In my early life, June, or primarily the first Wednesday of it only meant one thing, The Epsom Derby. It was the day for me, the day that would lay down another chapter in horse racings history books, another future stallion to follow, another owner, trainer and jockey with a dream fullfilled. Well maybe not always another jockey, for it seemed as though the ruthless determination of Lester Piggott most often won out — 9 times in fact, a feat that in all probability will never be matched.

This not least because modern day rules do not allow for the stones L Piggott would unturn to ensure he was mounted on his considered “best horse.”

Tension in the jocks room must have been rife as Derby day got ever closer. No jockey was safe from Piggott. He must have had a direct link to Heaven for his weather forecasts, switching mounts as quickly as a downpour of rain arrived and again when a drying wind followed.

The nightly “9 o’clock news” on TV would chronicle the unfolding saga through the last week. Jockeys so happy to have secured a top horse only to awake the next morning to find the themselves demoted by Piggott. I am certain I recall correctly him even changing horses at breakfast time on race day on one occasion. He was the master, literally the daddy of Epsom. He stirred such controversy and sparked racing conversations in so many walks of life. Sometimes I wished him to be right, others I willed him to have got it wrong. Oh the unfairness of it all — my young mind struggled to cope !!

On that first Wednesday of June the only important ingredient that mattered in my school bag was my pocket radio equipped with brand new batteries. It didn’t matter what lesson or which teacher, I would be listening to the race. Sat at the back of class hunched over my desk, my head hidden in my bag, my bets written on my schoolbook lest I forget who I had selected to win and be placed. That list importantly handed to my father before school that morning.

I remember being lifted to a standing position during the closing stages of the race by a rather strict teacher who had heard my excited squeaks slip unbidden from my lips as the race was reaching its climax. Frogmarched to the headmaster’s office by my ear, before I even knew who had won. Those were the days!

When school no longer interfered, I at last got to actually go to Epsom on the big day. The excitement lives in my heart still now. The crowds, the gypsy women with offers of “lucky heather my lovely”, the huge fairground on the hill, picnics. And I backed the winner. It was ridden by Lester Piggott..... naturally.

Maybe my most memorable Derby of all was strangely as a mother. Spin forward to 2014. James Doyle’s first ever Derby ride. And it was for His Highness Shaikh Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice-President and Prime Minister of the UAE and Ruler of Dubai, before he was contracted to Godolphin. Yes it was an outsider but, hey, he had a ride. We had a great morning, James, his girlfriend and myself preparing for the occasion. James might not have had top hat and tails on but Sami and I were making up for that. Special outfits chosen, hair coiffed, hats fixed in place. Resplendent we looked. The “Doyler” wasn’t too shabby either.

Once at Epsom, for me it became another normal race day... I’d long since passed that point where watching my son or daughter ride made me nervous. Before the Derby, I got a great position at the paddock to study the runners closely. As I stood there, quietly in my own piece of personal space, a sudden wave of sickness threatened to overcome me. The sound in my ears thundered, I broke into a cold clammy sweat and turned deathly pale, wobbling on legs not able to hold me upright. I remain everlastingly grateful to the people who spotted my situation and guided me to a place I could sit before I collapsed completely. Apparently I was muttering “my son’s riding in the Derby”. The horse ran rubbish and I felt silly but that’s how big a deal it was for me — even though I hadn’t considered it my unconscious mind obviously had. Funny things... our minds!!

 

— The author is a former trainer from the UK and the mother of leading international jockeys James and Sophie Doyle.