Of Washington, Washouts and Wayward Wagers...
Back in Blighty, dear reader, my heart as heavy as my wallet is light...
There are few things in the year that I look forward to as much as the annual equine jamboree that the Americans refer to as the World Championships of Racing (well, they would, wouldn't they...).
But the words p155up and brewery spring all too readily to mind, I'm afraid.
This year's host track, Monmouth Park, is a bullring of an oval that makes Chester look like a galloping track. The course facilities were outmoded and undersized for an event of this stature and magnitude, and someone must have taken a very healthy kickback to approve this venue.
Kickback was indeed the order of the weekend. In fairness to Monmouth, they could not have predicted the shocking weather. It rained. And it rained. And it rained. And it rained. And....
The US horses are used to running on slop as they call it. This basically means that the dirt becomes akin to gravy, and the horses are actually splashing through the gravy and striking their hooves on the gravy bowl. Or in this case, striking their hooves on the road beneath the dirt track.
And so it was that in the ultimate event, the Breeders Cup Classic (sponsored by Dodge, lest we forget), George Washington paid the ultimate price. It is testament to the spirit of the beast that, even in breaking both sesamoids and fracturing his right cannon bone, he still didn't chuck Mick Kinane to the dirt, an event that would almost certainly have led to a career threatening injury to the autumnal Irishman, had he been thrown to the road.
Sir Henry Cecil, a man who forgets daily more about racing than I will ever dream of knowing in a lifetime, said that the turf course was false ground. Soft on top, firm underneath. Blunted Passage of Time's kick, he said.
Excuses for Dylan Thomas were less forthcoming, as he was beaten a looong way out.
Excellent Art ran a race of merit again, but is turning into a professional loser in the eyes of this writer.
The weekend started terribly for me when Garrett Gomez (GG of course!), one of the best riders in the world, gave Annie Skates - Jane Chapple-Hyam's impressively improving filly - one of the worst rides of his career.
Off a slow pace on going that was evidently tough to quicken out of, he held the Skates up in last place. Still only ahead of one horse entering the straight, he passed all bar one rival to finish second by a rapidly reducing margin. She is a decent sort, and may give punters a run at a huge price in the 1000 Guineas next season (though I'm not suggesting she'll win the race).
That was to be the first of so many silver medals for me. In a bloodbath only partially washed away by the persistent remorseless conditions, I managed to do a four figure sum (sterling, no decimal point!).
The train ride back epitomised the comic organisation in this tin pot town with a tin pot track. Over a thousand people waiting to get on at a seasonal stop with no platform. Rather, a single thirty foot stretch of raised ground constituted the concourse.
The doors to the New Jersey Transit are elevated, thus you needed to be on the concourse. Or you would have done, had the driver not overshot the raised area, and opened the doors ten yards further along.
There followed scenes that can only be described as farcical; pandemonium; carnage. Ok, they could be described as a lot of other things too, but this is - mostly - a family show... Old men and women being hoisted onto the train; a crush from all sides to get through two adjacent open doors on a train ten carriages and more long. You call that organisation?!
Never again to Monmouth Park, dear reader. Never again.
Despite everything, I loved it!
Next year, we welcome sunshine at Santa Anita. Bring it on, bring it on, bring it on!!!
Some pictures are on facebook, if you are a member of that rather curious online society... just look for me (Matt Bisogno) and you should be able to view my snaps. Check out the sartorial elegance of Mr Battenburg: brilliant!!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=19535&l=7c033&id=730636086
Matt
There are few things in the year that I look forward to as much as the annual equine jamboree that the Americans refer to as the World Championships of Racing (well, they would, wouldn't they...).
But the words p155up and brewery spring all too readily to mind, I'm afraid.
This year's host track, Monmouth Park, is a bullring of an oval that makes Chester look like a galloping track. The course facilities were outmoded and undersized for an event of this stature and magnitude, and someone must have taken a very healthy kickback to approve this venue.
Kickback was indeed the order of the weekend. In fairness to Monmouth, they could not have predicted the shocking weather. It rained. And it rained. And it rained. And it rained. And....
The US horses are used to running on slop as they call it. This basically means that the dirt becomes akin to gravy, and the horses are actually splashing through the gravy and striking their hooves on the gravy bowl. Or in this case, striking their hooves on the road beneath the dirt track.
And so it was that in the ultimate event, the Breeders Cup Classic (sponsored by Dodge, lest we forget), George Washington paid the ultimate price. It is testament to the spirit of the beast that, even in breaking both sesamoids and fracturing his right cannon bone, he still didn't chuck Mick Kinane to the dirt, an event that would almost certainly have led to a career threatening injury to the autumnal Irishman, had he been thrown to the road.
Sir Henry Cecil, a man who forgets daily more about racing than I will ever dream of knowing in a lifetime, said that the turf course was false ground. Soft on top, firm underneath. Blunted Passage of Time's kick, he said.
Excuses for Dylan Thomas were less forthcoming, as he was beaten a looong way out.
Excellent Art ran a race of merit again, but is turning into a professional loser in the eyes of this writer.
The weekend started terribly for me when Garrett Gomez (GG of course!), one of the best riders in the world, gave Annie Skates - Jane Chapple-Hyam's impressively improving filly - one of the worst rides of his career.
Off a slow pace on going that was evidently tough to quicken out of, he held the Skates up in last place. Still only ahead of one horse entering the straight, he passed all bar one rival to finish second by a rapidly reducing margin. She is a decent sort, and may give punters a run at a huge price in the 1000 Guineas next season (though I'm not suggesting she'll win the race).
That was to be the first of so many silver medals for me. In a bloodbath only partially washed away by the persistent remorseless conditions, I managed to do a four figure sum (sterling, no decimal point!).
The train ride back epitomised the comic organisation in this tin pot town with a tin pot track. Over a thousand people waiting to get on at a seasonal stop with no platform. Rather, a single thirty foot stretch of raised ground constituted the concourse.
The doors to the New Jersey Transit are elevated, thus you needed to be on the concourse. Or you would have done, had the driver not overshot the raised area, and opened the doors ten yards further along.
There followed scenes that can only be described as farcical; pandemonium; carnage. Ok, they could be described as a lot of other things too, but this is - mostly - a family show... Old men and women being hoisted onto the train; a crush from all sides to get through two adjacent open doors on a train ten carriages and more long. You call that organisation?!
Never again to Monmouth Park, dear reader. Never again.
Despite everything, I loved it!
Next year, we welcome sunshine at Santa Anita. Bring it on, bring it on, bring it on!!!
Some pictures are on facebook, if you are a member of that rather curious online society... just look for me (Matt Bisogno) and you should be able to view my snaps. Check out the sartorial elegance of Mr Battenburg: brilliant!!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=19535&l=7c033&id=730636086
Matt
posted by Matt at
18:23
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