Life As I Know It (31 page)

The three of us, off farms in country Victoria, each with a love of horses and racing, and an understanding that if you are keen enough and determined enough and capable enough you can win the Cup. There is admiration and affection for Prince, and for Darren's ability to have him perfect on the day. He has been ‘through the wars', as Darren explains. When I am asked what impact a woman riding the winner will have I am circumspect: ‘I don't know whether it will help but I certainly hope it does.'

I haven't seen the replay of the race so I go off to the Stewards' Room and watch it. How deeply satisfying it is.

Layne and Kirk Pengilly, her husband and INXS band member, find me. They are so happy, so happy for
me
. Kirk is keen to show me the photo he took before the race as I was off to the barriers.

‘Look at this!' I am riding Prince in front of the big screen on the inside of the track and the caption reads ‘Who will be king!'

‘That's funny,' I say.

We have to do so much media. Stevie and I tape an interview for
7.30
with Leigh Sales. I have a shower and I do more media in the mounting yard, and then I get rushed off to do yet another interview, for
The Project
. They are waiting for us.

At home we watch the replay again and then we go to The Emerald pub, where there is another line-up of media—about five or six different TV and radio stations before I even get in there. Sarah Peatling looks after them.

The Emerald in South Melbourne is a classic old Melbourne pub—a racing pub—perfect for the Prince of Penzance crew. My sisters are there and all our friends, and Darren and the owners. We are asked for so many photos. It's really hectic.

Margie and I get the chance to spend a moment together, thinking about Mum. We thank her. I finally got a chance to ring Dad, too.

‘How'd you go?' he asks.

‘Well, I got to pack my bags and come home,' I say.

He laughs.

The party is in full swing. People are drinking from the Cup. My Loreto friends arrive and we sit out the front together. They bring me a nice bottle of champagne—which they get stuck into, of course. I am drinking water, because I think if I have a drink I will fall into a hole. I also have to ride in the next day's race at the Kyneton Cup and get up at 5 a.m. the next morning for interviews. And I haven't eaten. I'm also drinking water because I want to remember every second.

I want to remember the joy in the pub, among the people; the feeling of connectedness. I am happy to watch their faces and listen to their conversations, which get more and more animated. To hear yet another cheer go up for Prince and a toast raised to the Boy from Berriwillock.

We Loreto girls decide we should do something to mark the occasion. We agree that we'll all do our very best to spend a week in Bali together between now and Christmas. We can't even find a night to have dinner together, yet I have a feeling we will all make this happen.

With the owners showing no sign of moving, and the Weir contingent organising to get back to the stables in Ballarat for the second act of the celebrations, it's time for me to go as well. On the way home I order a pizza—a meat-lovers with pepperoni
from my local in Essendon. I get home after midnight. I am on my own again. Eating pizza—the rarest of treats. Watching the replay—again. Prince and me. Darren. Stevie. Maddie. Everyone.

What a day. I drag myself to bed. I lie there, thinking, again. Feeling so blessed. Trying to make sense of it all. Believing there was something absolutely right about the day. Believing that this has happened for a reason.

I
T FELT PRETTY
good to wake up on the Wednesday morning knowing there was a little Melbourne Cup next to the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table. Even if it was five in the morning and I'd only had a couple hours of sleep—and I had to get ready for what I was warned was going to be a crazy day.

I stood in the shower, shaking my head and smiling, still overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude. If I hadn't been certain of it before, I am now convinced that many things that have happened in my short lifetime have happened for a purpose.

So many things came together in the moment of Prince's triumph that it feels like it was truly meant to be. It caused me to start asking, why me? I wondered how I could use the moment to help other people.

Little did I realise that the moment had
already
helped a lot of people. But I soon learned. I received dozens of messages of congratulations and support—and that was just from people who knew my phone number. They were about how inspirational they found the win. How when I reached down to Stevie they cried,
because the family moment was as important as the victory, and those elements were all wrapped up together. How what I said about the place of women in racing touched them. But, mainly, they are all just so happy for me, and just happy. You can hear it in their voices. So many messages start with, ‘Can you believe that?'

That's exactly what Margie said after the Cup, and I wondered whether she was going to start hassling me about retiring. Where did she put that phone recording? Did I really say I was going to retire? I am certainly not thinking about hanging up the saddle now. If anything, I think the Cup win might open up
more
riding opportunities. But this isn't the time to be thinking about that.

There are messages from Kelly and Rosie Myers, who tell me they were in the jockeys' room in New Zealand. They said the room went quiet at the 300-metre mark and when I crossed the line it exploded. Tears flow over the phone from Jade Darose, who had just ridden a winner at Echuca and was on the Bolte Bridge near the centre of Melbourne, on her way home, when I crossed the line. Tears also from Liz Francis, who was at Flemington with family and friends—the first time she has ever been to the Cup. Emily was in an Australian bar in New York with dozens of expats and backpackers, cheering me on. The Daltons in north Queensland were drinking champagne and having a few nibbles when Prince came home. While they were going crazy the dog ate the entire cheese platter. Aunty Bertha in New Zealand tells me she was in tears. The Men in Hats were dancing. Neil Laws, whose celebratory dance after the Moonee Valley Cup win posted on YouTube had won him the moniker ‘Australia's happiest bogan', was even happier. Patrick sat at home shaking his head. Dad got more phone calls in an hour than he'd had in the previous six months.

With the sun barely up, Sarah and Des O'Keeffe take me down to Riverside Golf Club and we find a nice spot for the TV crosses.
I do interview after interview after interview. I lose count but I am told it's about thirty. They are all a blur but I reckon they have some common themes: have faith that life will serve you well, pursue your dreams with all your heart, fight through your setbacks, prepare as best you possibly can, and hope things go your way. And if they do, however you understand that, be thankful and do what you can to share that joy. Above all, be grateful for your blessings.

Roger Federer once said something that has stuck with me: ‘It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice.'

I am a jockey, but it seems people are interested in what I have to say. Some interviewers want to talk about my ‘get stuffed' comment. I want them to know that I am looking forward to a time when people don't think about male and female jockeys, but just jockeys, when prejudice won't exist. And that that should be the same across all fields of endeavour. If I am perceived as a strong woman standing up for what is fair, and other women take encouragement from that—especially young women—then I feel I have done something worthwhile. I believe you have to be outspoken and forthright when something is unfair. My sisters always say that if I thought something was unfair as a kid, that's when I got most fired up. In a family of ten people who speak their minds, we all suffered our share of injustice.

People want to know more about my family background. Some are already familiar with the story of us losing Mum but they may have been a little surprised when I explain that I still feel close to her, that I know Mum is always with me, that I pray to her often, and that she is my protector.

Other television crews are up at Home, just outside Darren's place. It is a bit of a circus. Dad is being the master of the under-statement, telling Australia I had the will to win, pouring cold water on any gender issues in the racing game, while Patrick is ensuring I remain grounded.

‘She's so un-co,' he says in one interview. ‘She runs like a baby elephant.'

Nothing has changed in our family; it is just that now the world is seeing us. Dad is a great one for picking you up when you are down and bringing you back to earth when you are flying.

In another interview, in front of Darren's place, a streaker appears in the background, although I suspect he is an all-night partier from Weiry's place.

Ultimately, the media drive Dad mad and he is glad to close the door on them and get back to watching the replays of the races on the TV in The Next Room.

People want to know more about Stevie. Stevie had more to do with the win than people realised at the time, like drawing barrier one. How we greeted each other after the race was totally natural—a family moment first, and a racing moment a close second. Both are so meaningful to us. Stevie is hilarious and inspirational throughout the day talking to the media, and I am so happy for him. He means so much to us. For his thirtieth birthday we made a DVD of photos of him set to music. When I am feeling low, feeling I need a lift, I pull out that DVD, and all feels well with the world again.

Stevie has a big impact. I love it that by Emirates Stakes Day, Channel 7 is talking with Brad Thomas from Down Syndrome Victoria about how this Melbourne Cup was certain to change the public understanding of Down's Syndrome. That's an enormously positive effect.

After we finish doing the interviews at the golf club there is a press conference to attend and then I speak at a women's lunch at Crown. It is one thing after another. Off we rush to one side of the Yarra for a photo shoot, and then a helicopter picks me up from a helipad on the river near Crown. Everyone—the pilot, people in the crowd who see what's going on—say congratulations and well done. A photographer comes in the chopper, shooting away to
record every moment. I do my form for the Kyneton Cup in the chopper. I think I've got a good chance.

When we land at Kyneton Racecourse I have to make my way to the jockeys' room. Daniel Miles from Racing Victoria assists me. I am applauded all the way. I am laughing to myself—I am still just me. That means I want to walk the track as I always do. This time I am accompanied by a number of security guards! People are clapping and cheering as I walk all the way up the straight, and clapping and cheering me all the way back. I give a little wave here and there. I am pretty embarrassed.

In the Kyneton Cup I have a nice run, and as we get the split in the straight I think we are going to win, but Akzar runs out of puff and finishes fourth.

Cathy and her kids, Jake, Rhys and Charlie are at Kyneton and they give me a lift to Ballarat to see Dad at Home. That is a moment, getting out of the car and walking up the steps to be greeted by Dad. He's really had enough of the media! We chat as we normally would have. It's so nice to be Home.

I ride at Flemington the next day—Oaks Day—without luck. There is a massive thunderstorm and Ciaron Maher's filly, Jameka, wins the feature. Again, so many people are happy for me and want photos and want to tell me their stories. I can feel people have a strong connection with mine. I suppose it is a story common to all, although most struggle privately and silently. People want to tell me about their families and their personal battles.

I am still on a high but I am already starting to wonder when things are going to slow down, and when I will have a minute when someone isn't ushering me towards the next person or engagement or duty or function. After two days I am drained. Sarah and Des certainly knew what they were talking about when they warned me about how my life has changed and how frantic things will be for quite a while.

The next day, Friday, the City of Ballarat puts on a civic reception, which really is something. It means a lot to me to be welcomed by my home town, with people I know from Loreto and Our Lady Help of Christians in the crowd, people from local racing, people I know from living there. It is such an affectionate and giving crowd. They are so happy for me. Hundreds want a photograph.

The craziness continues back in Melbourne, with requests for media interviews and appearances at functions, and invitations and offers. I am approached by management companies and I soon realise I am going to need some sort of assistance. There is interest from all round the world.

On the last day of a remarkable Carnival week I ride the talented three-year-old Palentino for Darren and he wins impressively. I will always have Prince but will Palentino be another special horse?

Over the next couple of weeks I make two more trips to the centre of the universe—Ballarat. I am invited to speak to the girls at Loreto. Miss Baird does the interview. I feel I am doing something worthwhile talking to the girls. I hope they take something from Prince's win, from my story—something as simple as being passionate, having a dream, and giving life a real go. Being at Loreto was important to me, and I hope it is for them.

I also ride at the Ballarat Cup meeting. As I drive past Home and up to the boom gate to the racecourse, where I'd spent so much of my childhood, and where I rode Reigning all those years before, I feel so connected to the place. The welcome is phenomenal. I have rides for Darren, Gai Waterhouse and Terry O'Sullivan. I ride Akzar, again, in the Ballarat Cup but, despite being one of the chances, I have to ease him out of the race when he shows signs he isn't handling the run. That's racing.