Life As I Know It (16 page)

On the Saturday morning I woke up and weighed in at 50.5. Half a kilogram—I could do this! No breakfast for me. I hit the gym.

At the Windy Hill gym, with the sweat suit on, I did twenty minutes on the cross trainer and an hour and a half in steam. I sipped on a quarter of a bottle of soda water to help me sweat while in the sauna. Normally I'd drink the whole thing but I had to be getting close! I stood on the scales: 50.7.

What!

I had four hours to lose it. I went home to get ready as I had a ride in race one and the Cup was race eight. I also had a radio interview at 9.30 a.m.

‘So, Michelle, it's been well documented that you've been working very hard to get to the 50 kilograms, how's that going for you?'

‘Oh, yes, on track. I just have a bit more to go while I'm at the races but I'll get there.' I wasn't sure, but I wasn't about to give up.

After the first race, Channel 7 asked again about the weight.

‘Yep, on track, just about to go lose the last half a kilo now before weigh-out time.'

I was sweaty from the race and I jumped straight into my bathers and into the steam room at the races. You're allowed fifteen minutes at a time, and then a forty-five-minute break. Next to the steam room at Caulfield is a hot spa, which provides another place to lose weight until the break is up. I made slow progress, but at 50.4 I was getting there. Back in the sauna, running on the spot, doing push-ups, sit-ups, then back in the spa. I can do this. On the scales.

Fifty kilograms! Yes!

I sat in a cold shower, so happy. It was like I'd won the race already.

Going to the weigh out, looking the gauntest I'd ever been, I passed Bart.

‘How'd you go, did you make the weight?'

‘Sure did.'

‘Good girl.'

Afterwards I made myself a shot of coffee with milk—I needed some fluid intake. I stood up with all the best jockeys from around the country being introduced to the crowd and felt immensely proud.

Allez Wonder was in fine order. When I looked at the big screen I saw she was fourth favourite. Wow.

She'd drawn barrier five and she flew out. Before I knew it we'd landed in the box seat. I was supposed to have her further back in the field at the start. Even so, she had a great run but finished eighth. Bart wasn't impressed. He took me aside: ‘You rode her too close.'

I didn't hold much hope for getting the Melbourne Cup ride on her. But I was happy to finish in the top eight, which meant prize money for the owners. Despite being annoyed, to my surprise, Bart kept me on Allez Wonder for the Cup. I think Su-Ann Khaw was helpful for me with that.

I was going to ride in the Melbourne Cup! This was what I had dreamed about my whole life. I was so glad I had toughed out that week. I was so excited. I was also lucky that Mark Zahra was going through the same routine as me for the lead-up week, so I had company. Allez Wonder had 50.5 kilograms in the Melbourne Cup and, having got down to that weight, I hoped sustaining it would be easier.

It was still hard work and I felt preoccupied by the worry of it all week. It dominates your mind, and your body. There was still much that was good about the week. For a start, that of all the jockeys in Australia and the world, you are one of the twenty-four is a real thrill. This is the race all jockeys want to win, all jockeys want to be in. For the opportunity I felt blessed, and thankful to Bart and to owner Su-Ann Khaw and the other connections. I'd make the weight and we'd see if their horse could handle the 3200 metres.

On the Saturday morning before the Cup I worked Allez Wonder and she was peaking in absolute tip-top shape. For years people had been talking about how Bart was the master trainer and could get his timing spot on. I was experiencing this firsthand. It was why the term ‘a Bart Cummings preparation' had entered the language. It described anything that was perfectly timed, especially in sport. Having a horse in that sort of condition eliminated one element of chance. If she stayed the distance, and was good enough, her fitness was not going to give out.

Bart had three runners in that year's Cup, with one of the favourites being the previous winner Viewed. The others were Roman Emperor and, of course, Allez Wonder. He was short and sharp with my instructions: ride her back in the field. I knew he was concerned that the only hope she had to stay the distance was if she wasn't used up in the first three-quarters of the race. Bart always made you feel confident in your own ability, whether he believed in it or not.

Going to the barriers Bart had her timed exactly right. I cantered up thinking, no wonder he's won twelve cups. Allez Wonder had drawn right in the middle of the field. She was the last horse loaded of the inside bunch, and then we were ready.

The gates opened and I actually heard the almighty roar of the crowd. We were away and it was a tremendous feeling. She began well, but I took her back as instructed. We found the rail just behind midfield and we were in a nice spot for how she was to be ridden. The speed was an absolute dawdle going down the straight the first time and a lot of horses were over racing. I was following Bart's other runner, Viewed, and he was travelling strongly.

As the other horses crossed to gain position, Viewed clipped one of the hind heels of one of the runners up ahead, faltered, and then knuckled over. Thankfully, not enough to fall. I checked my mount away from his heels when this happened. We approached the first bend and I found myself up inside Viewed. As we travelled along the back straight I was following a line of three runners, including Shocking to the outside.

Allez Wonder was travelling well and I was happy. Coming past the 800-metre the tempo was starting to quicken, the runs were coming and she was taking them. Passing the 600 metres I thought, I have a sneaky little chance here—and this is the Melbourne Cup! Alarm bells started to ring pretty soon after that, though. As we approached the straight and neared the 300 I had no carrots—gas in the tank—left to make up the six lengths or so and we plodded away, into sixteenth place. Shocking was the eventual winner.

I'd given it my best. I then understood what it meant when they say, ‘You find out at the clocktower if they're a true two-miler.' With just 300 metres to go the horses that have the extra stamina quicken. Unfortunately, Allez wasn't a two-miler.

I explained that to Bart and the owner Su-Ann Khaw and her syndicate members, and all the other connections involved, when
we returned to the mounting yard. That's just the way it was and they understood. I was grateful to Bart and the owners for giving me the experience. I enjoyed the satisfaction of making the weight and giving it my best. It was not that I finished in the second half of the field, it was the blur of spending the week worrying about making the weight. It puts you in another world. But that's what jockeys have to do. I had done the best I could—in the circumstances.

The life of a jockey sometimes borders on the absurd, and when you stand back and look at it you wonder why anyone would pursue it. A typical day begins at around 3 a.m. after just four, five or six hours of sleep. I sleep very soundly because I am constantly tired. I use any spare moment I have to catch some sleep, even if it's only thirty minutes. Better than nothing.

I drive myself to the city venues for trackwork and race meetings, and often to country meetings. It takes over three hours to get to Warrnambool and Hamilton and four hours to Horsham. But if I am getting a lift with someone I will try to sleep, or catch up on phone calls and text messages. Jockeys are always on the phone communicating with trainers and owners, even when they have managers. Phillip Roost has looked after my rides since Joan retired. He has been a fantastic manager.

Trainers want to talk about recent performances and what's next for a horse. While they know their horses well and generally have in mind the direction of a horse's campaign, and have worked out where the horse will start next; sometimes it's not so clear-cut. They seek the advice of a jockey and discuss the previous start in a race, the nature of the performance, and the qualities of a horse. You become closer to some trainers and, as they respect you and
your performances, they might use you for all of their horses. Or you might develop a relationship with a single horse, and the trainer lets you become that horse's rider. That doesn't always work out because jockeys get injured, suspended and have schedule clashes, having to ride at other venues. But a jockey will stick to a good horse and do whatever they can to retain the ride. Hence jockeys also develop relationships with owners.

A horse might have a single owner or be owned by a syndicate, and then owners might have numerous horses, in which case you might ride a few different horses for the owner/syndicate. Brad Rawiller has ridden a lot for trainer Darren Weir. Luke Nolen has ridden a lot for Peter Moody. Luke Nolen also became the jockey of Black Caviar, and when the owners of Black Caviar became involved in another horse they would have it trained by Peter Moody and ridden by Luke Nolen. So owners want to get to know the jockey and they want to know how their horse is going. They're desperate to know the potential of their horse—everyone's trying to win the Melbourne Cup or one of the big races.

You build real friendships with trainers and owners, which means chatting to them on the phone is a very natural thing to do. It just takes time, and the closer you become to them the more likely they are to ring.

At trackwork a jockey might ride half a dozen (often more) horses, and the work might be all over by 7.30 a.m. Then there may be trials at that venue or somewhere else. This is where horses are given a run in a race that has the appearance of race conditions—it starts from a barrier and you race against other horses. It doesn't count for anything other than to give the horse a trial run. There's no prize money. Horses may be asked to give their full effort, but that's not likely. It just depends where the horse is in the lead-up to a start in a proper race. A horse gets fitter during these campaigns but will eventually become a little jaded and is then given a spell.
During a spell it has a lazy time in a paddock somewhere, doing whatever it likes, eating what it likes (almost), and not being worked. When they come back into work they start with light runs and build up towards resuming.

Trials might be finished by midmorning. If there are no trials and you are riding at a race meeting in the afternoon, you may well have to attend to your weight. I might be 55 kilograms but have to ride at 54 kilos that afternoon. I try to eat something, even if I have to lose a kilogram. Often it might be quarter of a cup of muesli. Because I have gym facilities at home I will have a workout on the treadmill and cross trainer with my sweat gear on, and a hot spa. While I am in the spa I'm either on the phone, or I am doing the form for the afternoon's races. If I'm on top of things, I'll be listening to music or watching the TV.

If I'm riding at Moonee Valley or Flemington it's just ten minutes away from home, but Swan Hill is half a day's drive. As hungry as I might be, and as magnificent as food smells, there will be no grabbing a potato cake from the warmer when you're filling up with petrol along the way. I have survived on a lot of cans of V over the years, but I try to stay away from them if I can.

At the track you complete your book of rides. On an eight-race card you might have seven or eight rides, and each one requires energy, especially the distance races. Then the phone starts ringing and you have a variety of conversations, some celebratory, hopefully, and in others you find yourself explaining what happened and why the horse finished where it did and what to do next. You are defending your ride and presenting a case for why you should keep the ride next time. Sometimes I'll give Andrew or Patrick a call to get their opinion if I need it, and I'll usually speak to Dad and he'll give his opinion to me, whether I ask or not.

The travelling can become exhausting, but riding in a race if you haven't done any trackwork that day isn't tiring. I find driving
to and from the races is a nice time to catch up on news from my sisters, and what is happening in their lives and with their kids. It wouldn't be rare for me to speak to four or five family members in between races.

Riding in races after a busy morning is extremely draining, physically and mentally, and you often feel flat the next day—but you have to find a way to ready yourself for that day's riding. When I get home after the races I'm wrecked and all I can think about is getting to bed because the alarm's going to go off early again for trackwork in the morning. Quite often I go to bed hungry and can't wait to get up in the morning and have a bit of muesli. I usually start with just a coffee and have my muesli midmorning, after trackwork.

This is what we jockeys do, over and over and over and over again. When we finally get a day off, we just plonk on the beanbag, unable to move. But the reality is, if you are a mid-ranking jockey you find it very hard to let any opportunity pass.