Life As I Know It (12 page)

One afternoon in late winter I went Home. The house was a mess. The Next Room hadn't been touched in ages. I spent the afternoon tidying, sorting and cleaning, just getting the place respectable, if not organised. Then I cooked Dad dinner. Hardly a thing was said between us all afternoon. I felt tense until I left to return to Melbourne.

Dad later rang Cathy and said, ‘It's Little Girl's birthday coming up. Could you buy her a present for me, please? She came and cleaned the house and cooked me dinner and I didn't say thank you. So could you do that for me, please?'

When Cathy mentioned it I was a bit shocked. I thought he was going to remain angry with me forever. It was the first sign he was coming round.

‘Did he really say to buy me a present?' I asked.

‘Yep. He said he felt bad,' Cathy assured me. I think she was relieved, too, that finally he was trying to make amends.

Dad and I started to rebuild our relationship. Dad was being very supportive. He offered me a ride on Shelley's Trick, a horse he'd named, in part, after me. He was one of my favourite horses. Dad had let me break him in when I was still at school so I had helped bring him right the way through. I won on Shelley's Trick in a moderate race at Ararat. I'd never felt so happy. To win on Shelley's Trick was one of my great thrills in racing. Shared victory
in racing is a powerful thing. Shelley's win meant a mighty lot to both of us.

By Christmas things were back to normal and I was Dad's Little Girl again. Although it had been painful at the time I always knew that ultimately our relationship was never under threat.

T
HINGS WERE TICKING
along and I was riding my share of winners. Just after Christmas 2002, I had my one hundredth win on The Mighty Lions. It was a blessing to have come that far. Although life was hectic and the hours were tough and I battled with my weight, I felt it was all worth it. I loved what I was doing. I felt I had so much to give to so many horses.

Riding in a race is a feeling like no other. Riding is of the mind, of the body and of the soul. Physically, it fills you with adrenaline and puts you in a heightened state—a zone. It also elevates your spirit, takes you to places that ordinary life is less likely to. When a trainer has prepared a lovely horse for you and you have ridden her as well as you technically and tactically can, and misfortune has not intervened, and you cross the line first, you punch the air with a delight and a satisfaction that comes from deep within. I'd seen that depth of gratification expressed by Patrick when he'd ridden Northerly to win the Champion's second Cox Plate in 2002. I wasn't riding that day—I was elevating my spirit with a picnic on the lawns at Moonee Valley with the Loreto girls.

I also knew that the wonderful feeling I got from racing could come at a price. The evidence was all around me. There were always jockeys on the sidelines nursing serious injuries, waiting to come back, forced to retire through injury, and worse. Some sad, some disappointed, some shattered. Some no longer with us.

The Melbourne Cup of 2002 was a classic example of the bittersweet nature of racing. Just two days after Patrick had won the Cox Plate, Jason Oliver was involved in a fall when riding in a trial at Belmont Racecourse in Perth. He died the next day. His renowned jockey brother Damien was distraught. The family was no stranger to tragedy. Their father, Ray Oliver, had been killed in a terrible race fall during the Boulder Cup in 1975, when Damien was three and Jason was five. Damien was down to ride Media Puzzle for Dermot Weld in the Melbourne Cup. Having just won the Geelong Cup, Media Puzzle was one of the favourites. Damien chose to take the ride and, in one of the most heartfelt scenes in Cup history, Damien raised his hand heavenward as Media Puzzle crossed the line first.

Sadly racing exists at the point where triumph and tragedy too often intersect. Racing is dangerous. There is no point dressing it up, or trying to suggest otherwise. Horses are beautiful animals but they are much bigger than you think they would be. Racehorses look so sleek and fine, yet they weigh over 500 kilograms. They have delicate legs that are surprisingly skinny with hard hooves. They run very fast—at about 60 to 70 kilometres per hour. That's 100 metres in six seconds. Black Caviar could run sectionals of 31.5 seconds for the last 600 metres. So, whether horses are bowling along comfortably in the middle of a race, or giving everything in the final charge to the line, that weight and speed combine to generate enormous momentum and energy. If a horse falls that energy has to go somewhere. If a galloping horse falls on you, you cop the full force of that energy. Jockeys are also injured when they
are dislodged, falling a long way down to hit the ground; when their own horse falls on them; or when horses around them fall on them or clip them with sharp, hard hooves and strong, bony legs. That's when you're in the lap of the gods.

In Australia horses run on grass tracks, occasionally on fibre or sand. The state of grass tracks changes according to how much moisture is in the surface. When they become wet, the heavy turf can shift under the weight of the horse. Sometimes races are called off because the track is too heavy and unsafe. When tracks are very dry, horses can skate on the hard surface if there is a small amount of rain. Despite the very best preparation and maintenance on race days, tracks are hard to get perfect. Horses' hooves remove divots and leave marks and the surfaces then become more and more uneven as more races are run on the track.

A jockey's job is to get the best out of their horse, settling it in the early and middle stages of the race to preserve its energy, before urging it forward and releasing it to go as fast as it can in the final stretch of the race. This is a complex skill that requires balance, co-ordination and strength, and awareness of the other horses.

Horses aren't always predictable. They race in a tight bunch and they bump into each other. Sometimes the horse causes the bumping, sometimes the jockey does. Horses are flight animals, which can make them erratic, and a panicked racehorse, however well trained, will be too strong for any rider.

In race conditions jockeys make mistakes that can have dire consequences for themselves, other jockeys and the horses. Those who control racing are dedicated to the safety of jockeys and horses. Hence the rules of racing are very, very strict. If jockeys cause interference to other riders, they will be charged with careless riding and, if found guilty, will be suspended and fined. Given the significant prize money on offer, jockeys can be tempted to push the limits of those racing rules. Largely, jockeys are respectful
of each other, as they share the same plight, and they have the shared understanding, often unspoken, of the courage it takes to ride in races.

As dramatic as it may sound, when jockeys leave the mounting yard they know that they might not come back. My dad has always had a sense of perspective when it comes to riding in races. If I've been upset by a poor day when things haven't gone well, where I've ridden poorly, or I've had no luck, he says, without fail, ‘At least you got to pack your bags and come home.'

When Cathy was twenty-two and in good form, and I was eighteen and doing well as an apprentice, we decided it would be a good idea to buy a house together. That had always been the Payne way. Frugal Dad taught us that if you don't spend it wisely it will soon disappear. We were looking for a little while around the Essendon–Moonee Ponds area and one day we found the perfect one. We knew it was ideal as soon as we saw it. By coincidence Margie and Therese, who were helping us househunt, had seen it earlier in the day. Cathy and I weren't the most experienced negotiators but by some miracle we agreed on a pretty fair price. It was a simple little house in Essendon, a perfect spot close to Moonee Valley and Flemington racecourses and handy to get onto the highway to go Home. It also had a bungalow out the back where we could set up a gym and spa.

The sale went through in March 2004 but there were a few more papers to sign. We were feeling very grown up and excited. Around that time Cathy and Margie were out shopping for furniture for the new house while I had some nice rides at Sandown. One was on an old grey, Vladivostok, trained by Colin Alderson. There was nothing special about the race but for some reason my sisters took a break from their shopping to listen, which, given how many races our family has been involved in, was rather unusual by this stage of our lives. They just wanted to see how I went.

Vladivostok didn't run much of a race, finishing eleventh. Around 200 metres after the finishing line, Vladivostok did something that even very experienced racing people had never seen before. Although being eased down, while still galloping at a reasonable pace, he fell over. I went straight over his head.

I don't remember the incident at all, but the newspaper reports used words like ‘torpedoed' and ‘speared' to describe how I was propelled headfirst into the turf. Footage of it remains horrible to watch. I'm lying on the ground and I don't move. Race-caller Bryan Martin sounds terribly concerned. I just lie there, unconscious, on the track.

Cathy and Margie got straight in the car and rushed to Sandown. They were beside themselves as the paramedics were putting me on the stretcher and placing me in the ambulance, and I was taken to emergency at Dandenong Hospital. I was diagnosed with a serious head injury and transferred immediately to the Epworth Hospital in Richmond.

Cathy and Margie tell me that when they first saw me they were shocked. I had dilated pupils. I was looking at them but not seeing them. Cathy says I had the blankest stare, I had no life in me, I appeared to recognise them but I have no memory of that time. Dad apparently phoned, but I don't remember our conversation.

Joan Sadler had also been watching the race at her home. She arrived at the hospital just after the girls left. She says I seemed like an empty shell. The whole episode really shook her up and soon after she resigned as my manager. She felt so responsible for me.

I had a fractured skull but doctors could not determine the extent of my head injury. Only time would tell, they'd said. They were difficult days for the family, more difficult than they were for me. One of the many symptoms of brain injury I had was the loss of insight. I was assuring everyone I'd be all right to take my ride for Trevor Bailey on the next Saturday.

‘I've nearly got my balance back. Couple of days and I'll be fine,' I said. ‘When can I go home?'

The initial press reports suggested I'd be out for six weeks, but it seems that was mere speculation. I was actually in a very bad way, but I just didn't realise it. I had injured my right frontal lobe, my right temporal region, and my parietal lobe. The nurses were magnificent while I was in the ward for those first couple of weeks. I was asking them the same questions over and over and over. But they were so patient. They'd seen it all before. Their compassion in dealing with trauma victims is so admirable. We talk about sportspeople being heroic, but it's those who work in medicine and other caring professions who deserve the most praise. I just ride a horse around in circles.

My slow recovery was very sad and confronting and I felt I would be better in a different environment.

‘When can I go home?' I kept asking. I was unable to acknowledge in the first few days, and even many weeks later, that I had suffered serious head trauma. Slowly, very slowly, I regained the capacity to understand and began to appreciate the impact of my injury. I was going to need twelve months of intensive rehabilitation and a full recovery was not guaranteed.

In my dark moments, lying in my bed in the ward, I felt totally alone. Would I ever race again? Would I ever ride again? Would I ever drive again? What would happen to my memory? Would I slur my words? Would I need a walking stick? Could I cross the road? But then I would find heart. I would tell myself to be strong, reminding myself that whatever happened I would do everything I could to help the recovery process. I just wondered if I would ever be normal again.

I was a jockey and I was just starting out, and I was determined to ride again. I was determined to find the inner resolve to do everything possible to get back on a horse. I wasn't on my own,
I had the best help: medical specialists, physios, speech therapists, nurses, and so on. I also had many, many supporters. I received hundreds of greetings, cards and floral gifts from my family, friends and even the media. I reckon every punter who'd ever put me in their quaddie was wishing me well. There were so many flowers my sisters put them in other wards around the hospital.

But just as I thought I was getting better, I would crash again.

‘Why is this happening to me?' I would ask, not expecting an answer. ‘Why am I so unlucky?' Des Gleeson, the chief steward, certainly thought I was unlucky

‘I just can't explain it,' he told one of the newspapers. ‘Normally, if a horse knuckles or falters, you can see it unfolding in the few strides before they go down.' Accidents like mine, unexplainable ones, just happen.

After I started to improve I joined patient meetings, where we told our stories and offered each other support. Some accident victims had been very unlucky, and some had been fortunate to survive. Some weren't taking it well, others knew they had a fight on their hands and were up for it. One guy had come off his motor-bike and his MRI not only revealed a brain injury but a tumour as well. It was removed and, although he was left with slight brain damage, the accident had saved his life. Try to navigate that path of fortune!

I spent about two weeks in hospital. On the day that I was to leave I was sitting on a chair outside my ward early in the morning and the chair rolled back and I smacked my head on the desk. Everyone, all the nurses, rushed over to me. I tried to make nothing of it because I wanted to go home so badly. The neurologist came to see me and said I had to stay in for another week. I was extremely upset.