Aintree People's Race
Hunting mad Simon Latchford in training for the People’s Race at Aintree on Grand National Day
Simon Latchford is a trainee solicitor with Bridge McFarland Solicitors in Grimsby. He began hunting with the Cambridgeshire Harriers under the mastership of Hugh and Betty Gingel, moving on to the Brocklesby Hunt at the tender age of seven. He lives on a farm in the Brocklesby Country with his very soon to be wife Kate, 3 dogs, 2 horses - and too many cats! He's currently training for a place in the John Smith's People's Race leaving Kate a racing widow.
Simon has been selected down to the final 16: only 10 of which will be given the opportunity to ride in the (televised) People’s Race at Aintree on Grand National Day 2009. Here he explains the training he has gone through, and if he makes it to the final 10, has kindly agreed to write a weekly diary for us on the run up to the big race.
Simon Latchford
Home from work; put horses to bed; curled up on the sofa with the dogs reading Horse and Hound - when I spotted a small article saying John Smiths were to hold the Aintree Peoples Race again and were looking for jockeys to participate. It was only nine furlongs and a Flat race at that.
“Any idiot can gallop for nine furlongs”: I called to Kate (my better other half): “and given that I gallop for miles while hunting - nine furlongs should be easy!” I filled in the application form, and sent it into cyber space.
Then one day just before Christmas the call came out of the blue. I had been selected! There had been over 3,000 people enter and I was down to the final 32. 16 would be going to Newmarket, and 16 to Doncaster. Would I mind spending 2 days at Doncaster Racing College in January for another selection? We will send you the details.
“What weight did you put you were?” asked Kate. And there was the first mistake because by the time I had finished having a very good Christmas in London - I was just nudging over 12st-7lbs. It was then I sat down and read the papers properly. Weight must not exceed 11st-7lbs.
Then the diets began. Following an evening of trawling the internet I settled on a diet that only allowed you to eat raw food - which I thought was great until I found out that smoked salmon didn’t count. I became obsessed about weighing myself: twice a day without fail, and writing it on the calendar.
I also took up running. I have been hunting all my life - I have ridden all my life, and I considered myself fit (ish). The first run was hell and I only made it ¼ of mile down the road. But I carried on and walked the full distance I had set myself. The aim was to be able to run there and back without stopping: slowly the weight started to drop off and every night I was running just that little bit further.
The first selection stage arrived and I was not very confident. We had been told there would be a riding assessment on the Thursday, and some people may be asked to leave then and not progress to the Friday. We were also told to expect a fitness test and a weigh-in in the morning, and lots of cameras. On reading this, I assured Kate I would home Thursday evening!
On the day, the cameras didn’t show up. Neither did the fitness instructor? So the day was quickly rearranged. We were shown how to tack up (basically the same as for hunting but a much smaller saddle and more pads) and sent to the indoor school to be assessed.
Now when it comes to normal hunting riding I know I’m not the best. I tend to ride - and jump - with one hand (frequently a taxi arrives when I land), and I never have my toes up and my heels down.
I had never ridden racing style before. So, here I was trotting round trying to work out how to look like I knew something about what was going on. I was sneaking glances at the others to see if I was good or bad. I didn’t have a clue about how I should look so I tried to ride like someone else on the basis that if I rode normally they would kick me out pretty quickly.
The riding came to an end, and lunch arrived. I knew I was pretty close to the weight. That morning (according to my scales) I was one pound under 11st-7lb. So I decided not to eat lunch! I was starving. Everywhere I looked there were prawns and scones and other such lovely foods, but I was determined.
After lunch we were measured for new riding gearing. Hats, body protectors ect. If we made it through to the next stage all shiny new stuff would be waiting for us when we got back to Doncaster. We were then marched off for the fitness test: we had been told it was to be the bleep test, and that we must reach level seven to pass.
I quickly rang Kate and asked how I would know that I reached level seven? “You won’t - just keep going till you pass out:” was the only advice I could get. It turned out that the tape for this test actually told you which level you were on. Thank god. By the time I got to level 7 I was on the point of collapsing. There were two other guys who kept going, but I figured I had done enough.
At last the weigh-in had arrived. When I stood on the scales I was suddenly overcome with the fear that my scales were in fact faulty and I would be massively over weight. 11st-5lbs - I had lost 16 pounds in 14 days.
The instructors retired to consider. After an agonising wait they called two guys through. Minutes later they reappeared and said they had been kicked out and were heading home. Then my name was called, and I think my heart stopped beating. I went into a room with another guy called Robin. We sat. We were told that the instructors thought we had spent too much time on our mobiles during the day, and they didn’t like it. It would have to stop if we wanted to progress. They also had concerns about our weight. We both apologised and I asked what weight they wanted us at. Could I make 10st 7 they asked? Yes of course I replied (hoping I sounded more convinced than I felt).
And with that we were through to the next day. We all went back to our hotel and I eat real food for the first time in two weeks. There were two guys and eight girls left. We swapped life stories until bed time. I was in pain, over full, and I didn’t sleep a wink. Tomorrow, two more would be getting kicked out.
Up at 6am, I went to Asda for a combination of painkillers in the hope that I would make it through the day. I didn’t eat much as I was not convinced they wouldn’t weigh us again, just to be annoying.
The second day was even more pressurising with the added bonus that the Daily Mirror had sent a reporter and a photographer. We spent the whole day riding the horses, the simulator, and having a camera shoved in our faces. So thank you David and Chris for all those pictures you take when we are out hunting - because at least I was somewhat used to it. Once I was sure there was not going to be another weigh in, I devoured lunch like a famine victim.
Simon on the Simulator
Second cut had arrived, and the instructors retired. The wait was agonising. We sat, and we waited. The two other guys were called, and returned with the news they were out. They grabbed their gear and left. Then we were told that the remaining10 would be going through to the next stage, but next week two more would be sent home.
The running continued, as did the diet. There was only a week between selections and I was totally focused on being as light and as fit as I could be. The next Thursday we arrived to find that each of us had a large bag waiting full of goodies: hats, jodhpurs, goggles, gloves and water proofs.
We tacked up and rode out on the gallops again. The new riding position was hell on the legs, despite being on as many painkillers as I dared take. Suddenly even my mother’s hunting saddle seemed comfy.
My horse decided to bolt with me and it took every ounce of strength I had to hold him. By the time we had been round the gallop twice I was ready to just give up and fall off. The pain of hitting the ground would be a welcome relief if it would stop the pain in my arms and legs.
Next another fitness assessment. Sit-ups, press-ups, and other torture methods were employed. We were weighed again and I had lost more weight. Day one was over but everyone was very much aware that we were still on selection, and two of us would not be coming back.
Day two felt like we had been doing it for years. We listened to the instructors and played on the simulators. No matter how good you feel the simulators will make you ache. We tacked up and went out on the gallops again. I thanked every God I could think of that I wasn’t riding the same horse as yesterday.
This time we went up the straight gallop. When I got to the top I had blood all down my breeches. I was a little confused until I realised that some how I had ripped half the nail off my little finger. It was icy cold and I wasn’t wearing gloves. I genuinely could not feel it. Every time I looked down there was more blood on me but I had bigger things to worry about. This was still a selection. The pattern continued. I rode and hurt and tried to ignore the pain in arms and legs (still couldn’t feel my finger).
We retired to the Rec room and waited for the result. Two of us were not coming back. Eventually Malc (chief instructor) returned. Paul (another instructor) was not happy and we heard him tell Malc he did not agree, but that Malc was the boss.
Malc gave us a choice. Either we could go into the next room and he would tell us individually if we were in or out or he would just read out the two names of those going home. We all agreed to the latter. Malc read out the two names. We all stared at each other. I was through! It was taking time to sink in. I was through. I felt bad for the two girls who were leaving - but I was through. In the next stage, I would be riding for a trainer...
Aintree would sort out the trainers we were told. But please remember that if the trainers said we weren’t any good we would get kicked out. Selection does not stop here. We went home and I was in a daze. Then the awful truth dawned on me. I was still on the diet!
Aintree put me in touch with trainer James Given in Lincoln. I was told to ring him and sort it out. James didn’t sound overly enthusiastic by the whole thing. “Can you actually ride?” he asked. I assured him I could but he didn’t sound convinced.
I went down on a Saturday to see James and was given some tack and pointed in the direction of a horse. I got the impression I was expected to get on with it. I tacked up and hacked out to the gallops, but I was in for quite a shock. The gallops were straight. That was not the end of the world, as I had been up straight gallops at Doncaster. It was the horse that was different. The Doncaster horses were all oldish (10-13yros) and were the racing equivalent of riding school ponies. Suddenly I was flying up the gallops on a Ferrari!
James didn’t seem overly impressed with my debut but wanted to know when I was going to start. I explained I was supposed to be skiing on Friday for six days but that I had decided not to go so I could ride. And could I come back Friday, and the six days the next week?
Kate had decided that if I was stupid enough to want to give up a skiing holiday, that was up to me. She left on time (apparently because I wasn’t involved). That’s when the snow started. We didn’t get any at home but every day I rang James and every day was the same story. Snow, ice and more snow. My week of riding was totally ruined. I ending up going to work. Apparently Kate was having a great time skiing, while I was mucking out our hunters.
Eventually the snow stopped and I finally managed to get to the yard. The first day was pretty hard going. I had to get up at 5am to get everything sorted out and arrive on time. I was expected to muck out (not a problem) but finding everything and keeping up was a struggle. The lads were really nice and helped me tack up as my mucking out was so slow.
Gradually I got quicker at the mucking out. I learnt the horse’s names. Although I still struggle to spot who is who as they come off the walker. Hunting was but a distant memory to me now. I rode every morning for 4 days and then had to return to Doncaster for three more days of training.
By now we were old hats at the Doncaster thing. We knew the place, the people and the horses. But it was still hard work. We had to get on the scales in full kit and I was only 11st so I spent a few minutes thanking the diet Gods.
Riding, and then the simulators was the order for the day. The pain killers came back out. Mick Fitzgerald was coming up on the Sunday to meet us and watch us ride so some of us ran out to get a copy of his book for him to sign. We were taught bunching up and it was starting to feel like race riding. It was really scary to have that many horses so close and I just stared at the horse in front hoping I didn’t fall off. I had no idea who was beside or behind me.
Mick arrived on the Sunday and we rode again. This time the bunch was not as scary and we were quite tight. Not quite knocking irons but nearly. I managed to look to the sides and behind and was very aware of what was going on, and who was where. Mick seemed impressed and gave us a lesson on the simulators, and we got him to sign our books.
So it was back to James Given. I was not sure if my riding had improved but my mucking out was defiantly getting better. I could keep pace with the others now. I was now riding three days during the week, and on Saturdays.
One Saturday I rode two lots, and ran to the meet to ride mother’s horse. Kate had given me strict orders that I was not to jump anything in case I fell off. Feel free to try and kill myself AFTER the race, she told me. The day was good and we covered some serious ground. Not a jump in sight.
Towards the end, there was only four or five of us left as we came down a hill. There was a jump at the bottom, but I decide I wouldn’t do it: Kate’s words ringing in my ears. Then I saw my brother go over it. Bugger, now I would HAVE to do it. Oh well I thought, time to find out if this horse can jump. I kicked on and had one of those moments when you suddenly realise the bloody horse underneath you has taken off two strides too early. He hit the top rail and threw me out of the saddle.
As we landed I was clinging on for dear life. I was up his neck and off to the left with my right hand clinging to the breast plate and my right spur buried in the back of the saddle. The horse thought this was great, and promptly set off at a flat out gallop across the field. I looked down at the ground whizzing past and thought that this would be it. I was going to hit the deck, and I was trying to work how I could do it without hurting myself. Yet suddenly I was back in the saddle: I still don’t know quite how it happened, but I was there.
Another week of riding out at James Given’s followed. My legs were just balls of pain. I struggled to walk and had to have two seriously painful sessions with the masseuse who puts me back together. The next Saturday was a mile stone in that I rode four lots, and for the first time I didn’t hurt too much. I could have ridden more.
My life now is an endless cycle of 5am starts, horses, horses, more horses and more 5am starts. And I’m loving it. The lads in the yard have even suggested I should quit my current job (trainee solicitor) and work for James full time. While that does seem somewhat idyllic, I’m not sure it would pay for my current equine money pit at home nursing a damaged tendon, following a slight disagreement with a hunt jump.
Simon the countryman
John Smiths and Aintree organised a training day at Warwick racecourse. We were shown the scales (I weighed 10st 12 with clothes) and the changing rooms, and instructed in the fine art of coping with the valets. I loved it. We met the starter, walked the course and met the Newmarket lot. Lunch was great. Off the diet for the day.
But it seemed a bit of a tease. There were 16 people being told when you ride at Aintree you need to do this or that, and only 10 of us would get that chance. I’m very aware of this, and very aware I may be one of the six who don’t get to ride.
Final selection is in two weeks, and I’m planning on riding, running and dieting until then. Still trying to work out how to cope with two weeks of feeling nervous. If anyone has any tips please let me know?
Simon Latchford