John Cobb said I was a ‘phenomenal riding talent’.
Geoff Lester called me ‘tremendously gifted’.
John Carter labelled me ‘the supreme artist in the saddle’.
Josh Gifford named me ‘the most complete rider in the game’.
Suddenly, everybody seemed to want me. It was odd, it was mad. It was just strange.
But despite my perceived success, I remained picky about my rides.
The general industry-wide expectation is that jockeys ride to claim championship honours. This necessitates riding every chance you get. It’s a numbers game – the more you ride, the more you can win. My methods were unconventional and sometimes controversial. I wasn’t insatiably hungry for the title.
Instead, I preferred to ride the big races and usually only when the circumstances fit my personal desires. For example, I would have literally paid to ride at the Cheltenham Festival – the right atmosphere always gave me a real buzz – while I preferred not to ride at meetings that felt like they just made up the numbers. So, as unorthodox as I might have appeared to be, ultimately I was who I was – a businessman riding horses.
And so, I never rang up for rides and I didn’t have my phone number in the directory. I believed that if someone wanted to book me, they would find a way to reach me. I have always been, by nature, an extremely private person, and although I didn’t consciously plan this, it led somehow to an air of mystery about me – no one was really ever able to get their finger on my pulse. Even in my best years as a jockey, and despite my showmanship on the horse, I shied away from the public eye, happily electing for the torch to be pointed away from me as a person, and instead shine on my skill. But even then, I felt no pressure to ride a horse just because the owner or trainer fancied my riding it. I believed that it did no good to ride bad horses for the sake of rides. I rode every horse with 100 per cent dedication, but if I had started riding bad horses for people who didn’t know bad horses, I’d have lost that dedication and probably would have been far less effective as a result.
On the other hand, it was always gratifying to ride good horses, and I enjoyed racing through riding for the right people. If I had ever stopped riding for these people, I’d have stopped riding altogether. For me, enjoyment was always key – it is hard to beat the thrill of jumping at speed on an exceptional horse, and this is what I aimed to find in every race. So, I made my decisions for myself – which races I wanted to ride in, which horses I wanted to ride on – not from obligation or compulsion, but from my own volition. I preferred to ride at my own peril and always for a good reason. Anyone who rides professionally knows that racing is predicated on chance; risk and reward. And I wanted to ride when I was sure the risk was worth the reward. Or, to put it bluntly, I wanted to ride when I believed the horse could win.
Because of how I rode, because I chose to pick both my horses and my races, I minimized the degree of risk. I was fairly good at anticipating what the other horses and riders would do, and as long as I had the confidence in my own horse, I felt in control. Everything I did was calculated with one ultimate goal – to make sure the horse and myself did not part company. The result was that I had far fewer falls than my peers. Take, for example, the 1993/94 season, my last before the accident. During this season, the average jockey fell once in every nine rides (as of 2016, the statistic has improved to one in every 14.5 rides) – I had fallen ten times in my 385 rides that season.
In a similar vein, somehow I inadvertently redefined the traditional jockey–trainer relationship. As I advanced in my career, trainers didn’t feel the need to give me any instructions. Either they trusted that I knew what I was doing or they thought it unnecessary because I was going to go out and ride the way I thought the horse was best ridden anyway. This wasn’t because I thought I knew better than them – I certainly didn’t. It was only because I felt that if you had a view, you needed to have the conviction to back it. I had seen people become bitter when they left the decision-making to others. In my mind, the recipe for life and happiness is to decide for yourself. Then the responsibility – of both the decision and the outcome – is yours in totality.
So while I was forever a student of my craft, I had the self-confidence to shout out for what instinctively felt right, even if I stood alone. And just like that, when I followed my gut, I found that things started to fall in place for me, the right opportunities began to present themselves, the right people came my way.
Synchronicity surrounded me.
Josh Gifford recognized this straight away. First and foremost, even in asking me to be his first jockey, he turned the system on its head. In Josh Gifford’s world, it was an unspoken rule to promote from within, to promote your own. When Richard Rowe, Josh Gifford’s stable jockey, announced his retirement, it seemed a racing certainty that someone already associated with the Gifford stable would take his place. Waiting in the wings were Peter Hobbs, Eamon McKinley, Tom Grantham and my brother Eamon Murphy, who had been joint-champion conditional rider for Josh. Josh Gifford was a traditional man – old school in the way he trained, old school in the way he thought – and although rumours were rife at racecourses up and down the country that he was going to offer me the much-coveted job, it seemed an unlikely departure from convention for a man like him. It was. And yet, he did.
When I was offered the job, as much as I knew it was one of the top three jobs in the country, I accepted it on the rather audacious condition that I would ride Josh’s horses directly in the various races; I wouldn’t be coming to the yard to ride out on a regular basis, and I certainly wouldn’t be moving to Findon from my home in Newmarket.
Josh Gifford thought about this and then he said to me, ‘That should work. When Fred Winter rode for Ryan Price, he didn’t ride out at the stables either. If it worked for them, it should work for us.’
Given that Fred Winter and Ryan Price were probably one of the most formidable combinations of success in racing in the post-war era, it was clear, just in making the comparison, that Josh Gifford respected my decisions as much as I respected his.
In another exception to the rule, we also agreed on a retainer per horse, as opposed to the standard umbrella contract that would oblige me to ride all Josh’s horses, as it was likely there would be horses I wouldn’t want to ride. I don’t think any other jockey at the time had this sort of working arrangement, but once again, in another notable departure from convention, Josh agreed and, satisfied that it would suit me, I took the job.
Almost immediately, I started riding some very good horses for Josh. Deep Sensation and Bradbury Star, two horses that would be inextricably linked to my best years as a jockey, had previously been good hurdlers for Josh, and were just about to start their first season novice chasing. Both had become high-profile horses in their own right and continued to attract the attention of the race-going public.
I had ridden Bradbury Star to win the 2-mile, 4-furlong Scilly Isles Novices’ Chase at Sandown Park in February 1992, and he and Deep Sensation were both going to Cheltenham that March. Josh Gifford had initially wanted to run Bradbury Star in the Arkle Chase, which was being run over 2 miles, but we subsequently decided that the trip might prove too short for him; in all likelihood, he would want further. His only other option was the Sun Alliance Chase, the championship race for novices, which was being run over 3 miles, 1 furlong, and Josh decided to run him in this race instead. I turned up at Cheltenham that year with a good book of rides, but I can unequivocally say that Bradbury Star was the horse that I was most looking forward to riding.
When we jumped off in the Sun Alliance Chase, I slotted into a good position. It was an extremely competitive line-up, but I had total belief in Bradbury Star’s potential to rise to the occasion. I thought that if he was able to stay the distance, he would have a great chance at winning the race. In all honesty, however, I had my colours pinned to hope. I willed myself to believe that he might stay the trip; I was far from convinced that he would. But I felt it was w
orth a try. As the race progressed, there was a relentless pace set by Mutare and Richard Dunwoody, and sustained by Run For Free and Mark Perrett. I feared that this might possibly exhaust every ounce of stamina that Bradbury Star had in him. Nevertheless, he jumped impeccably and I delivered him to win halfway up the run-in.
And then it happened, just like I had hoped it wouldn’t but feared it might. The elastic band of stamina that I had stretched to its limit, snapped. Bradbury Star ran nearly all the way to the line; he was like a car running out of fuel in the last 100 yards. We got beaten by half a length by Miinnehoma, ridden brilliantly by Peter Scudamore.
If anyone needed reminding of how good a jockey Peter Scudamore was, in my opinion, there is no better race than the 1992 Sun Alliance Chase to demonstrate this. He had committed on Miinnehoma a long way from home; such was his skill, he had Miinnehoma running all the way to the line. As for me, I was exhausted when I came back in after the race, more emotionally so than anything, because I had truly believed that Bradbury Star might win. It had been a huge challenge for me, and I’d go so far as to say that it was perhaps the best ride I’d ever given a horse at that point in my career. So the enormity of that sense of expectation and, equally, the disappointment when you get so close to it and are beaten, was huge.
Nevertheless, as I look back on it now, I realize what a momentous event it had been; arguably one of the greatest Sun Alliance Chases that has ever been run at Cheltenham – a window into the future. Miinnehoma, who won the race, went on to win the Grand National four years later. The horse that finished third, Run For Free, won the Scottish Grand National a year later. The horse that finished fourth, Rough Quest, went on to win the Grand National four years later. The horse that finished fifth, Captain Dibble, won the Scottish Grand National in his next run. Bradbury Star would go on to be a two-time Mackeson Gold Cup winner. Rarely in the records of racing history will you find one race where the first five finishers have come out as champions in their own right. So even though we were defeated, I knew Bradbury Star had done his very best and would go on to achieve much, much more.
It was towards the end of my first year with Josh that I decided I needed someone to manage my rides. I had never had an agent before, but with over a hundred horses in the Gifford yard, my life was becoming complicated.
I didn’t feel the need for an agent in the traditional definition of the role; in other words, I didn’t need someone to book rides for me. But with Josh having so many runners at so many different meetings, it became clear that I needed help with managing the logistics of my everyday life. Ideally, I was looking for a person who understood the way I liked to work, so they could take over the behind-the-scenes organization and free up my time to ride.
So in my characteristic way, I didn’t pick an agent to be my agent. Instead, I picked an agent who wasn’t an agent. I chose Marten Julian, a renowned journalist with deep horse-racing expertise. I had been a big fan of Marten for some time and regularly read his Dark Horses annuals. I loved the way he wrote about horses; his work showed that he truly understood them – the animal itself, including but not limited to just its role in racing. This appealed to me.
So, I asked him if he would be my manager, and he agreed. Marten had always had a soft spot for me, and I knew he respected my ability as a jockey. I felt instinctively that we would make a good partnership.
But still, as in every new relationship, it took time and experience to learn each other’s ways.
This is no better demonstrated than by a humorous anecdote from Marten himself, when Ami asked him to recollect any memorable stories about me during the time we worked together. I may as well reproduce the actual email, from my former agent to my current writer.
Hi Ami,
I hope you are keeping well.
It was a Saturday afternoon, in the autumn of 1992 when Sedgefield clashed with Newbury. It was very early in my relationship with Declan – possibly a week or two after he appointed me as his agent. I was so keen to impress him and spent hours on the telephone to trainers keen to offer them his services, but I was not aware at that stage of his loyalty to Josh and especially, on this occasion, the owners of the horse. I had wanted to surprise him so waited until I had a full book of rides to tell him that he had five mounts at Sedgefield, all fancied by their trainers. I remember the silence from his end of the ’phone before he said “I have to go to Newbury. The owners of that mare have been very supportive and I can’t let them down.” My immediate feeling was that he didn’t fancy the long trip from his home to Sedgefield.
Nevertheless, I went to Newbury and saw him finish down the field on Josh’s mare, popping in and out of the racecourse betting shop to hear (no pictures in those days) three of the intended mounts at Sedgefield win, and the other two finish close seconds.
We were quiet in the car – I wasn’t going to say anything – until I recall us passing a fuel station on the M4 when he at last asked how they had run. I told him three had won and the other two would have done if he had ridden them. He smiled and said well done.
That is how I remember it, Ami.
Bye for now
Marten
This was only a small incident, but it was a big step forward in our relationship. Up until this point, Marten hadn’t known me long enough to fully grasp how my mind worked, but after this, he quickly figured me out.
There is a truth about me: I regret losing more than I enjoy winning.
Marten understood this. And he understood that because of this, I was very particular about picking horses that I believed could win for me. But he also understood that it wasn’t always quite so straightforward. Loyalty to those who mattered to me was sacred – above all else, and at all costs. And oftentimes with me, ‘predictable’ broke down.
In the case above, I had made my decision against Marten’s better judgement, driven by an intangible force greater than my love of winning. And when, as it so transpired, the outcome didn’t go my way, I was happy to accept my loss graciously, without any regret or bitterness. My wins were my own and so were my losses. Whether this was a character trait or an idiosyncrasy, I don’t know, but Marten recognized it and accepted me for it.
And so it didn’t bother me in the least that Marten had never been an agent. It mattered to me that we got along well and that he knew what made me tick. I had an understanding with him; a language we spoke when we were together that was special. We could sit down, Marten and I, and talk about horses all day long. If you are lucky, you meet people in your life that bring out the best in you, that really get you to perform beyond yourself. Marten was one of those people to me; a firm and loyal friend.
It is only fitting to mention at this point that the job I had with Josh Gifford could not have been as seamless as it was, had it not been for two men (apart from Marten) – my brother Eamon and Richard Rowe, Josh Gifford’s stable jockey before me. The advice Richard Rowe was able to give me when I was riding those horses I’d never ridden before, which he’d been riding, was invaluable. As for Eamon, he also rode for the stable but the difference between us was that he spent a lot of time there and I spent no time there. I would harass him endlessly for his advice on the horses and he would dispense it liberally, openly and willingly; it was above and beyond any call of duty, and I consider myself fortunate to have had such a great friend in such a great brother.
It was during the Josh Gifford years that my career made the quantum leap forward. I had perfected a riding style that mirrored my personality – stylish, in control, and with complete self-belief. These remained my defining traits not only in the way I raced, but also in my way of being.
In fact, it was this same self-confidence that ultimately lay at the heart of the other significant event in my life at this time. Josh Gifford was but one of the driving forces behind my decision to stay on in England.
The other was destiny.
And what divine destiny it was. I was overcome by the heady forces of love, that most power
ful emotion of them all.
I met Joanna; I was intoxicated.
And I found myself stuck at the crossroads with The Golden State on one side and a beautiful girl on the other. Naturally, I chose the girl.
A Beautiful Girl
The first time I saw her, Joanna was riding a horse at Charlie King’s livery yard in Newmarket. As I rode past, I couldn’t take my eyes off her; I had never seen someone so beautiful sitting on a horse. In my mind, only people who looked like me rode horses, and I remember thinking, This doesn’t look right, she’s too beautiful to belong on a horse.
Her eyes looked up then, met mine. She almost smiled, and I almost fell off my horse.
In My Wake
People say death is much harder for those left behind than for the person who dies.
I am fully qualified to corroborate this hypothesis.
While the events detailed below were unfolding across Ireland on my account, I lay oblivious to it all, in a private world of my own.
A world without fear or pain.
Within an hour of my accident, my siblings who lived in Ireland – my sisters Kathleen and Geraldine, and my brother Laurence – had rushed home to Mam and Dad.
Five anxious people now paced up and down the sitting room of 5 Bank Place, with no inkling of what fate awaited me. Turn by turn they worked the phone, desperately trying to call anyone they could think of for answers, but found no one who could give them any.
According to Kathleen, in the immediate wake of my fall, my parents became silent and withdrawn, revealing little emotion as they retreated into their individual, impenetrable worlds of self-preservation.
Mam busied herself doing everything she could around the house, trying to keep her mind distracted, but my sisters, who knew her so well, could tell she was concealing some deep, heavy sadness that she didn’t know how to confront.
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