ fees and kit replacements carving large chunks out of a jockey’s income.
About forty jockeys ride more than a hundred races in a season. Of these, only ten or twelve ride more than two hundred. Roughly five hundred and sixty others race less than a hundred times. Very simple arithmetic will show that no one gets rich on riding fees alone.
When I was riding, his fees were all that a jockey was legally entitled to, even for winning the National. In practice, of course, the legal minimum of ten guineas for a win was usually (but not always) augmented by a present from the owner of the horse.
The size of the present depends entirely on the owner. Most gave a little over ten per cent of the stake they won on the race; the stake might be as little as £140 pounds at a small meeting, or more than £18,000 for the National. Some owners are extremely generous, and a very few are incredibly mean; and the jockeys tell each other which are which!
The Whitbread Gold Cup steeplechase, which was held for the first time at Sandown Park in April, 1957, was revolutionary in offering large money prizes to professional riders of the first three horses. Several races during the year award cigarette boxes, whips, trophies, or, at Worcester, a coffee service, to the winning jockey.
The shaky financial prospect of the majority of jumping jockeys does not, as I know from my own experience, in any way stop a young man from wanting to be one, and I hope it never will.
Without doubt it is fun and not finance which counts most, for amateur jockeys are as keen and dedicated as anyone. They ride on exactly the same terms and in the same races as professionals, and there are also about a hundred and fifty races for amateurs only.
Some years ago a man could remain an amateur for ever and yet ride enough to be one of the leading jockeys. Lord Mildmay, who did just this, was one of the most popular men racing, and no professional jockey grudged him his success or the number of horses he rode.
For a while the Stewards became much stricter, and if any amateur began to ride a great deal they called him in and gave him the same choice as they gave me, of becoming a professional jockey or only riding in amateur races.
Atty Corbett, son of Lord Rowallan the Chief Scout, did not wait for the ultimatum to be presented. He had ridden for years in every sort of race as an amateur, and was one of the very best of them, when he suddenly decided to become a professional, and applied for a licence. On the first day of his professional career he was in the changing-room putting on his colours for a hurdle race, when a great friend of his, still an amateur, came in to change too.
Atty, using the chief argument of the Stewards, said in a ferocious voice, ‘What do you so and so amateurs think you’re doing, riding in all these races and taking the bread out of the mouths of us poor professionals?’
In later years the roles have changed again. Amateurs may now ride regularly and retain their ‘Mr.’ for ever, but any owner engaging one who has ridden more than 70 open races must pay the equivalent of the professional fee into Weatherby‘s. In this way amateurs compete equally for rides, which is fairer to all.
I remember being asked, during one of my infrequent appearances at school, to write a story called ‘A Day in the Life of a Rabbit.’ I expect myxomatosis has changed this to a hedgehog for the modern child. A rabbit’s emotions elude me as much now as they did when I was ten, but I feel fairly well qualified to embark on ‘A Day in the Life of a Steeplechase Jockey,’ a creature who reverses the natural laws of hibernation, sleeps in the summer, and comes to life in the winter.
In the days of my youth I sprang out of bed in the early dawn, declaring it was the best part of the day, and meaning it too. Now, I am given to shivering my way into jodhpurs and six sweaters, with reluctant fingers and dozing eyes; but when the sun comes up over the misty hills I am still glad I am there to
see it.
Muffled to the eyelashes I drive up on to the Berkshire Downs in a Land Rover, and wait for the long string of horses to wind its way up from the valley. The downs are magnificent in all weathers, but in the dawn of a winter’s day, with the bare dark hills rolling to the horizon and the bitter wind sweeping across with its high thin voice, they are like the beginning of the world.
The Ridgeway, the ancient road of prehistoric man, follows along the highest part of the downs, and it is still easy to stand where no traces of civilisation can be seen, and to wonder at the incredible fortitude of the Iron Age men, who lived and travelled on these hills because the valleys were choked with forests and prowled by wild beasts, and who had no windcheaters to shield their bodies, and no bacon and eggs and hot coffee waiting for them in a warm room two miles away.
The horses reach the top of the hill, and stand for a while with plumes of steam flying from their nostrils while the programme for the morning’s training is explained. Then off goes one party to canter or gallop, each horse according to the stage of fitness he has reached, and the rest walk round in a circle to keep warm, and take their turn to jump over the schooling fences.
Teaching horses to jump is one of the most important parts of a jockey’s job, and one which must never be skimped or hurried. Thorough schooling at home makes a young horse used to finding obstacles in his way, so that he is not flustered when he meets them in the nervous tension of a race. It is the same principle as endless drill for soldiers: in the heat of battle they will react instinctively in the way they have been taught, when they may be under such a strain that they cannot think calmly and logically.
Older horses can sometimes be helped to overcome their mistakes, but a horse often clings to his old habits and if he was allowed to swerve over hurdles when he started to race, he will often be found still crashing through the wings in novice ‘chases when he is twelve years old.
When I have the opportunity of schooling a horse from the very beginning, I like to take him gently and slowly over logs and small hurdles, on and on until he has learned the length of his own stride and the distance he needs to be from a fence when he makes his spring. Some horses put themselves right naturally, some take weeks to learn it, and some never do. These last might just as well be sent home at once, for it would take a Derby winner to make up the lengths that are lost at every fence by a horse that does not know when to take off. He jumps too soon and drags his hind legs through the fence, or too late, getting too close underneath and having to go up into the air and down again; in either case the other horses do not wait for him.
As soon as a horse is jumping fluently and with confidence over small hurdles, he goes on to large hurdles or small fences. The theory and style of jumping are the same, and one can let the horse discover that the only thing he should alter is the power of his spring.
I hate to gallop a horse over schooling fences at racing pace. It seems to me that a horse at a fast canter has time to think what he is doing, and if he knows his job it is easy to speed him up when he is actually racing. Horses which have fallen or been away from racing for a while are also usually given a refresher course over schooling fences before they race again, and even with these old hands one can go steadily, to give them time to regain their confidence.
Schooling lasts up to an hour, according to whether there are two or half a dozen horses to jump, and then I rattle and slide back down the rutted tracks and unmade roads of the downs.
Change, shave, breakfast in a hurry, kiss the children good-bye between mouthfuls of toast and honey, and off with Mary to the distant races, timing things so that we arrive there not less than an hour before the first race, for there is a good deal to be arranged before racing begins.
The weighing-room is the heart of a racecourse, for everything begins and ends there. It is a large bare room, furnished only by the scales which give it its name, and all the serious business of the day is conducted there, bar the little formality of the races themselves. Plans are made, plots are hatched, reputations are dissected, and the latest batch of blue stories from the Stock Exchange does the rounds. Moreover, the weighing-room is warm.
Leading off the weighing-room itself are the changing-rooms for jockeys and the Clerk of the Course’s office, and an alcove where trainers declare every horse which is going to run, at least three-quarters of an hour before the time of the race he is entered for.
Arriving at the weighing-room I used to make my way through a cloud of ‘Good-mornings’ to the changing-room, to consult the oracle in the shape of my valet.
Racecourse valets are somewhat like theatrical dressers—friends, confidants, and professional smoothers-of-the-way, they push a jockey out on to the stage, as it were, on cue, and equipped with the right properties for the scene to be played. They care for all kit. They wash breeches, clean saddles and boots, and take everything needed from course to course, so that a jockey goes to every meeting knowing that his own clothes and saddles will be there ready for him to use. When he needs new breeches they order them for him; when anything needs mending, they get it done. They take with them a large collection of sweaters, helmets, breeches, saddles, whips, and boots, which they lend to anyone who needs them. I was very glad to borrow these ‘spares’ regularly when I started and had nothing of my own, and they were always very useful if my plans were changed at the last minute, and I had to go to ride in Sussex when my kit had gone to the Midlands.
The valets are the most closed of all closed shops, for although there are about twenty of them altogether, they come from only five or six families, and a stranger has no chance of joining in. Fathers, sons, uncles and cousins bundle the day’s dirty load into their departing cars, and reappear with everything clean in the morning, and their wives at home answer the telephone and take down messages from jockeys between trips to the washing line.
Usually each valet looks after about ten jockeys in an afternoon, but at Easter and Whitsun, when there are about fifteen race meetings on the same day, there are only one or two valets at each meeting to look after forty or fifty jockeys, and the chaos is indescribable. Every ordinary day in the changing-room they make sure jockeys have everything they need, and that the right colours are there for them to put on, help them if they are in a hurry, pass on all the latest news and gossip, dress them like babies when they come back in pieces from a fall, comfort them in their troubles, and come to their rescue when they are broke. How could jockeys possibly manage without them?
From his valet a jockey sometimes discovers exactly what horses he is going to ride, for the valet is likely to be more accurate than the morning papers, and has heard the very latest plans from the trainers. All racing colours are kept and cared for by the trainers, and they bring the appropriate shirts and caps with them into the weighing-room, and give them to the valet of the jockey who is to wear them. If a trainer has changed his intentions and his runners, and has been unable to let his jockey know, it is usually the valet who tells him about it.
When he knows what he is riding, the jockey checks through the list of horses with his valet to see if any of them need breast-plates, blinkers or pads under the saddle, how often he will need a weight cloth, and whether any of them have so small a weight to carry that in order to get down to it he will have to use a light four-pound saddle.
About now in his day a rabbit would pause for a few nibbles of lettuce or carrot, but on a racecourse, lunch and jockeys never meet. This abstinence has nothing directly to do with weight problems, but is a simple matter of physical fitness. No one can put forth his greatest effort with a full stomach, and if a rider should fall heavily after eating, he would feel ill and be sick, and shiver and sweat for hours from the shock to his system.
Having no lunch does, of course, help to keep one’s weight down, but most steeplechase jockeys have no trouble at all in staying light enough. The very smallest weight ever allowed in National Hunt racing is nine stone seven pounds, and the upper limit is as much
as thirteen stone, but in the ordinary way horses are set to carry between ten stone and twelve stone seven pounds. This weight includes the jockey himself, his clothes, the saddle with its girths, pads, and stirrups, and blinkers if the horse needs them. It does not include the bridle or the jockey’s crash helmet. All the kit and trappings weigh about twelve pounds, but by using very light things, this can be reduced to about six pounds.
Without any of the dieting or sessions in sweat-boxes which make miserable the lives of most flat-race jockeys, I weighed a pound or two less than ten stone, and as nearly all the horses I rode seemed to have to carry seven pounds more than that, all was well.
Some of my colleagues were not so lucky, however, and one or two of them were almost permanent residents of the Turkish baths. The grim struggles of these poor souls to squeeze off an extra pound have their funny moments: Dick Black and Dave Dick once met unexpectedly in the steam-room, celebrated with a bottle of wine, and to their horror found they were both heavier when they left the Turkish baths than when they went in.
Before the race each jockey weighs himself and everything he proposes to take with him on the ‘trial’ scales, and if he is not as heavy as the weight set for the horse to carry, he picks up enough of the thin flat pieces of lead lying on a bench beside the scales to bring him up to the necessary weight. The pieces of lead fit into slots in a leather and webbing weight cloth which lies over the horse’s back under the saddle.
When the trial scales tell a jockey that he weighs about half a pound more than his objective, he takes all his paraphernalia along to the main scales, to be officially weighed out for the race.
Beside the scales sit the Clerk of the Scales and the Judge who is later to decide the winner of the race. The Judge is there to make sure that he knows the colours of every jockey riding in the race, so that in a close finish he will know quickly which horse is which. He may easily be unable to see the number-cloths of two or three horses abreast, and in National Hunt racing until 1957 there were no photographs to help him. Photographs were not used on courses where cameras were installed for flat racing, and although some curious decisions were given by judges from time to time, it was generally felt that if after three miles of strenuous effort two horses could not be separated by the human eye, they both deserved to win, and a dead heat was declared to be the result. Now, however, each racecourse executive may instal and use a camera if they wish, and very few do not.
