There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Not that yours truly would ever be of a mind to do such a thing to the often loathesome yet strangely helpful felines.
Put another way, tell me I can’t do something and not a gut but several will be busted in pursuance of proving doubters and/or knockers wrong.
Someday, somehow, it will be accomplished in relation to getting back farming before one expires from this mortal coil.
It has already been somewhat achieved in terms of racehorse ownership. Thanks to having shares a couple of steeds in the UK under the Owners Group umbrella. But the dream has always been to – at the very least – be involved in the ownership of one here at home.
Yes, to a certain extent it was achieved when acting as an Ad Hoc Racing Manager for my late father and his dear friend, the retired Funeral Director Ollie Cunningham when there were a few horses doing the rounds in Tom Taaffe’s yard.
However, tbe overall lingering ambition is to have one called The Corner House run in my own silks – yellow jacket, black star, black sleeves, green cap, gold star – but most recently, the hunger to get in on the Irish scene was blessedly sated from another direction.
Thanks to a very kindly offered opportunity to roll into the locally based Mulvany’s Bar Syndicate. Which was absolutely jumped at – pun entirely intended!
Now, at this point I must pay tribute to my wonderful, kind, caring, patient, understanding partner Susie. Racehorse ownership isn’t for the faint of heart. There are no guarantees and – as with any sport – the tough days will outnumber the glorious ones. But I couldn’t live with the regret of having had the opportunity (again, it must be said) and passed it up.
Maybe the following is beginner’s luck, but, having signed on the dotted line, as it were, the experience has taken off in a bit of a whirlwind.
No, ROBOT ROCK didn’t win first time out and, I hope you will understand the following lads, I’m sort of glad he didn’t because we’ve all seen (or been) the punter who scores at the first go.
When you start there, the slippery slope awaits. But no, Act I of whatever is to come will stay with me until all that remains of me will occupy an ash bucket!
From joining and being warmly welcomed into the fold one Monday to our fine steed – and he is a right poser – making his debut just seven days later.
There’s always a sense of excitement and adventure about something new, isn’t there? But, before getting into the nuts and bolts of the actual racing end of it, consider that, owing to getting around this big old ball on wheels, there’s a whole new journey of exploration to be undertaken here too.
Roscommon Racecourse was going to be a case of breaking new ground for me. I’d be no stranger to a fair number of the tracks around the country, including, but not limited to – Fairyhouse, Navan, Bellewstown, Punchestown, Curragh, Kilbeggan, Downpatrick and Leopardstown. However, venturing into the land of primrose and blue in a racing capacity was something new.
That said, once it was copped just how close the venue was to the relatively freshly refurbished Dr Hyde Park I knew we’d be safe enough. The Roscommon Co Board deserve the utmost commendation for their efforts in accommodating disabled patrons and, on a weekend when their footballers created a bit of Connacht GAA history for themselves, the racecourse came up trumps for us on Monday evening.
From the time we arrived and were courteously assisted with parking just a stone’s throw away from the parade ring, to the fact that said location itself, the viewing platform in the main stand itself and the dining facilities would put a lot more high profile and grandiose venues to shame under the metrics of disability access.
Indeed, entirely at my own expense I have no problem admitting that, so accessible is the entire venue, that, in following our trainer Tony Martin out of the parade ring after the race, not only did yours truly end up in the stable yard, a certain high profile and vastly successful trainer was lucky they didn’t end up under these wheels!
Still, what’s an occasion without a bit of adventure, eh? So to the meat and drink (not literally) of the event. The horse and the race. The first noticeable thing was, even though a recording of Robot’s last run at Deauville in France last August had been watched and it was clear he was a fair stamp of a horse, seeing our Toranado gelding in the flesh for the first time, you couldn’t but be taken by the imposing, self assured specimen he is.
Yet at the same time, the run on deep sand at Deauville proved that, for such a big animal he also has a deceptively quick turn of foot. When he came home through the field a quite a rattle to finish a closing and good second.
Speaking of size, by the way, I must say that our young rider Joey Harnett rides exceptionally well for a tall lad and, as long as the latter factor doesn’t impinge on his ability to progress in the sport, along with his brother Paddy, he’s a young man to have in the little black notebook going forward. It seems highly unlikely the claim will be at 7 or 10lbs for long. Then again, maybe we shouldn’t be that surprised, they’re not the first talented riders to emerge from Killenaule by any means!
As for Robot himself, naturally, for a first start in nine months, that he was as green as freshly mowed silage wouldn’t have been a shock. Nor, indeed, that he looked a tad clueless when emerging from the stalls. The promise came in the manner he dropped the bridle and galloped home.
One dream has already come true, all the others are still alive. That’ll do Robot, that’ll do.