Life on the Racing Rollercoaster

By Antony Surace

With a mother who adored anything on four legs and a father who would punt on the proverbial two flies up a wall, the author was destined (or doomed?) to be a horse racing tragic from the moment he was born. Having watched his first Melbourne Cup as a pre - schooler and attending his first race meeting in his early teens, racing became an obsession at a young age, so it was only natural that h e would ultimately progress to the biggest commitment of all, owning a share in a racehorse. From that point on, his life was never going to be the same. There are many great books that chronicle the careers of horse racing legends, both of the equine and human variety, but this is not one of them. Instead, Life on the Racing Rollercoaster is the often humorous, sometimes emotional, and always entertaining tale of a group of small time owners, as they ride the peaks and troughs of the thoroughbred racing ga me. This is their story, of racing triumph and heartbreak, told through the eyes of a racing fanatic, who probably (definitely!) takes it all way too seriously. Whether you are a prospective racehorse owner who is wondering what you' re getting yourself int o, an existing participant who has been there and done that, a trainer who ponders the baffling thought processes of those who pay the bills, or just a lover of sport who' s fond of a good yarn, Life on the Racing Rollercoaster should provide an amusing and honest insight into the highs and lows of the 'Sport of Kings'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781742844718

Antony Surace

ANTONY SURACE is a lover of all sports, with a particular fondness for the 'Sport of Kings'. Having had his early ambitions of being a jockey thwarted by a rugby prop's build and a complete lack of riding ability, he did the next best thing and bought his first share in a race horse. From that moment on, his racing obsession has grown exponentially, aided and abetted by an eminently patient horse trainer, some like-minded cohorts, and an immensely tolerant wife. Having accumulated a long list of humorous racing tales during a decade of horse racing ownership, but then running out of people to share them with, Antony was encouraged by friends and family to fulfill a long held ambition of writing this, his first book. Antony lives in Sydney's north shore region and works in the financial services industry. The former ensures that he is no further away than a forty five minute drive from any of Sydney's main race tracks, while the latter funds his very costly obsession. In his spare time, he stalks his horse trainer and spends as much time as humanly possible, watching, reading and writing about horse racing.

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Prologue

It’s the Sunday morning after the 2011 Doncaster Mile, and I have finally turned my attention to penning the book that I’ve had in mind since the early years of being a racehorse owner.

It wasn’t meant to be like this—writing in the aftermath of a sixteenth placing which, frankly, was heart-wrenching to watch.

No, I always intended to write my first paragraphs amidst the euphoria of a glorious Group One win. The book, which I had drafted so many times in my head, was always meant to have an outrageously happy ending. The final image would show me holding a piece of silverware aloft, enveloped by the rapturous celebrations of beloved friends and family.

However, upon reflection, I have begun to accept that the context I now find myself in is more often reflective of the true nature of being a devotee of the Sport of Kings. Despite its regal title, one spends more time feeling like a pauper than a monarch because racing is as much about the lows as it is the highs. At times, if I’m to be truthful, it can feel like it is more about the lows.

As I type this, I know that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of owners who set off yesterday morning with the same sense of boundless optimism, but have wound up like me, the morning after the big day, feeling the dreadful effects of a night before spent drowning sorrows, lamenting poor luck, analysing what went wrong, and pondering what might have been.

However, the day didn’t end like that for everyone. There is a small minority of lucky owners who may be feeling similarly tired and emotional this morning, maybe even a tad delicate, but theirs is the hangover of celebration. They are the winners. They are the elite group that have experienced the ecstasy that we all crave, the euphoria that we all pursue.

Such is the nature of this pastime. It’s a zero sum game, total ecstasy or total despair, and rarely anything in between. It is a range of feelings that can only be understood by those who have spent years of sinking their economic and emotional capital into their passion.

From the adrenalin rush of seeing your charge carry your colours to victory, to the stomach churning sight of your pride and joy bested with a furlong still to run. Some have only ever endured the latter without enjoying the former. It is a range of emotions that is unique to this sport, and often the full scope of highs and lows can be felt in a matter of weeks, days, or even hours.

Thankfully, for this group of owners, the highs and lows have been punctuated by much humour, more often than not of the gallows type, many laughs, lots of hugs, tears of happiness, moments of despair but, most importantly, plenty of dreaming.

This is the roller coaster ride that is racehorse ownership.

* * * *

CHAPTER 1

The Genesis of a Racing Tragic

I have often commented that I had no say in becoming the horse racing tragic that I am. I was blessed, or cursed (depending on one’s perspective), with the passion from birth.

With a mother who was besotted by anything on four legs-especially horses- to a father who would punt on the proverbial two flies up a wall, I was bred for this from day one.

My earliest memories are of Mum regaling us with impossibly idyllic stories from her childhood in the South of Wales; tales of her and her friends galloping their horses along the endless stretches of beaches that make up the beautiful Gower coastline.

She would bring this passion for horses with her to Australia and, once her and Dad had reached a level of prosperity to allow them to do so, she ensured that my sister and I were always surrounded by a vast menagerie, which always included at least one horse in the paddock.

Both Mum and my older sister, Nicki, were talented riders, but while I shared Mum’s love for the animals themselves, nature neglected me when it came to handing out qualities such as balance and poise, both of which are essential elements of the equestrian art.

It was no doubt a great disappointment to my mother that her son could barely sit astride a horse, let alone coax it into a trot or canter. Despite her best efforts, which included enrolling me in numerous riding classes and pony club camps over our school holidays, I was a dismal failure in the saddle.

* * * *

I have many vivid memories of my misadventures as a horseman…far too many, in fact.

One of my more humiliating instances occurred when my own mother, who was leading a group trail ride, was obliged to banish me when I couldn’t get my mount’s head out of the surrounding shrubbery. Having held up the class one too many times, I was promptly ordered back to the stables which, amusingly enough, was the one command that the recalcitrant nag understood.

Worse than that humiliating occurrence, though, was my one and only fall from a horse. When I say my one and only fall, it’s not because I learned from the experience and returned a more robust rider. No! Far from it, actually. It’s because I’ve not had the courage to sit astride a horse since.

Being the remedial student, I was obliged to saddle up the pony that was usually reserved for the toddlers—and dare I say it—the special needs children.

I can’t remember the little mare’s name precisely, although I do recall it was something reflective of her placid nature, like Daffodil or Snow Flake. She was all of about fourteen hands, aged in her mid-twenties, and so gentle that you could direct her with a gentle tap and a whisper. It would be fair to say that rocking horses have been known to give more cheek than this saintly old dear.

However, even she was too demanding for my base skills and, having somehow given a false command, I found myself heading directly towards a low-hanging limb of a tree.

It is often said by those involved in accidents that the whole incident plays out in slow motion. That was very much the case in this instance, the difference being that it really did happen in slow motion.

The poor old pony was trudging at a snail’s pace as I made contact with the branch, which, due more to poor balance than momentum, swept me back over her rump and onto the ground.

If that were not humiliating enough, I then suffered the indignity of being dragged around the ring, my foot stuck firmly in the stirrup, while she casually trudged towards the trough for a drink.

The riding school teacher eventually came to my aid, having recovered from her convulsive bouts of laughter. She had seen many funny things in her time but, apparently, nothing quite as hilarious as the sight of a chubby pre-teen being dragged, sobbing, behind this placid pony, whom, all the while, was looking around to see what all the commotion was about.

Needless to say, expulsion from riding school followed soon after, and my mother’s shame was complete.

Thankfully, my lack of riding skills never curbed my love for the animals and, while I never again put my foot in a stirrup, I remained very proficient when dealing with horses on ground level.

I grew up rugging, feeding, grooming, and saddling horses, and even the friskiest thoroughbred could not intimidate me, as long as my feet didn’t leave the ground.

* * * *

Meanwhile, the gambling aspect of my passion was formulating, albeit more subtly.

There was an instinct deeply planted in my DNA well before my first visit to a TAB. I recall being obsessed with a racing game that a classmate had brought for Show and Tell in kindergarten. It was a particularly unsophisticated toy which was comprised of tiny plastic horses randomly propelled by a clockwork mechanism along a plastic base. There was no skill involved and no real objective to the game, but as primitive as it was, I couldn’t get enough of it and had to be ordered by a somewhat perplexed teacher to return it to its distressed owner.

Similarly, I could not be dragged away from the Kentucky Derby sideshow game at Luna Park, where wooden horses on a podium were driven by water pistols hitting a target. The rest of the gang would be bursting to get their thrills on the rollercoaster or ghost train, but I would aim and shoot the pistol at the little target until all my ride tokens were exhausted.

I couldn’t get enough of anything related to horse racing, and when the real thing came along in the form of the first Tuesday in November, I became the self-appointed expert at the drawing of the class sweep, giving a brief synopsis of each runner’s chances as its name was pulled from the hat.

My earliest memory of the great race is merely as an observer, struggling to see Van Der Hum plough through the mud in 1976, barely discernible on the tiny black and white TV in our year three class room.

However, by the following year, I was a far more active participant. There I was, aged seven, extolling the virtues of Reckless to my bewildered class mates and mildly concerned teacher. The history books show that Tommy Woodcock’s little battler was run down in the shadows of the post by Gold and Black—which proved to be a disturbingly accurate portent of the tale of woe which would be my Melbourne Cup tipping record for the subsequent three and a half decades.

* * * *

It was only a matter of time before this inert passion sought an overt outlet. It began innocently enough with regular trips to the TAB on Saturday afternoons with Dad, who would skip away between sets of his A-grade tennis matches to place his daily double and trifectas. I would be allowed to pick a number to be incorporated into his selections, and then we would sit in the car and listen intently to the call on the radio while we slurped on milkshakes acquired from the quintessential suburban milk bar adjacent to the TAB.

As much as I cherished these excursions and enjoyed cheering on Dad’s picks, in was inevitable that the more I learnt about the game, the more I yearned to place my own bets. After years of nagging, Dad finally succumbed and allowed me to have my first wager in the winter of 1984, just before my fourteenth birthday.

It says a lot about my priorities in life that I can remember my first bet as if I placed it yesterday. The horse was a brown entire called Windwill Lad, the bet was two dollars a win and three dollars a place, and the immediate result was a collect that put more money in my pocket than I had seen since my First Holy Communion.

Sadly, it is arguable as to which of those two events was the biggest spiritual milestone in my life. Indeed, the longer term effect of this small wager was to be profound, and had Dad realised it at the time, that bet may never have been placed.

As of that moment, my fate was sealed. It was nothing short of an epiphany. I had found my destiny.

* * * *

From that time on, I began hoarding my lunch money, doubling my paid chores, and spending inordinate hours poring over any piece of racing information that I could get my hands on. I subscribed to Racetrack and Practical Punting, and while all my friends had their walls adorned with surfers, girls, and rock stars, mine was papered with magazine lift outs of Kingston Town, Red Anchor, and Gunsynd.

Fortunately, as fanatical I was, I was street smart enough to keep the latter fact to myself, realising the social consequences of such unconventional behaviour.

Many years later, I learned to my amusement, that one of my syndicate cohorts had a similarly uncool approach to his bedroom decor. Upon hearing this admission, our respective wives greeted the news with the disdained look of head cheerleaders who had just been caught dating the class geeks, thus belatedly confirming that my teenage social instincts had been entirely on the mark.

Even so, I drove at least one childhood friend to distraction with my equine obsession during this period, that being a school mate, whose mother hailed from a family steeped in racing and breeding tradition. In view of my lack of such a heritage, I lived vicariously through his, making it my business to follow every runner in his family colours. When his namesake won her first race, I appeared to be far more excited than he was, no doubt testing his patience with my constant requests to see the race video.

Happily, my friend’s parents are still in the industry and, to this day, they keep one eye on my racing fortunes, and I on theirs, each sending good luck and congratulations messages whenever the other has a runner.

* * * *

Thankfully, Dad managed to rein in my enthusiasm and maintained a modicum of normalcy in my adolescent years, vetoing my plans to take an early retirement from school rugby, which most inconveniently clashed with my Saturday afternoons on the punt.

He also ensured that school work did not play second fiddle to studying the form, if for no other reason than he was able to convince me that I would need a good job to support my passion. Trips to midweek meetings on school days were also strictly forbidden, and I was never naughty (or brave) enough to test his resolve on that point.

Once the footy season was over, the next step was to convince Dad to take me to the track, and sensing that he would only be delaying the inevitable, he succumbed to the pressure without too much resistance.

My first trip to the races was at Rosehill, in February 1985. While I was yet to turn fifteen, these were the days prior to strict regulation and political correctness, and it was nothing to enter the track as a minor, enjoying free admittance for children, and then placing bets on the tote as an adult.

My betting system was simple: pick something that was each way but single figure odds and, whenever possible, make sure it was ridden by Leonard Ross ‘Mick’ Dittman. Given that The Enforcer was in the prime of his career and could persuade a mop to stick its neck out on the post, it was a very effective methodology.

Dittman filled his boots that day and to Dad’s chagrin, so did I. Whilst I pondered the ease of it all, Dad must have been wondering what the hell he had unleashed.

* * * *

If I was hooked after Windwill Lad, I was now reeled in, netted, gutted, and fried. Dad assured an increasingly concerned Mum that the only thing to do was to take me back the following week and allow the inevitable loss to teach me a thing or two about the fickleness of the punt.

Big mistake! While the previous week supplied plenty of thrills of the gambling type, the following trip provided a whole new dimension. It was Apollo Stakes Day at Randwick, and the programme was chock full of top quality horses returning for the autumn, and none were better than the favourite of the feature race, Red Anchor.

If the previous week satiated my passion for punting, this week was about the emotion and glory of watching a champion. The big chestnut strode away to win that day, and with him went any hope of me being healed of the affliction.

That’s not to say that I didn’t have a few collects on the day. In fact, it was an even better result than the previous week, including a win which remains one of my fondest on a racetrack, as much for the quantum of the collect as for the memorable circumstances.

We arrived at the course just in time to grab the 9/2 on offer for a horse that Dad had been following, a chestnut gelding named Essential. Buoyed by Dad’s confidence, I plonked five dollars each way on it, my biggest ever bet at that stage and probably representative of one third of my entire net worth at the time.

I have often commented that if I had the same ability to remember work related details as I did in recalling racing trivia, I would have made CEO years ago. So it is, that I can still see Mick Dittman, wearing yellow silks with blue and white armbands and blue cap, driving our conveyance home in a head bobbing finish, hitting the line in unison with a bay horse called Tea Biscuit, his jockey adorned in apricot and green.

A lip split the two runners on the post, and in the days before digital technology, it took several minutes for the judges to separate them on the developed print.

As we awaited the result, a wily old punter who had backed the other horse and who’d had a very good view of the finish, offered to swap tickets with me. It was an offer I almost took up when I saw the considerably larger wager on his betting slip, but thankfully Dad was on hand to save me from my own naivety and, moments later, Essential’s number was semaphored. We were soon queuing at the bookies stand to collect, but not before Dad shared some choice words with the would-be con man who had attempted to exploit an innocent minor.

The whole day continued in the same vein, and the paternal objective of teaching me a lesson had categorically backfired. By the time I left the track, I was even more obsessed than before.

Although it would be several months before I would be allowed back on the course, betting became a staple of my life, albeit never in large amounts. It was always two dollars here and three bucks there, and Dad kept a very close eye on my outlays and winnings, teaching me to walk away when my initial bank was lost and pocketing a profit when I was in front.

These are lessons that I still adhere to today and, interestingly enough, although my means have improved significantly, my betting habits remain relatively conservative.

This point was reinforced recently when, at a post-race syndicate dinner, we went around the table to confess our all-time biggest bets. Remarkably, in a group of people whose punting experience ranged from lifelong racing devotees to recent converts, including a couple of members of Gen Y, my biggest punt paled in comparison.

* * * *

By the age of fifteen, I was convinced that my future would somehow revolve around racing, and my thoughts turned to vocations that would facilitate that passion.

I had flirtations with bookmaking, including running a book on the 1985 Melbourne Cup. My best friend and I made a small fortune, albeit primarily in coins, offering triple-your-money for the field and laying off the bigger bets at far superior odds on the tote. When a friendly teacher learned of our little scam, he was conflicted between wanting to report us to the Principal or handing us a young entrepreneur’s award. Fortunately, being a punter himself, he settled for warning us off the playground ring for life.

Despite the early success carrying a bag, bookmaking looked far too volatile for an inherently risk-averse person like myself, and given my poor horsemanship and the fact that I was rugby prop already pushing fourteen stone, a career as a jockey was out of the question. I had neither the toughness nor the aptitude to be a trainer, and strapping would not earn me the type of income which would allow me to live in the comfort to which I had become accustomed.

That left me with only one realistic option: Ownership. It was the natural next step, and it is one that I would take much sooner than expected.

* * * *

CHAPTER 2

The First Toe in the Water

Although not yet hitting sweet sixteen, my parents had accepted that racing was more than just a passing fad in my life and, rather than trying to dissuade me from the pursuit, they began to tolerate it, if not actively encourage it.

Mum would kindly feed my habit by picking up my pre-ordered racing magazines from the local newsagent, and Dad would allow me to accompany him every Saturday afternoon to the local TAB, where I would faithfully place my bets with money earned from mowing lawns and washing cars.

Thankfully, there was no shortage of lawns to mow on our five acre rural property, and for as long as racing remained my raison d’être, the gardens would be kept in pristine condition and the cars immaculately clean.

It also helped that I had befriended the local TAB proprietor and we no longer had to keep up the charade of Dad taking my tickets to the window, albeit he was ever present to ensure that I wasn’t getting overly ambitious.

Of course, there is no chance of that happening in these more politically correct times. Nowadays, the sight of a fifteen year old wandering into a TAB and placing bets would more than likely prompt a posse of outraged citizens to hand Dad over to the police, or DOCS, or both. Thankfully, those were simpler times and a small bet under the supervision of your father was unlikely to raise many eyebrows, as long as you were mindful of not wearing your school uniform when betting on weekday meetings.

* * * *

It was around this time that I started to take notice of the advertisements for horse syndications in the racing press. I was still only a teenager, but it nonetheless seemed a natural progression. After all, both Nicki and Mum had hacks out in the back paddock, and I wasn’t even asking for a whole horse.

As Christmas approached, I began leaving the magazines around the house, strategically opened at the pages showing an ad for one particular group, syndicating two colts. One was by Turf Ruler, the other by Yallah Native. Not wanting to appear greedy, I settled on one, the Turf Ruler colt, on the basis that his Dam was by the champion two year old, Baguette, and therefore was far more likely to provide me with the Slipper winner that I so desired.

That would prove to be a very costly choice.

Come Christmas Day, I leapt from bed more in hope than expectation, because in my heart of hearts, I knew how big a call it would be to buy your teenage son his first share in a racehorse. In retrospect, it was probably wrong on so many levels, but Mum and Dad didn’t let me down, no doubt realising that anything else would have been a disappointment. After all, I was a pretty good kid and there were far worse things that your son could be doing at that age.

So here I was, probably the only fifteen year old on Christmas Day, 1985, unwrapping a parcel to find a certificate of ownership (albeit in Dad’s name) and a photo of a two year old bay gelding.

Looking back, it makes me chuckle, albeit with a tinge of embarrassment, to think that I had my first racehorse before I had my first kiss.

* * * *

If I’d been obsessive prior to this, then there is probably not a word strong enough in the English language to describe the zeal with which I embraced ownership of the newly named Precocious Heir.

Girls, who needed them? I was going to lead in the Slipper winner! Alas, my long suffering wife may well argue that this sense of priority has hardly abated.

I began living for the monthly progress reports on Precocious Heir, although I rarely lasted this long and began terrorising the receptionist at the syndicator’s office with weekly calls.

Although blissfully unaware of it at the time, these were the early signs of a fanaticism that a certain Kembla Grange based trainer would come to know very well in later years.

Once Precocious Heir was put in work, I insisted on regular Sunday morning visits to Bobby Thomsen’s Randwick stables and I counted down the days to his first trial.

Of course, up to this point, I was completely ignorant of the pitfalls that awaited the owner of a thoroughbred racehorse, but it was not long before I received a series of harsh lessons.

First, there was the inevitable shin soreness, a mere week before his trial. Of course, I now recognise this as a virtual rite of passage for a juvenile, but back then it was as if my world had ended and the prescribed eight week spell may as well have been eight years.

The eight weeks eventually elapsed, but things only went from bad to worse. Three weeks into his next preparation came the news of a bowed tendon. It was less than six months into our first foray into ownership and it was already over. Worst of all, Mum and Dad had done their money cold.

* * * *

However, all was not lost. The syndicators offered us a free transfer to another horse, and we were soon part owners of a non-descript bay entire by the name of Double Magnum.

It wasn’t quite the same, but at least he made the racetrack, and Dad and I jumped in the car excitedly one Saturday afternoon, in the spring of 1986, and headed south to Kembla Grange to see our new conveyance debut in a 1200 metre maiden.

I had scarcely heard of the provincial track at the time, and I certainly had no inkling that it would become such an integral part of my life in future decades.

Needless to say, Double Magnum, which was a stuck syndication as we would say in the banking industry, failed to set the world alight on debut, finishing an unspectacular seventh.

That was enough for most of the owners. They recognised a lost cause when they saw one, and unanimously voted to dissolve the syndicate, meaning that our brief dalliance with racehorse ownership was over almost as soon as it began.

There was no small amount of guilt on my part, having lead Mum and Dad down this path and seeing them throw good money after bad, and it was not helped when a current affairs programme did an exposé on the very syndication company that my parents had entrusted their money to.

Amidst allegations of mismanagement, the company went the same way as Precocious Heir and Double Magnum, taking several thousand of Mum and Dad’s hard earned dollars with it. It was a harsh lesson in the pitfalls of race horse ownership, and one that I have never forgotten. My future investments would be far better researched as a consequence.

Oh, and as for the Yallah Native colt? He went on to become Regal Native, the winner of the 1988 Group One Epsom Handicap.

Welcome to racing, young lad!

* * * *

CHAPTER 3

Kembla and the Big Chestnut

With my ownership ambitions on hold, I was left to concentrate on gambling. Although trivial matters such as the HSC and First XV rugby occasionally intervened, I rarely went a weekend without turning my mind to the punt.

Predictably, this dedication went up a notch when I made it to University. Now armed with a drivers’ licence that afforded me both the proof of age and an independent means to get to the races, there was no longer any limitations to my time at the track.

Although racing remained largely a Saturday pursuit, on more than one occasion I was obliged to lie to lecturers in order to sneak out to the TAB. This became especially necessary on the first Tuesday in November which, to my disgust, was very low down on the list of priorities of the University’s academic staff.

By this time, even Dad was struggling to maintain the same level of intensity, so I hooked up with an old school buddy who became my partner in crime at the races for many years to come.

Rex and I were at our most dedicated during the spring and autumn Carnivals, where we would attend every meeting and were witness to some of the greats of the time, including Research, Campaign King, Beau Zam and Super Impose. The latter was a particular favourite, as we were fortunate enough to witness all four legs of his consecutive Doncaster/Epsom Doubles.

My ownership prospects were a long way from realisable during those austere student years but, as unobtainable as the reality was, the dream was always in the back of mind, and more than a few moments at the track were spent peering longingly into the mounting yard, imagining myself accepting a trophy or leading in a winner.

* * * *

My racing career then took a brief hiatus when I did the obligatory tour of duty to the UK in the mid 90’s. Had I known that I would miss the glorious era of Saintly, Might and Power and Octagonal, I may well have stayed put, but given that I was to meet my future wife in London, it was probably a fair trade.

I must admit, I never quite took to English racing with the