The only thing our pony beats is me – his trainer
The Bisky Bat is spoilt rotten as a racehorse but Marcus Armytage is unable to turn him into a winner
His bedding is changed more often than mine, he wants for nothing
If this weekend at Cheltenham marks one of the traditional waypoints of the jump racing season, for the jockeys of the future the Charles Owen Pony Racing Finals there on Sunday mark the end of their season and the culmination of 50 qualifying races.
All three of my children now ride to a certain standard, to the extent that I no longer see a 10-mile “fun ride” over 80 jumps with them as a contradiction in terms. Instead of tears (sometimes the father’s) and tantrums (always the father’s), last summer’s were cracking fun.
But only one, the middle one, is obsessed by racing. She reads the Racing Post at breakfast, will know the form of all the ponies taking part on
Sunday and has progressed to riding racehorses at exercise for Andrew Balding.
Just over a year ago, you may remember I told you how we plucked a nine-year-old too-small thoroughbred from a Cheshire field for £200, named it The Bisky Bat, had him rebroken and started racing him.
In our dreams, we would have been contesting Sunday’s final but, instead, my daughter’s involvement will be restricted to leading her cousin, Thomas Bradburne, round the paddock on the favourite. Even Sir Anthony Mccoy, I tell her, started at the bottom.
In his previous existence The Bisky Bat would, in yesterday’s weather, have been soaked to the bone and standing, back to the hedge, in hock-deep mud.
Obviously, one cannot ask him which he would prefer, but he now leads the life of a regular racehorse. That is to say, his bedding is changed more often than mine, a vet will see him quicker than a doctor will see me, he is out at grass in the day and has a roof over his head at night, he wants for nothing food-wise, for every BBC weather symbol he has a different rug and, unlike quite a lot of the human population who do not exercise, his overall health benefits from him being fit.
There was, of course, no contract (more’s the pity) – that for all this, he would win a certain number of races or, indeed, a race. But he continues to reserve his ability for the gallops rather than the racecourse. In racing parlance, he is a morning glory and the only thing he regularly beats is me, his trainer.
If fate sent him for a reason it was as equine endorsement of what I regard as the most sensible decision I ever made; not to follow my father into the training ranks.
For his first two races, he trailed round the back with no idea. For his third start, I noticed a change in the paddock beforehand when, instead of behaving like the winner of an obedience class at a dog show, it was like trying to restrain an unbroken rhino.
He was much more competitive in the race but only really hit his stride after the winning post and Molly pushed the ejector button as he headed for a five-bar gate, though nevertheless returning with a huge grin because of the improvement in form.
The high point was finishing second in a Pony Club race at Cheltenham last spring, and not just because it was his best result. It was a nearly perfect day because my teenage son was leading him round the parade ring. For the 9,095th time, I had, to no avail, told him to “do up your shoelaces or you’ll trip up”. I hope it does not make me a bad father but when he disobeys that command, I usually follow it with a silent prayer that he trips over to prove who is right.
Of course, he never had but, with spectacular timing as he passed in front of me, The Bisky Bat trod on one of his laces and he went an absolute purler underneath the puzzled pony. There is a God, I thought. And he does his laces up now.
I am under pressure now, though. Good horses make good jockeys is a common refrain in racing and, though The Bisky Bat will not be going anywhere (not fast anyway), I have been bullied into getting an upgrade. As is the way of these things, £200 does not even nearly cut it as a down payment. One thing is for sure, though, someone else can train it.