The Derby.

 The Derby.

It was something of a coincidence that in the week that horse racing lost one of its favourite sons today's Derby by the Epsom downs should be back on the sporting calendar. In a genteel corner of Surrey and around the corner from where the stockbroker belt meets the riverside pub, the conversation in the local boozers will inevitably turn to one Lester Piggott who recently died. The timing could hardly have been any more impeccable. 

For over three years Britain has been denied one of the great social and cultural institutions on the sporting calendar. The yearly June Epsom Derby has been yearning desperately for the working classes, the middle classes and of course the upper classes to mingle harmoniously at the now customary tea time spot of Saturday afternoon. Of course it'll be the most thrilling, intoxicating and fascinating spectacle and the horse racing community will be down on the Epsom course, scribbling furiously on their betting slips, blinking in the early summer sunshine and wondering how on earth they'd coped without the Derby.

An Englishman or woman without a Derby or Grand National to look forward to would have been the equivalent of the BBC without Peter O'Sullevan or ITV missing the trilby hatted John Rickman or Brough Scott. But for those who have been champing at the bit and just relishing this moment, then your patience is about to be handsomely rewarded. This is not perhaps the time for over sentimentality or emotional outbursts but the Derby was the flat race, the definitive horse race that lit up the sporting landscape and of course we've missed it.

Many moons ago now the Derby used to be held on a Wednesday afternoon, the thinking being that a vast majority of the population would take a day off work, hire out a couple of open topped buses or just roll out the champagne and smoked salmon next to an extremely wealthy looking, corporate tent. Here the punters from all corners of the compass would drink, eat, cheer and generally bellow quite vociferously, exercising their vocal chords while downing several bottles of the most expensive wine.

Now. in their infinite wisdom or not as be it the case, Saturday afternoons seem to have been regarded as even more convenient for all those who could quite happily spend the whole weekend in Epsom. But one man will now be missing from the Derby since Lester Piggott sadly passed away a couple of days ago. Some of us will mourn the passing of a man who became so obsessed with horse racing that when the last obituaries and tributes are paid to the great man, we shall remember a master of his craft. 

There are those of us who could never really grasp the finer points of horse racing and couldn't really appreciate those weekly TV visits to Sandown, Newmarket, Market Rasen, York, Uttoxeter in the sport's heydays. You would try to comprehend the simple pleasures of spending a couple of bob in your local bookmakers on what was known as the ITV seven. But then you gazed through the wintry mists on a Saturday afternoon and found heavy breathing horses cantering around paddocks and then trotting calmly towards the starting gate. It looked interesting but it failed to hold your attention.

Still, you could always get excited at the highly prestigious, blue riband race meetings, the ones that sent the pulses racing and had you in raptures if your horse was particularly successful. This year saw the first Grand National at Aintree with a full house of spectators since the coronavirus lockdown, a seemingly petrifying assault course with fences the size of country estates.

 It was the kind of day that horses may either dread or love. For what must seem like an age for our noble steeds and thoroughbreds, they gallop together in close proximity, hooves powering themselves over Beechers Brook and the Chair. And then there ensues the traditional cavalry charge where the National really comes into its own. There is a timeless splendour in its quintessential Britishness. There can be very few horse races like it in any part of the world. But of course you may beg to differ.

Over 50 years ago ago Lester Piggott rode Nijinsky to victory in the Derby among a whole string of triumphs in the Epsom sun. Piggott was renowned for charging his mount from the back and then driving his horses towards the finishing line like somebody who has to complete the Times cryptic crossword in five minutes. Piggott was indeed driven, intensely and fiercely competitive, focussed and concentrated rather like a world famous chess player. He would deliberately starve himself before a big race because sacrifices had to be made if you wanted to remain one of the most legendary jockeys of all time.

But last week Piggott lost his battle against all of those familiar ailments of old age. The face was sadly more haggard looking than ever, the face pinched and the desire to win had gone. And yet how Piggott must have longed to be associated with being part of the whole Epsom occasion. How he would have enjoyed the light hearted banter in the weighing room, the desultory flick through the Racing Post and  studying the form of his fellow jockeys rather like a university student cramming for their Finals.

And so they will head towards the starting gate, horses elegantly groomed, coats shining brilliantly, poised to race off towards the rural idyll that is Epsom. They will line the railings, betting slips flying frantically in the gentle summer breeze and they will hope that it will be their lucrative day. The ladies will dress with that inimitable air of stylishness and grace while the gentlemen may well don the top hat and tails as befits the occasion.  

At the end of the race where the victorious horse is accompanied by its beaming trainer, jockey, and various members of their family, we will then sprint towards our Ladbrokes or Paddy Power with thousands or perhaps millions of paper money in our respective bank accounts. The Derby was never exclusively designed for the rich hoi polloi, the financially well endowed City traders or those with shares in oil or steel. It is for the people, an event with a much more egalitarian feel about it. Now, the local builder or milkman will rub shoulders quite comfortably with those in the know. We will recognise the Derby's rightful place in our sporting hearts. Epsom will always reserve a special memory for Lester Piggott.