Some horses born to race
Criticisim of racing nothing new, but has failed to gain much traction
I might know as little
about horses as any other once-avid punter, but I doubt that it is “fear, pain and distress” that compels them to give
their all.
Ihadn’t heard of “Nup to the Cup” until I read Myjanne Jensen’s editorial on Tuesday, but the view that horse racing is inherently cruel isn’t new. Criticism of steeplechasing, in particular, has been around for years, but contrary to Jensen’s hopes for a new movement, has never gained a great deal of traction.
Greyhound racing also has its critics, not so much for any inherent cruelty while they are racing as for what happens to the dogs when their careers end.
It is true, of course, that some racehorses die as a result of their race day exertions, but life-ending injuries are rare, and serious organ failure even rarer. And, contrary to the insinuation that owners value their animals only in terms of their power to generate income, I know without a doubt that the death of a horse is often devastating for the connections.
It would also be interesting to see how many racehorses end up in a knacker’s yard and how many go on to careers in a pony club (where fatal injuries are not unknown).
Perhaps the longest-standing criticism of racing horses is the argument that they are not designed to run over long distances. That running flat tack, or something approaching it, over distances of up to two miles is not something a horse will do in the wild. That’s probably true, but there is plenty of evidence that some horses, at least, enjoy a day at the races.
I saw this for myself 40 years ago, when I joined a syndicate that leased a pacer. The first one never got to the races — according to her trainer, she couldn’t have sprinted if her stable had caught fire. So I was offered another one, Bravita, a small but very well-bred (Noodlum out of Garrison Star) pacer that had already qualified to race.
Days after agreeing to pay 10 per cent of the bills, I drove to Pukekohe to meet her and her trainer, Mike Stormont (who also drove her early on, before handing the reins over to his brother James). The first thing he told me was that she was not a machine. She was an animal, and would always be driven accordingly.
She was going to start at Rotorua that Saturday, but late that week Mike rang to say she had a small cut on one leg, and, better safe than sorry, she would be scratched. So I went fishing.
Shortly after I got home a friend phoned to say “your horse” had run, and won. So I rang Mike, who said they were loading the horses that morning and Bravita had shown great enthusiasm for going with them. She still hadn’t been scratched at that stage, so she went. He had tried to phone me but I hadn’t been home.
Bravita won two more races, the first in Palmerston North. She had been getting boxed in over previous starts, so this time Mike had a new plan. James would let her settle at the back of the field, then mow the opposition down on the way home.
So there was I, standing on the lawn with a transistor radio tuned to Radio Pacific, trying to catch a commentary that kept fading out. The race started, Bravita shot to the lead like a rat out of a drainpipe and never looked back. She won by five lengths and going away.
When I asked Mike what had happened to the plan, he said he didn’t know. The starter let them go from the mobile barrier and “she just took off”.
Her penultimate start was at Alexandra Park, on the second night of a three-night meeting. She led into the straight but was swamped by a wall of horses on the line, finishing fifth, half a length from the winner.
The week following, Peter Scahill, who was in charge of Social Welfare in Kaitaia in those days, joined the syndicate, just in time to be told that she would run again the following Saturday. That had not been the plan, but Mike reckoned she was raring to go, so she would be lining up in the Citizen Watch Mobile Pace. I couldn’t afford to go to Auckland two weekends in a row, but Peter said he would be there.
Once again she led into the straight, but this time she hung on and led a very good field home.
Peter Scahill, incidentally, was hanging around the winner’s circle after the race when someone asked him if he had a connection to Bravita. Yes, he did. “Here then,” said this bloke, “have a watch.”
That was in 1984. I really have to let it go.
I have no doubt that Bravita enjoyed racing.
And there were plenty of others; Young Quinn, one of the best pacers ever bred or seen in this country, who detested training but transformed when he stepped onto a race track; Stormy Morn, a trotter who won most of his races by the narrowest of margins by sticking his neck out and not going any faster than he absolutely had to, to beat whatever was behind him; galloper Babbling Brooke, who was finally banned from racing because she liked to bite any horse that had the temerity to pass her as they slowed down past the finish line.
I might know as little about horses as any other once-avid punter, but I doubt that it is “fear, pain and distress” that compels them to give their all.
I can’t disagree that the drunkenness and debauchery that seem to accompany Melbourne Cup day in Australia make no real contribution to Australian culture, if there is such a thing, but please, give us a break in terms of gambling.
Anyone who has a flutter on the Cup once a year does not have a gambling problem, and anyone who has a gambling problem is not in that situation because of the Melbourne Cup.
If we’re going to talk about the damage done by gambling, let’s talk about government-run state lotteries, and what is being done now to find “products” that will tempt us to spend even more than we do now on said state lottery, with constant assurances that those of us who support that lottery, in many cases no doubt with money we can’t afford to lose, are doing an immensely valuable community service.
As the TAB used to say years ago, betting on horses beats waiting for your balls to drop.
is the polluter. Stop blaming farming for man’s problems. Oh and if you ate today, thank a farmer and then the truckie who brought all the produce to you.
Sylvia Bryan
Northland