Dreamers of the Day

Dreamers of the day

Training race horses isn’t the epitome of luxury, nothing, compared to the over advertised sense of royalty that the new crew portray. They see us at our best but know nothing about the hard work and dedication put in to get there. So when the sun lays its bright, warm rays to rest for another night and light quickly becomes scarce, when people return to the comfort of their homes and drift off into the mesmerising night, one light turns on. Ours. The typical day begins at 3:30 am when your 5 alarm clocks simultaneously go off and you rage violently around your room in a semi-conscious state to turn them off. You run to the bathroom where you are greeted with a reflection of a more humane version of Frankenstein and tape up your injuries. We are required to be at the track at 3:45 am. In this business every minute of sleep counts. I allowed myself 10 minutes to get changed, brush my teeth, tape up, grab an apple and stumble into the car for the 5-minute drive to the track. Track work riders are the luckiest of all people in the racing industry; we get to ride and nothing else. But despite all of that we have the most difficult job. Let me assure you playing tug-of-war with 500kg of muscle, eight times a morning isn’t as tranquil as it appears. The drive over in the frosty (sometimes sub 0) morning usually involves music blasting and windows wound down to maintain my acquainted state. I arrive at the track and drag myself into the “tack room” to be once again conversant with my trusty helmet, back pad and whip. I run over to Barry at the café, who is already waiting with my double shot espresso, I gulf it down and the racecourse lights aggressively flash on.

It is now that I awake and realise what I am here to do. My senses completely expand as adrenalin pumps throughout my body. The mellow aroma of hay, oats, stable equipment and leather hangs deeply in the air. I pause and take a deep breath in to settle my over raging sense of anxiety. You would think that after a year my nerves would have settled, after all I was 17, the youngest rider employed at the whole complex and top owners trusted me to handle their winning horses. But this life is for the tough and consists of 2 athletes. No holidays or days off despite the weather conditions and exercises timed to perfection for each horse between each furlong of the track. If this didn’t go to plan your afternoon would await a tedious lecture from owners and trainers about your competence in the sport and your far strung abilities to “screw up” horses. Attempting to calm myself I headed over to the stables where my first horse awaits, saddle up and groomed to perfection by one of the stable hands. They were there to help but ultimately it was our responsibility to ensure the horses gear and our gear was compliant with the regulations.

I