Farewell Pintuck. Thanks for the memories. If only you had been faster.

May 25, 2013

I fell in love the first time I saw him.

He was a giant of a two-year old. Massive. With the biggest arse I’d seen.

I have a yellowed clipping, where Bart Cummings explained how he always looked for a big bum in young horses. Among other things. This bloke qualified, and then some.

The young man at the stud farm walked him around the yard, and he looked majestic. With a stride I’d only read about in books. Those hooves ate up the ground. I was sold.

We bought our share, with high hopes. So well-bred. Big fans of the Pins bloodline. No-one was aiming too high. The Cox Plate would do just fine.

Right about then, the problems started. I still have the e-mail somewhere, explaining how the big horse was struck down with colic. It was serious. They had to operate.

The cost didn’t concern us. As high as it was. I started reading about the careers of horses after colic surgery. The honour board was a tiny one.

It set us back months. Finally, he made it into Rob Heathcote’s yard. Rob, too, had liked him from day one. He remained confident.

Not long after getting into work, he went shin sore. So bloody big. In fact, by then he was starting to resemble a chestnut Clydesdale. The decision was made to lop off his prized bits. If he was unhappy about that, he didn’t tell us.

Another delay. Patience was our buzzword. He would come good. Breeding would shine through.

Back he came. The word from the training track was encouraging. Then he went shin sore. Again. Off to the paddock once more.

Patience. Through gritted teeth. And a fistful of dollars. But we still had hope.

After an eternity, he hit the track again. It seemed that he’d shaken off the bad luck. Track riders gave him the thumbs up.

We ignored his first few runs. Wet tracks were destroying us. He couldn’t get out of a trot whenever a shower was turned on opposite the course.

Finally, on a dry track at Doomben, our dreams came true. The gold blinkers hit the front. Challengers came, and he fought them off. There was a nose in it, but he won. What a moment.

I told you about it at the time. Even now, the thought of that victory gives me a thrill. But with success, came expectation.

Wet tracks again spoiled things. Looking back, the excuses were mounting. He was going backwards.

His last start was awful. We knew that was it. Our lovely horse was, in fact, slow. And he wasn’t going to get any faster.

The end of our adventure came quickly. He was sent to a country trainer. Maybe he’d pick up a local race down there.

Or maybe not. Another e-mail. This time, to advise that he’d bled. For his safety, and everyone elses, he would need to be retired.

Thanks for the memories Pintuck. A giant horse, with a lovely nature. And one win.

He’s off to a show jumping career now. I’m tipping he’ll represent Australia in the Olympics. After all, a beautiful arse like that must be good for something.

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Awful conduct by a winning racehorse owner. And I’d do it again tomorrow.

January 19, 2013

Quite simply, it was appalling behaviour.

Screaming like a One Direction fan. Banging tables. Foot stomping. A jig was performed, badly. And that was before he crossed the line.

I was in the public bar of a delightful little coastal pub. A midweek race had just been run, and won. By our horse.

To be fair, I had given due warning to the handful of punters present. As a part-owner, there was the remote possibility that I might get a tad excited, if things went our way.

I even tipped them in. Told them that our bloke would run way better than his odds suggested. Suggested that they have a dollar or two each way.

Two elderly locals in faded Hawaiian shirts offered little more than rude sniffs my way. I guessed they sat in those same chairs every day. They didn’t need tips from an unshaven bum with a bad case of sunburn.

Not so two young blokes in the bar. They were excited. Took my advice, and settled in as my new syndicate cheer squad.

Let us pause, because I hear you all asking the same question. Why was I not at the track, if the horse was such a decent chance?

Fair point. The original plan was very different. A drive back to Brisbane from our beachside holiday was on the cards. Until we put it to the vote.

The girls had lodged their verdict before I’d finished the question. No way were they going to endure a few hours in the car, when they could be enjoying the glorious sun and surf. Especially for a dumb horse race.

In the end, I had to agree with them. I couldn’t bring myself to put a shirt on, let alone long pants and shoes. And I’m pretty sure the good folk at Doomben wouldn’t have wanted me in the Members wearing my board shorts.

So that’s how I ended up in the pub. With strict instructions from the girls, that I had to be back for our afternoon surf session.

In running, he looked the best of things. I may have mentioned this, loudly, to no-one in particular.

Jeff Lloyd angled for a run, and the big chestnut surged. I brought the whip out in the bar, to lend a helping hand.

The finish was tight, but no-one could hear the caller. Because I had found a volume I wasn’t aware existed. The windows rattled, and glasses shook, as I urged him home.

It was then that I banged my hand on the table. Several times. And screamed Yes. Several times. It was something like Meg Ryan’s famous restaurant scene with Billy Crystal, in a Pub Tab. I’m sure someone in the adjoining bar whispered “I’ll have what he’s having.”

It was everything I hate seeing in others while trying to watch a race. But I couldn’t help it. After colic, and shin soreness, and wet tracks, and outside barriers, and sheer bloody bad luck, we’d done it. Our boy was a winner.

The young blokes were yelling too. And slapping me on the back. The old blokes were gathering their belongings to leave. Dirty, no doubt, that they’d ignored the tip.

When I came to my senses, I apologised, and asked if I could buy them a beer as a peace-offering. Too late. They’d be writing their complaint letter to the publican right about now.

My young friends had no hesitation in accepting a free drink. They were genuinely excited. That’s what racing does.

The mobile phone was in meltdown, with mates messaging from all over. They all knew how long we’d waited. Another wonderful part of the industry we love.

On any other race day, I would have been the last to leave the track. But not this one. An hour after correct weight, I was back in the surf. The girls were excited too. They were on promises of new bikinis if the photo-finish went our way.

If you were in the bar on Wednesday, or happen to live in surrounding streets, please accept my apologies. To the publican, thanks for erasing those security videos.

Part of being an owner, however small, is the fact that you can go crazy every now and then. It’s in the handbook.

Now that I think of it, me being off-track might be our lucky charm. It could be the secret to his success. I still reckon we can win the Cox Plate. Does anyone know a little pub near Mooney Valley?

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