The Grand National.

 The Grand National.

Tomorrow bookmakers throughout the land will be ready and waiting for those intrepid punters who feel that this year could be the one to land them the princely sum of money for their Grand National choice. It is now a perennial event almost as old as time itself although not quite in the same category. Every springtime, horses of impeccable breeding and character will line up at Aintree race course for that yearly cavalry charge across the invariably good to soft conditions with a lively turn of pace and hooves that pound across the turf almost hypnotically as if they'd been trained to do so from the day they were foals.

Britain loves the Grand National because it reminds them of who they are, their lifelong passion for horse racing and the reason they shell out their hard earned coppers on the world's greatest steeplechase by several country miles. For a brief period of time Aintree will abandon itself to the dramas, the melodramas, men and women in striking silks and permanently cheerful jockeys who make the ultimate sacrifice of near starvation just to line up at the starting tape for this year's Grand National at Aintree.

Aintree will once again be alive with the traditional sights and sounds that rightly elevate Grand National Day to its highest point  in the sporting consciousness. Today is Ladies Day which means feminine elegance and style while the men, trainers and whole generations of horse racing families will be assembled again for this stunning equine spectacle. Tomorrow though will mark that very specific point in the calendar year when the public will suddenly descend on their bookies convinced that this year will be theirs to claim their winnings on this most lucrative of days.

And yet the Grand National has been with us for so long now that it's hard to remember a time when it wasn't there. It began in the 19th century in 1829 and has never been away for as long as any of us can remember. Every year some of the most charismatic horses in the world will trot gingerly towards the starting tape at Aintree, blowing, puffing, neighing, shaking their tails from time to time and then weighing up the odds. They will nod and glance over to the crowd almost respectfully, heads sharply turning at times towards the winning enclosure or so they must hope.

Horse racing is sport at its most thrilling and authentic, sport at its earthy roots, something that leaves its devoted enthusiastic followers gripped and transfixed because, in a vast majority of cases if not all, there is the element of the unexpected, the sense that sport is connecting us to the heroic moments of our lives, a time when we may have defied the odds by achieving something that nobody else had thought possible. For a while the relationship between horse and humanity reaches its peak since this was the day when mutual appreciation becomes patently clear.

Tonight some of the most graceful animals in the world will settle down for the night in their well equipped stables and paddocks with their bags of carrots and hay, a suitable feast for some of the fittest horses in the land before just resting for the night. Privately you believe that they must know that something in the air is special, it's in their body language, their languid demeanour, those beautifully muscled bodies and legs that must have galloped across so many beaches and fields that you feel sure that somebody has already told them that this is their year to win the biggest prize of them all.

History of course will always warm the nostalgic hearts of Grand National aficionados and the unforgettable finishes will stay with us for a lifetime. We remember the 1973 Grand National when a horse called Crisp was so far out in front and destined to win that you'd have required a very good telescope to find the rest of the horses strung out across the field. But that day jockey Richard Pitman invited fate into his life and then discovered that what looked like a convincing victory on Crisp would be tragically snatched away from him at the final fences of the National.

Heading towards the final fences at the Grand National, Crisp was miles ahead of Red Rum, the horse that would become a national treasure in the years following that epic conclusion to the race. Crisp, now gradually slowing down quite alarmingly, simply ran out of steam, almost staggering and stumbling towards the finishing post. Meanwhile, behind Crisp there was Red Rum, a horse so assured and poised that it would only be a matter of time before Red Rum would charge forward before powering past Crisp and winning the Grand National.

Then there was the famous year of 1956 when Devon Loch, one of the finest horses of them all, comfortably negotiated Beechers Brook and the Chair after those gruelling circuits of Aintree race course. And then the race of that year entered its final hundred yards or so from completion and Devon Loch, now perhaps too presumptuous, stretched towards the winners line and then it all went wrong. The horse lost its footing, failed to make up on lost ground and was denied victory. And we all know what happened to rider Dick Francis who would go on to become a best selling and prolific author?

And so we reach the present day. Tomorrow some of the most lyrical names will all converge on this most auspicious day for steeplechase's most noble of horses. Favourite Corach Rambler will be joined by Meeting of the Waters, Mr Incredible, Mahler Mission, Coko Beach, the splendidly titled Chemical Energy, the poetic Noble Yeats and I am Maximus who will probably need no introduction. They will all casually make their way around Aintree as if it were just another day at the office.

Then the flag will go up once again and the Grand National which was once delayed because IRA terrorists had threatened to create havoc, will be back up and running. Some of us will spare a thought for those poor horses who may be risking life and limb. They will demand our sympathy because their courage is unquestioned, their bravery quite astonishing. And then on a late April afternoon, the winner of the Grand National will be acclaimed richly by the punters who backed their mount so faithfully.

The horse will be soaked by several buckets of water to wash off the sweat from their uplifting endeavours. Then they'll be patted and congratulated almost incessantly, trainers faces wreathed in smiles. This is sport at its most dramatic and traditional, sport at its most financially rewarding. It'll be sport sharing its stage with the gambling industry. Of course horse racing will forever be associated with its thriving betting industry but who could possibly deny us just a harmless flutter on just the Grand National. The good people of Liverpool will be cheering from the rafters and throwing their caps and hats into the air should their gamble pay off. This is sport at its best.