Danny Tudhope Rides Again

When people ask me why I go racing at York, they don’t usually want an answer. The question is delivered with sarcastic topspin. Why at York, they ask uncomprehendingly.

Well, let them know this. At York I get to watch Danny Tudhope.

Outsiders, the uneducated, would not understand why I rave about Danny Tudhope. The man is the least showy jockey I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. Unless you look hard, you don’t appreciate the genius of the man.

I was with my father at the annual Family Day, which often falls on my birthday. This year it did, and so the old boy and I traipsed round to the racecourse. We had a hell of day, with one or the other of us winning every race we bet on. It was sunny and we had a pint. York racecourse was beautiful, the sun glinting off the stands and the emerald grass contrasted against the whorls of dark woods to the south.

It was about the fourth race that we heard a horse screaming and snorting from the pre-parade ring. We wandered down to look, but there was nothing wrong with him. He just stamped, and squealed and danced about. Stable lads, trainers and ladies in silly hats jumped out of the way. From the number cloth, we knew that the horse was called Convict, and boy, did he live up to the name. Hooves flashed out at improbable angles. The yelling was enough to wake the dead. Every other horse was on edge, terrified that Convict’s screaming presaged either a large predator hovering somewhere out of sight, or failing that, the end of days.

It was as they tried to tighten his girth that Convict exploded. Snapping and kicking, he dragged the poor sods hanging onto his tack right around the saddling box, and out into the wide space of the ring. ‘I feel sorry for the lad who has to ride that…’ I muttered to my father. ‘Rather him than me,’ came the response.

So manic was the horse that we ignored our usual trek to the bookies, and instead lined up next to the chute, where we knew Convict and his hapless rider would go down to the start. Eventually, he came snorting down. On top was Danny Tudhope, gaunt cheeks hollow beneath dark googles. The horse was trying to back through the rails, and throwing his head from side to side. However much Convict thrashed, Tudhope just swayed with the motion, his long legs out of the irons, his balance supreme. The effect was startling. It was as if he were frozen above the horse, utterly still yet completely imperious. His back was perfectly straight, yet he was totally relaxed, his hands soft on Convict’s neck. You rarely see such raw skill and courage. A half ton of simmering muscle was being expertly controlled by a bare nine stone of Scottish gristle.

Hoodlum and rider made it to the start, and Convict agreed to enter the stalls and race. It was then that the upset occurred. Within a few strides, it was clear that the saddle had slipped underneath Convict’s belly and Tudhope had lost his stirrups. He was riding with reins alone, his legs loose and skimming above the grass. Convict’s antics in the saddling box had cost his rider dear.

We held our breath, every step anticipating that he would slip into the sea of wind-milling horseshoes and be irreparably damaged. Yet Tudhope didn’t give up. Indeed, he still gave Convict every chance, scooting his arse along until he was balanced precariously above the horse’s withers. It was like watching cowboy movie, where the hero in the white Stetson tames the magnificent prairie stallion. Tudhope was flashing up the Knavesmire with no stirrups, one awkward jolt from a crushing fall, yet was still keeping up with the pack.

Alas, it couldn’t last. Convict trailed in about sixth, yet still outpaced two horses who were not being ridden bareback. Tudhope didn’t pull him up, just let him run until he had vented his spleen sufficiently. As the horse put his head down to graze, Tudhope slid off. From half a mile away in the stands, we could see Danny gesture furiously at the horse’s lad. It was understandable: the poor saddling could well have endangered his life.

But my word, the ride he gave that horse. Tudhope took on a savage, intractable brute, and displayed all his horsemanship and delicacy. Balance like Blondin. Courage and quick-thinking in adversity. And sheer bloody-minded cussedness to get the thug across the line. Even though this year was his best year, Danny Tudhope lost the jockey’s championship to Oisin Murphy. His perfect ride on Lord Glitters in the 2019 Queen Anne will be forgotten. The newsmen rarely write about the metronomic timing that delivered that perfect ride, and eventually will stop writing about Danny Tudhope at all.

But I won’t forget that ride, the gaucho rhythm of bareback brilliance, not as long as I live. Like Cuchulain, who tamed his chariot horses by clinging grimly to their manes as they dragged him round the whole of Ireland, Danny Tudhope rode heroic that day on the Knavesmire.

Why bother going to York races? Who could ever want to see talent, speed, power, heroism in a beautiful setting with Theakston’s Old Peculier on tap? Why don’t we all just go to Cannes? It just beats me why we turn up at all.