Free Taking the Fall by A.P. McCoy Page B

bumpers too. Sanderson knew that was where he got some of his winners. But the comment had been enough to let Duncan know that he posed – at least somewhere in the Champion Jockey’s mind – a threat to Sanderson. Duncan couldn’t wait to challenge him in the fifth race.
    The Abercombie Stakes was the main race of the day and the cameras made a lot of the parade ring and the betting patterns. The excitement level swelled, but Duncan felt very little of it. He was gone into the zone. He didn’t want to talk to anyone or be spoken to by anyone. The noise, the banter, the weighing routine, it was all debris on his way to the green grass. He was riding a beautiful six-year-old liver chestnut gelding with a star called The Buckler, and he couldn’t wait.
    Unlike the heroic but funny-looking Wellbeing, The Buckler looked the part. He had terrific balance and symmetry of build and a lovely, fluid stride.
    Petie was there in the ring. The Buckler was on his toes, ears pricked forward, already hungry for it. He circled and Petie led him round. ‘You’ve to ride him covered up. Keep back. You’ll know when to go,’ said Petie. Duncan heard him but said nothing.
    He took a steady canter down to the starting gate. Sanderson was already there on his chestnut, along with the favourite, a grey called Owner’s Consent, and one or two other horses circling. The Buckler was a bit flighty and excited by the crowd, so Duncan took him round in a wide circle. The horse wanted to go; so did the jockey. Sanderson stopped his horse, stretching, standing in the stirrups for a moment, and looked across at Duncan. It was a mean look. Duncan wondered if Sanderson knew that he was Charlie’s son.
    I can take the evil eye , he thought, and I can spin it right back at you .
    The starter’s assistants came over to make a girth check and let the jockeys know they had half a minute to go. A lot of mud had been kicked up in the previous races. Duncan pulled on his goggles. He heard the loudspeaker echoing without having to hear the words spoken by the starter. It was just detail, all smoothed out. There was only the race ahead of him as he stepped his horse up to the tape. Sanderson came in right next to him. The horses inched forward in a tight, controlled bunch.
    The white tape flew up like a startled bird and they were away. Duncan got a nice start and he let the front runners go ahead, tucking in behind comfortably. Over his shoulder Sanderson was doing the same, with the favourite Owner’s Consent in a similar position. The race was three miles and two furlongs. There were a lot of jumps and a lot of heavy mud to get through.
    But The Buckler was full of running and he took some holding. It was like riding an electric current, and Duncan knew he had a good horse. If he could get his timing right, he fancied himself. They jumped cleanly and made good ground and the mud was flying. Duncan took a clod of wet earth in the face kicked up by one of the front-runners. At about the halfway marker he felt a shift of gear around him and he knew the leaders were tiring early and the covered runners still had plenty left. He could spot Sanderson’s colours keeping good pace on his left hand and Owner’s Consent on his right. Visibility was poor, but there was the rumble of hooves over heavy ground to keep him in the zone.
    Three hurdles from home, one of the front-runners fell but he took nothing down with him. Owner’s Consent shifted up in front, but still with plenty in hand. Duncan kept pace and Sanderson hung in there with him, and already Duncan knew it was going to be between one of those three. They headed up to the second-last hurdle and still the mud was flying. Owner’s Consent was making ground, and although it was sooner than Duncan would have liked, he knew he had to stay with him or lose it altogether.
    As they approached the jump, Sanderson deliberately brought his mount tight in to Duncan: so tight you couldn’t have slipped a