Before Race Day

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 1, 12 February 1945, Page 3

Before Race Day

A K 0 R E R 0 RE,PORT

QUFUS ran a half in 50, tra-la ; XV Rufus ran a half in 50, tum-te-tum; heigh ho the merry oh Rufus ran a half in 50. Dear old Rufus, sweet old fella, we’ll show ’em in the Derby. Heigh-ho the . . . whoa, whoa you brute, whoa you pig.” Stooge, the stable lad, loudly whistled, happily sang, cheerfully yelled as he rubbed Rufus down after the five o’clock grey, chilly morning schooling at the course. Stooge because his name is Sturgess, and he would look, wonder who you meant, if you called him Trevor, his Christian name ; and Rufus because you simply couldn’t call a horse, even the finest thoroughbred in the land, Royal Victor every time you wanted to speak to him, sing about him, shout, and, if the boss isn’t round, curse at him. ' Stooge, a flopping mop of hair almost as long as himself, which isn’t such a great length at all, and weighing not much more than a couple of horse-shoes without the nails, is more than a stable-boy ; he has his apprentice’s license and it won’t be long before you read his name in the list of winning results in your Sat-

urday night’s sports paper. At least he hopes not. Perhaps an apprentices’ handicap for a start, but later all sorts of things like hack sprints, classics, New Zealand Cups, and gold plates. “ Yep, I’m doing some jumping.” So maybe hurdles, even steeplechases — Stooge

would clear ditches, fences, hedges, and church spires, even the moon just for the chance. He told us of all his hopes, his plans for the future. But in the meantime he had to have his breakfast—not too much either ; platefuls stacked high, second helpings would mean that soon the only thing left to ride would be railway trains. On the Wairarapa Plains is Masterton, a town divided on either side of a sleepily pleasant main street with fifteen weigh-ing-machines, nearly as many banks, a half-mile of shops, dogs sleeping in the middle of the road, a church damaged by earthquake, and lots of commercial travellers. Four or five miles along that main road are five acres, nine paddocks, and eight horses. It is a racing stable. And that’s where Stooge eats his breakfast, does his whistling, and a lot of other things besides. There is a head stableman Ted ; his wife (Ted says he has to be careful—he’s giving away quite a bit of weight) is the cook and the mother of the staff ; there is Alex, a stablehand (he has more years to his age than hairs

in his head), there is Stooge, and his mate, Ray, the second stable lad. Of the eight horses seven are youngsters, the eighth a four-year-old hurdler. There is Rufus for Royal Victor, colt, rising four; Corrie for Gay Corrie, gelding, rising four; Bill for Gigli, he’s a two-year-old colt, he was bred, sired,

and dammed on the stud, but still no one’s quite sure how to pronounce that giggley name ; Charlie for Provider, colt, rising three ; Jimmy for Palissy, colt, rising three ; Froggy for Silvio, gelding, rising four ; Daisy for the sweetest little lady, any age, any weight in the Wellington province, and she’s a two-year-old filly. She’s by Double Remove of that good mare Peerless, and she’s got more of a name than Daisy, but no one in the stables can remember it without first looking up the records. So Daisy she is, and Daisy she will be until she starts racing. Also, with the comfort of a paddock to himself, with the companionship of a neighbour’s hunter (he’s as big as a battleship, a great ginger fellow) over the fence, is Indian Sign, a four-year-old, a gelding, a hurdler. Indian Sign was one of the best two-year-olds of his year. Until he broke down, he won races and showed promise of winning more. Now he’s turned out, leading a lazy life that soon will finish— almost sound again. Eight beautiful horses. And it’s funny about their names and nicknames. In a stable, no matter how fine a horse is,

or how imposing a name he’s racing under, he is called a nickname that has all sorts of explanations, or just, no explanation at all. Silvio has a delicate fineness of line even for a thoroughbred, a sweet temperament, but he’s called Froggy, nothing but Froggy. It’s Froggy because his sire was Lang Bian, a stallion imported from France. To -the men of that stable, those who know him from his training at the Masterton Racecourse, he will always be Froggy, even if he develops into the greatest champion, of the land. This team, young as they are, have all been in the money ; all except Daisy, the filly, and she doesn’t feel bad, or that she hasn’t been doing her bit, helping with the housekeeping money, because she hasn’t had a chance yet. She will. Of the others, Bill for Gigli has done best with two seconds, one first, a fourth, and some useful dividends from four starts. Rufus for Royal Victor, whose preparation has been slow, had been, when we were there, only once in the money in six starts. But he’s a young man yet.

Before six o’clock in the morning. November springtime ; it’s cold, and racing men seem worse than fishingmen for their most un-Christian like hours of starting their day. In the car on the way to the course we passed three of the horses walking with long, easy strides, no jiggle-joggle. They didn’t even look sleepy. Stooge and Ray, shouting and laughing and singing, seemed as cheerful as the red glow of sun to the east. They waved. But Royal Victor, Silvio, and Gigli didn’t even turn a head, dip a forelock, or roll an eyeball : you’d think at least they’d say some sort of good morning to the boss. They were warm in their rugs.

Rufus jiggled, toes dancing, eyes flashing as Stooge tried once, twice, three times to back him into the stall at the course. In he goes ; he’s not satisfied until he’s smacked the back wall with a flying hoof. For which bad manners his soft warm nose is tapped firmly with the back of Stooge’s hand. We can’t have that sort of thing. Nose twitching, Rufus decides to be good. Off comes his rug, the girth of his saddle is tightened, the stirrup leathers adjusted. In the next stall is Silvio ; Ted is anxiously feeling a near foreleg for heat. That leg had been giving trouble, training had had to be advanced carefully, there was still chance of more serious trouble.

Royal Victor and Silvio were to work together—Stooge on Rufus, Ray on Froggy. . They were led dancing from the stalls, head high, tails held, shining brighter than the morning. Instructions were given to the lads : keep abreast, no following each other for the forming of

bad raceday habits; half a round to warm up trained muscles, a round of half-pace, a half at full—“ and full pace doesn’t mean a canter; ride him Stooge; no need for a threshing, but use your stick.” The lads yes-bossed and no-bossed.

Tuesday before Saturday; Saturday at a country meeting with races to be run. A horse train on Thursday left only this morning and Wednesday for final work-outs. They’re working on the plough, the inner track which is used for training to preserve the grass course proper from the ripping, tearing, and biting of those flashing steel feet. First half slowly, dirt flying ; second round faster, dirt flying faster. We stand close to the rail. Eyes tight to that bunch ; stop-watches set.

They burst into full gallop. It, was the difference of still water caught by wind into flying dashing spray ; a fire kicked into showers of sparks. Faster into pounding speed.- Neck to neck, riders crouched, like paper parcels, they raced round the back turn.. Stopwatches ticked. Into the entrance to the straight. Another furlong, faster for . ...

Then it happened. There were shouts. Ray, rider of Silvio, pitched forward, like an athlete sent floundering by a push. Silvio, with legs splayed, was staggering over the track. Royal Victor galloped on. On past us, but we weren’t watching. Something had happened to Silvio. Ray had slipped from the saddle to the ground. His horse was on three legs, wildly wax ing the fourth. We ran down the track.

It was a breakdown. Legs hobbling, head tossing, eyes rolling, and frightened, Silvio was in pain. Already there was a swelling on his knee nearly the size of a cricket-ball. He could hardly stay on his feet, but he mustn’t lie down, not in the middle of the track. One hundred yards to the stalls, to the paddock behind the stalls ; there he could rest, stay quietly until the veterinary surgeon arrived. Already a telephone call had been made, he wouldn’t be longer than the five miles took in his car. Quiet voices talked to Froggy Silvio ; voices that he knew, that he associated with his care and living. Voices that soothed him. His eyes showed he couldn’t understand this pain, this burning tenderness in his knee ; but his eyes showed, too, he knew these men would look after him. Much as it must have hurt him, he hobbled down the track after Ray. Silvio tried to turn in the gate he knew led to the stables. Home was the only place, the sooner he got away from here the better. He said it plainly with head tugging at the loose reins. Poor old Froggy Silvio. He rubbed and scraped his nose in the gravel of the path to relieve the pain in his leg ; he pawed the gate ; he tried to tangle himself in the barbed wire of the fence. He wouldn’t be still, he wouldn’t lie down. A carthorse, a mare not as sedate and proper as she should be for her years, came romping across the farm paddock next door ; Silvio peg-legged over for greetings and an early morning rub of noses. Perhaps he explained what had happened ;

but, however great the pain, the instinct of friendliness, of responding to a snort and a whinny, was stronger. The vet. arrived. We smiled at the long words, the Latin terms, he used ; he knows his job, but he always makes sure you realize it. Silvio maybe had broken a small bone, maybe torn a muscle—an x-ray would show ; and in the meantime water hosed on the knee for an hour a day would reduce the swelling and lessen the pain. He tied a skilful bandage and gave the shaking, trembling animal a shot of morphia to help him through the day. Silvio would be turned out after the swelling and the pain had gone. It would probably be at least a season before his training was continued. And it seemed strange that the leg now giving all the trouble was not the one that had previously shown signs of weakness. It happens often. A horse will rest a sore leg, relieve it of all possible pressure, to such an extent that the other leg will break down under extra and unaccustomed strain. It was the luck of the racing game. One thing it made plain : that what these racing men were worried about was not the races Silvio would have to be withdrawn from, not the stake money automatically to be forfeited, not the cost of his training or his feed ; it was that a horse was in pain. Later in the morning we had an interesting hour in the stables. Solid wooden buildings, concrete floors, roomy boxes, plenty of ventilation, spotlessly clean —and woe betide any thoughtless fly that happens to come that way.

The harness-room, with a peg for everything, is neat, the leather shining and supple. On the stall floors the straw is thick and yellow in its freshness. A first-class stable is run to routine, seven days a week, under unquestioned discipline. It has to be. Horses are valuable animals, worth thousands of pounds ; and the closer they are to perfect fitness the easier it is for something to go wrong with them. Every care has to be taken. And one of the first cares is cleanliness. In the sunshine of the doorway the stable cat sits for a moment licking herself—she’s heard about this cleanliness business. Then she hurries away to her kittens : she has to lick them, too. This racing stable day starts in the night—at 4 a.m. A cup of tea, clean out the boxes, prepare the horses; there’s no time to be lost when the boys have got to be at the course before 6 o’clock with four of the horses. No breakfast for either animals or men until after the schooling. After the meal the horses already exercised are turned out in the grass, the other three taken to the course. At midday there is oats and chaff (always thoroughly sieved), after which all the

horses are turned out until 2.30. There follows now the grooming (or dressing)— an hour a day for each horse : they’re brushed, stropped, and massaged ; feet are attended, manes and tails combed and brushed. At 4 o’clock is the afternoon tea snack of cut grass and hay, followed at 5 with a main meal of oats and chaff, after which the horses are watered and clothed in their night rugs. A long day finishes with inspection and more water at 8 o’clock. Once a month there is a visit to or from the blacksmith ; and at least twice a year a horse dentist makes a call. In addition, there is road exercise work ; care of harness ; upkeep of stables and property;’ and time off, if you’re lucky, to read the paper. The afternoon sun was warm. Across the miles of the Wairarapa Plains the Tararuas were as blue as smoke from a musterer’s billy fire. Ted was showing us over the five acres and nine paddocks of the stable property. What wonderful feed. Ted feft us to hoe his onions in the vegetable patch. But he knows more than his onions. In the morning he was taking Royal Victor to the races. We were going along, too. Rufus browsed quietly across the fence.