I knew that exercise riders were becoming more popular in the big English racing centres like Newmarket and Lambourn but in the United States, where the training barns were grouped together in clusters at the racetracks, the exercise riders had completely cornered the market. Here a groom could spend his whole life with racehorses and never once sit on one’s back.
Maria showed me which of the bridles I needed.
Each horse had his own bridle with the specific style of bit that the trainer had chosen as the most suitable. Most were simple snaffle bits, but a few were special with extended side pieces for controlling excess sideways motion of the head, or with added rings and straps that prevented the animal rearing.
I selected the correct bridle for Paddleboat and turned to leave.
‘Why you desert me last night?’ Maria asked in an aggrieved tone.
‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself with the others,’ I replied.
She laughed and batted her long eyelashes at me. ‘I only trying to make you jealous.’
Surprisingly, I now realised that she had.
More by luck than judgement, and on the dot of five-thirty, Paddleboat was ready for Victor Gomez, a 44-year-old semi-retired Venezuelan jockey who was employed as Raworth’s exercise rider. He had pitched up ten minutes earlier with his saddle over his arm. By then, I had given the horse his breakfast, brushed him down, removed his overnight bandages and picked out any muck from his feet.
Maria helped me with the saddle, fetching me the right pad to put underneath, and assisting with girth adjustments so that everything fitted perfectly.
‘No tendon boots,’ she suddenly shouted when I thought that all was finished.
‘Tendon boots?’ I’d never heard of them.
Maria rushed off and returned with two black padded tubes about nine inches long that she strapped to the horse’s forelegs.
‘Gives tendon support,’ she said. ‘Horses always wear them for exercise and racing. How come you are groom and not know of tendon boots?’
‘We never used them at Santa Anita,’ I said.
I’m not sure she believed me but I didn’t wait to find out. Instead, I led Paddleboat out of his stall and round towards the office.
Charlie Hern was there, giving Victor instructions on what work he wanted the horse to do. He broke off to inspect my handiwork. Satisfied, he gave Victor a leg-up into the saddle.
‘OK, Paddy,’ he said. ‘I’ll take him along to the training track. You carry on with getting the next one ready.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
I did as I was told and that was how the morning progressed, with only a short break for a hurried breakfast in the track kitchen at seven.
Each of the horses went out to the track for a workout lasting about twenty to twenty-five minutes. Not that they ran fast for all that time. I leaned on the rail and watched the last of mine at exercise. Victor Gomez took him through a combination of walking and trotting, interspersed with a few fast gallops over no more than half a mile at a time.
Meanwhile, George Raworth and Charlie Hern stood on a raised platform at the edge of the training track, Charlie with a stopwatch in his hand, recording everything in a notebook. Occasionally Victor would go over to George for further instructions before setting off again.
When its exercise was finished, each horse was handed over to Maria who would first give it a wash to remove the sweat from its coat, and then, as her hot-walker job title suggested, she would walk the hot horse round and round the shedrow until it had cooled, giving it a drink of water every lap or two.
There was another exercise rider also working that day for Raworth and, between him and Victor, they rode all the horses scheduled for track exercise in about two and a half hours.
All except Fire Point.
He was a special case and his Derby-winning race jockey, Jerry Fernando, had made the journey up from Baltimore especially to ride him after the other horses had finished. All the Raworth stable staff, including me, stood and watched as the star of the barn was led out to the track by Keith.
We were rightly proud to have a Triple Crown contender in our midst.
I, however, couldn’t help wondering if he’d been given a dishonest helping hand to become so.
Not that the daily grind of a groom was over just because the horses had finished their exercise. There were still stalls to be cleaned, bedding to be laid, coats to be brushed, standing-bandages to be replaced, water to be fetched and carried, plus countless other things that needed to be done for the horses before it was time for any rest.
And then there was the visit from one of the track veterinary surgeons to collect blood and give injections.
I held Paddleboat’s head as five different needles were stuck into him. First, about 20ml of blood was drawn from the jugular vein in his neck. Next, a quick-acting sedative went into the same vein to keep the horse calm so that the hyaluronic acid could be injected directly into his hock joints. Finally, an intramuscular shot of Adequan went into his bottom.
‘What’s the blood for?’ I asked.
‘Regular weekly testing,’ he said. ‘We do a quick cell count at our lab here at the track. High white would indicate an infection, while low red is a sign of anaemia.’
I wanted to ask if he also did a test for EVA antibodies but decided against it.
Blood was taken from all the horses in the barn, and most had medications of some sort thrust into them one way or another. Two were running that afternoon and, as was usual, they would both receive their 500mg dose of Lasix four hours before race time.
Next a delivery truck arrived, piled high with bales of straw, all of which needed to be transferred by hand from the vehicle to the bedding store, which was inconveniently situated right on top of the office, in the space below the roof rafters.
And all the moving had to be done by the grooms, while the truck driver stood around watching.
I was sent up to the store, climbing the wooden ladder that was attached to the wall. I then had to bend down to grab each bale in turn after it had been carried from the truck and lifted up towards me by the others. I stacked it in place before repeating the process. Over and over, it seemed to be never-ending.
I had always tried to maintain a pretty good standard of fitness, ever since my days at the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, but by the time the last of the straw had been raised my muscles were seriously complaining, especially in my back. I obviously wasn’t quite as fit as I’d thought.
I was looking forward to a soothing lie-down on my bunk when Charlie Hern put paid to that idea.
‘Paddy,’ he shouted into the barn. ‘Here. Now.’
‘Coming, sir,’ I shouted back, running round the shedrow to the office.
‘Good,’ Charlie said, seeing me. ‘Rafael claims he’s sick with flu, so you will look after Anchorage Bay today. Stall Eighteen. He runs in race four. Have him at the receiving barn on time and over at the paddock ready for saddling by two o’clock.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
Flu, indeed.
I’ll murder that bloody Rafael.
18
Anchorage Bay ran second in race four, pushing the winner all the way to the line but failing to get up by a neck.
I was just glad he’d made it to the starting gate on time, and that I hadn’t somehow messed up.
George Raworth seemed to be fairly pleased with the outcome.
‘I reckon he’ll win next time out,’ I heard him tell the owner after the race. I was holding the horse’s head as he was unsaddled on the track in front of the grandstand. ‘And he wasn’t claimed so we still have him.’