Saturday 06 April 2002

I've been horse-mad all my life. From the age of three onwards I was asking Santa for a pony every Christmas (some things never change). I started riding lessons at twelve, and rode weekly until I was about twenty. I got pretty good; I was in the "top" riding group at the school I finally settled on, I rode the difficult and new horses, and because of my height (or rather, lack thereof) I generally got the ponies and smaller horses, which are generally trickier but more fun.

Horse-riding was not only something I loved, then, but something I was good at it. I loved having speed and power at my disposal and under my control - and quite often not; I had my share of bad spills. I loved the concept of horse and rider working together to get things right; going into and over a jump with perfect timing and speed control was heaven; a flat out mad gallop on a trail ride was pure bliss. I always did prefer jumping and cross country work more than dressage and going around and around an arena; the trail was where I learnt most and had the best times.

Anyway I haven't ridden for years now. In Easter of 1996 - note I hadn't ridden for several years at that stage - I went on a four day trek down south in the D'Entrecasteaux and Shannon National Parks. It was a mad, crazy, Man From Snowy River type trek, over all sorts of terrain (dunes, heathland, karri forest), clocking up to eighteen hours riding a day on two of the days. Not only was I sore (not so much my backside but my back and neck really played up and I really wasn't anything near physically fit at the time) but the horse I had assigned had a penchant for ramming my legs into trees so I had bruises all up and down both shins and calves. Ouch. I had a really bad spill one of the days, but will remember the trip with great fondness for the facts that not only did I manage to keep going and not cop out, but there is nothing more amazing than galloping full stretch in the surf of the Southern Ocean, with nothing between you and the Antarctic but a lot of water ...

One day I'll go back to it; I miss it still, the feeling of a horse under me and between my legs (in a totally non-sexual way damn you and Freud too), seeing ears pricked up and turning back and forth, listening and paying attention to me, the speed and power and grace, mane whipping over my hands and into my face ... Sigh. One day.

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Every November, on the first Tuesday of the month, Australia shuts down. That's the day of the Melbourne Cup, Australia's answer to the Grand National in that it captures everyone's imagination and attention, every single office will have a sweep and a Melbourne Cup lunch, the ladies who lunch will have even bigger and better lunches than usual, there's amazing fashions and hats, and that's just in Perth. In Melbourne, where the action is, it's a truly amazing mix of fashion, style, and social climbing all with the background of this amazing horse race.

While I've never seen a Phar Lap in my time, I've been a devoted watcher of the Melbourne Cup since I started riding. I also proved to be good at picking winners. I've put a bet on the Cup every year since I was twelve, whether it was 50 cents or ten dollars (big spender). And why I never put any more than that on is a mystery because I always, always, got the winner and at least one of the placings. There was one year I picked out the trifecta (winner, second place, third place) and if I'd had more than fifty cents on I would have been very rich indeed. As it was I still won a hundred dollars or so, not a bad return.

I guess I never bet higher, or got into gambling on the gee-gees in a big way, because I figured I'd jinx myself. That as soon as I laid out some serious money on a different race, my horses would fall, or come in last, and I'd never pick another winner again. What an attitude eh.

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Which brings me to today's event; a totally different kind of race (steeple-chasing) in another country. I'd never bet on a steeplechase before, as it's not big compared to flat racing in Australia, but I had read every Dick Francis novel in existence and kept up with the news in past years, so I knew about Cheltenham and Aintree and Epsom and Newmarket. So I read up on the various horses and jockeys in the papers and online, and picked out in my head - my head, please note, I didn't go so far as to go to the betting shop - the winner, and two places.

I selected Bindarie as the winner, because of his form and because of the jockey, Jim Culloty, and Blowing Wind and What's Up Boys to place.

Guess who won? Yes, you're right. And What's Up Boys came in second (a very close second, it was pretty tight at the finish) and Blowing Wind third.

ARGH.

If only I'd put a couple of quid on, even, I wouldn't have felt so pissed off when I heard the results. I should really trust my judgement or ability or plain luck, whatever it is, just a little more. Ah well, next year me hearties, next year ...

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So I've been reading a lot. Even more voraciously than usual, with all this lovely new material. Here's a few more thoughts;

Barbara Kingsolver - Small Wonder - review here

Orson Scott Card - Ender's Game - review here

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