People often ask me why I write about racing, and my reply is always the same.
Because I bloody want to.
It’s true, but the better question – and the one that I am rarely asked – is why I bloody want to, and the answer is simple.
Because there are just so many stories, so many times a day. It’s magic.
Tough Luck’s win in the sixth at Ipswich yesterday was magic too.
It had to be.
How many Class 1 horses with record of 14: 1-0-1 do you see get deliberately steered 3-wide and last at the 1200 by their rider, sit out there for 200 metres being eased back to ten lengths off the leader last, take off from that position exactly 1000 out from home, fly around the field wide, go even wider via the cape on the turn, run away from its opposition as if it’s Chautauqua, and win by an ever-widening margin of 3 lengths?
Not many, if any, as the song goes.
The bloke who sang it, Scribe – I know him as Josh – is some sort of distant cousin of Maggie’s, about eleven feet tall and incredibly talented. He was on the cusp of world fame and untold wealth, but now he’s an ice pipe jockey on the dole, when he’s not in jail.
They’re no good.
You feel great for a while, win a few races, make a bit of money, and then boom, it all goes to bust and you end up like Josh.
Why am I talking about Maggie’s crazy cuzzie?
I dunno; I guess Jesus would call it a parable.
Did you see Tough Luck’s win at Ipswich today?
Wasn’t it magic?