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How to Pick a Winner

Awa Press

How it all began for me

WHEN I WAS 12, my mother and two of my brothers took me to the Trentham races for the first time. I was instantly hooked. I loved the excitement, the atmosphere, the sights and sounds of the racecourse. I especially loved the thrill of choosing a horse (by its name, Baraden – no idea now why that appealed), being given ten shillings to bet with, and the horse coming in. I collected nearly £5. Possibly if Baraden had run a dismal last I would not be writing this book. Thinking back, Michael and Ted would have been only 16 and 17, and the legal age for betting was 21. I suppose Mum must have put all our bets on. Dad never set foot on a racecourse. He heartily disapproved of gambling, and only once in his life had a bet. I talked him into it. The horse's name was Simca, and it lost. The reason I was able to persuade him to spend five shillings (going halves with me in the bet) was that he had just bought a new Simca motor car. Cars were the one thing he liked spending money on.

Anyway, once hooked, I studied the Turf Digest each week assiduously, and listened to the races on the radio. I recall Peter Kelly, the commentator, describing the horses lining up at the start, and sometimes having to fill several minutes of air time when a fractious runner wouldn't go into the stalls. Then there was that gradually rising intonation of his commentary, which reached a high-pitched crescendo at the end, followed by either huge elation or huge disappointment, depending on how your horse had fared.

At secondary school I always sat at the back of the class so I could tuck the Turf Digest into my textbook. I knew the names of all the good horses, wonderful names like Roodyvoo (my all-time favourite), Hot Drop, Lucrative, Hush Money, Savage, Foglia D'Oro, Commanding, Resemblance, Even Stevens, Cheyenne, Marie Brizard, Rio Rapido, Action Packed – names that can still bring a frisson of pleasure. These days horses have names like Whatsundermykilt and Likeabatoutofhell and Goodgollymissmolly (you can't have more than 18 letters, and a space counts as a letter, so thatswhytheyareallruntogetherlikethat). I don't dislike them – they're kind of catchy – but you have to feel sorry for the poor commentators.

None of my school friends were interested in racing, but I remember when I was 17 dragging my first boyfriend out to Trentham. He was obsessed with car racing and found horses totally tedious. Another boyfriend was deeply shocked to find pictures of racehorses – pull-outs from Hoofbeats magazine – pinned up on my bedroom wall. He pointedly gave me a framed Picasso print. At around this time the nice lady from the Plimmerton TAB rang my mother and warned her not to let me put bets on until I was 21, as the inspectors had seen me there.

A few years later I found friends who loved the whole scene as much as I did. I even met up with some superior people who had tickets to the members' stand. In those days there was a long waiting list to become a member of the Wellington Racing Club, and the privilege was jealously guarded. No trainers or (horrors) jockeys were allowed into the stand proper. Only the elite entered. Everyone was formally dressed, and white-coated chaps turned away those who failed to meet the standard. The entire first level of the members' stand was barred to women. Children under 12 were barred everywhere. At one end of the first floor was the committee room. Many years later I became (I was told) the first woman to set foot in it, at the invitation of the president. The roof didn't fall in, but I got many glares of displeasure from the stuffier old stewards and their cronies.

My first venture into ownership came when a friend rang me one day and asked if I'd like a share in the next Melbourne Cup winner. (He later had a career in real estate.) This was in 1974, and the rules of racing had just been changed to permit syndicates of up to 25 people, making horse owning more affordable. Thus I became a member of New Zealand's first big syndicate. The horse, Clockstopper, didn't win the Melbourne Cup. In fact she raced only once, in a maiden event at Foxton, and finished last by 12 lengths.

Realising Clockstopper's future looked bleak, we acquired another horse, which we called Showstopper. Somebody pointed out that 'stopper' wasn't an ideal word to use in a racehorse's name, but we liked the continuity. Showstopper was a strikingly attractive black filly and it came as no surprise to us that she won four races as a two-year-old. We fully expected her to go on to be the star three-year-old of her season. When this didn't happen we sent her back to her breeder.

I've lost track of our succession of 'Stoppers', but by far the best turned out to be Heartstopper, who won the 1980 Manawatu Cup and three other races. She was much more satisfactory to watch than Showstopper because she was a stayer, so the races lasted longer.

Which reminds me: long races can confuse novice racegoers. Watching the Manawatu Cup with me were my husband Garry and his two children. Twelve-year-old Brendon and eight-year-old Ondine had never been to the races before. As Heartstopper went past the finishing post for the first time in the 2,300-metre race, she was last in the field of 17. Ondine let out a loud sigh and threw her two $1 tickets away. When, on the second time around, our bonny mare raced to the front (ridden to perfection by one of New Zealand's first and best women jockeys, Dianne Moseley), we scrabbled around frantically to find Ondine's tickets. And then, shamefully, Garry and I deserted the children and ran over to the members' stand to join in the Cup presentation and celebrations.

Heartstopper gave us our greatest thrill by being good enough to start in a Wellington Cup. Although she finished only seventh, it hardly mattered. We partied in the car park with a huge retinue of family and friends long before and long after the race.

Since then I've owned horses (and later dogs) on my own or in small partnerships, but the only one of note has been a greyhound named Stadium. A group of us formed a small syndicate to raise money for what is now referred to by everyone outside Wellington, but no one within, as the Cake Tin. Dear old Stadium did manage to win a few races, but I have to concede his earnings made little dent in the total needed.

King Charles II has a lot to answer for

NOW, A SPOT OF history to get things in perspective. Horses have been raced probably from the time they were first domesticated – at least 6,000 years ago, going by the cave drawings. It's a fundamental human instinct, once you've got past the business of staying alive, to say to your neighbour, 'I bet my plesihippus can run faster than yours.'

The ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans were big on chariot racing, the Arabs went in for endurance contests, and the Japanese raced Mongolian ponies when Britain was still inhabited by Picts and Celts. The first documented English racing goes back to 1540, when races were held at Chester, near Liverpool. (Note we're talking about organised racing – not the purely local or random races, usually for large wagers, that occurred before then. Records of these go back at least as far as King Edgar in the tenth century, and some historians claim the Roman invaders were into horse racing.)

Elizabeth I was the first English monarch to be seen 'at the races' – at Salisbury Plains in the 1580s. But the horses competing were not thoroughbreds, because that breed of horse, now the only breed used in galloping races, had not yet been created. (To be strictly accurate, some other breeds are used in galloping races – among them quarter-horses in the United States and pure Arabs in England – but these activities cannot be compared with the vast international sport of thoroughbred racing.)

But it is King Charles II, who came along nearly a century later, who's regarded, quite rightly, as the father of racing. You'll remember him – the one with long curly black hair, Nell Gwynn and other assorted mistresses, and a taste for living it up. Charles came to the throne after the downfall of Oliver Cromwell, that dreary old Puritan who turned Britain into a republic and disapproved of people having fun.

Charles's grandfather, James I, had built a royal palace at Newmarket, which he used as a base for hunting and hawking. James's son, Charles I, had introduced horse racing there, but these were rambling, 20-mile affairs. The dashing new king turned Newmarket into a trendy modern racecourse.

Perhaps 'modern' is a slight exaggeration. Races were mostly run in four heats of four miles each, with half an hour's rest in between. Charles used to haul his entire court up from London twice a year so he could indulge in his favourite pastime, while keeping the country going on the side. He was a spectator, owner, breeder, rider, patron (today's 'sponsor') and adjudicator of the first proper rules, which he also helped formulate.

At first the horses were slow enough for the king and his court to keep up with as they galloped alongside: grandstands hadn't been invented then. Gradually the horses got faster, as Charles and his fellow enthusiasts spent fortunes importing lighter, sleeker, high-quality Arab and other Eastern stallions to mate with their existing mares. Thus the king unwittingly helped found a new breed of horse that eventually became known as the thoroughbred, and Newmarket became, and has remained, the headquarters of English racing.

And what began as a leisure activity of the nobility filtered down to the rest of English society. A love of horses, racing and gambling gave people across all classes and occupations an interest. And of course commerce rapidly developed around the sport, as horses were bred and trained, racecourses opened and betting blossomed. So Old Rowley, as Charles II was nicknamed (after his favourite riding horse) had not just indulged a passion: he had fathered an industry that spread worldwide and is today worth billions of dollars.

How racing got started in New Zealand

NEW ZEALAND HAD no indigenous horses, let alone racehorses. The missionary Samuel Marsden brought three horses of mixed breed across from Australia in 1814, but they were for the purely practical purpose of transporting people and goods.

As the colony became more established, the settlers had time for a bit of recreation – and naturally their thoughts turned to horse racing. Most early horses were imported either directly from, or via, Australia. Figaro, who landed in Wellington in 1840, was the first authenticated thoroughbred stallion. He was bred in New South Wales of impeccable English parentage, and made a lasting mark on racing stock through a mating with one of the few thoroughbred mares in New Zealand, who happened to be closely related: her sire, Emilius, was Figaro's grandsire.

From these tentative beginnings, the importation and breeding of thoroughbreds grew apace. With no other organised sport and little other public entertainment, the pioneers flocked to race meetings. As in England, the early racecourses were not enclosed, and therefore did not charge for admission. Funds came from leasing rights to refreshment and liquor booths, fees from bookmakers and gaming operators, and 'sweepstakes', often augmented by local businesses – the 'Publican's Purse' was usually the richest.

Most meetings consisted of a wide variety of activities, including foot races for men and children; races for ponies, donkeys, hacks and even bullocks; wrestling and boxing matches; cock fighting; side shows; games of chance; fortune tellers; refreshments, gaming booths, and musical entertainment in the form of a local band.

There is no precise documentation of New Zealand's first race meeting. Settlers in the Bay of Islands are said to have organised some races there in 1835, but if so the names of the winners were not written down. In Auckland in 1840, the newly arrived military garrison evidently ran some races, as Governor Hobson is noted as attending.

Wellington settlers staged the first recorded horse race – a hurdle event around Te Aro, with a couple of creeks to be crossed, for a prize of 15 guineas – as part of anniversary celebrations in January 1841. There were four entries, and the winner was Culmac Tartar, ridden by his owner Henry Petre. A year later what seems to have been the first full-scale race meeting, with a published programme, was held at 'Epsom Downs', Auckland.

In October 1842 Figaro became the first thoroughbred to race here, beating Culmac Tartar on the beach at Petone, at the north end of Wellington Harbour. This was part of a 'proper' raceday. A general holiday was declared and most of Wellington's population, both European and Maori, attended. A contemporary account stated, 'The Clerk of the Course had a busy day arranging with Te Puni [a local chief] to have the native dogs tied up and the pigs kept at home and imploring whalers to push their boats out far enough to give the horses a clear course ... The day closed with a dinner for the gallants at Barrett's Hotel.'

This was exactly the sort of thing that displeased the curmudgeonly Scot Alexander Marjoribanks, who wrote in his 1846 book Travels in New Zealand, 'It is curious that the English cannot settle down quietly, even in a new country, without wasting their time and money on those most absurd of all absurdities – horse racing and public dinners.'

From Mr Marjoribanks' point of view, matters rapidly went from bad to worse. Racecourses were laid out in almost every area the English settled – and some which they did not, for Maori also took to horse racing with enthusiasm. Chiefs and tribes acquired their own horses, some as payment for land, and set up racecourses on tribal land. Young Maori men proved to be naturally skilled and fearless riders, and for many years most European race meetings included a 'Maori' race. With thoroughbreds still a rarity, these early meetings catered for stock and carriage horses, hacks and ponies, and often included a trotting race (in the saddle).

Like most of the early settlers' clubs and courses, the Maori race meetings have long since vanished, with the sole exception of the Otaki-Maori Racing Club, 75 kilometres north of Wellington, which is still going strong.

The proliferation of early racing clubs in the South Island, especially Otago and Southland, reflected the transient nature of New Zealand's population. At the height of the 1860 to 1880s' gold rush, dozens of clubs were formed. Most entries were utility hacks, ridden by their owners.

Some meetings were well organised, but many operated under rough and ready rules. An account of an early meeting at Naseby, in the heart of the goldfields, noted that lead must have been in short supply. To make up the required weight, one of the riders strapped half a sack of potatoes to his saddle. Riding vigorously, he brushed past the leader, and in so doing burst the bag and potatoes spilt out all over the course. The report notes, 'Apparently weighing-in was not so carefully checked as nowadays, as the judge's placings were not disturbed.'

Nelson became the first region to seriously race thoroughbreds, thanks to Henry Redwood (dubbed 'Father of the New Zealand turf') and other influential sportsmen who settled there. As early as 1845 they held a meeting at Stoke, and the Nelson Jockey Club was formed in 1848, the same year as Wanganui, the oldest racing club still surviving. Wanganui is also credited with being the first club in New Zealand to stage a full-scale trotting meeting, in 1881.

Canterbury was another hotbed of affluent racing enthusiasts, with races first held in Hagley Park in 1851. Within a few decades it was also a centre for light harness racing, along with Otago and Southland, where trotting races had been held as part of gallops meetings since 1864. In those days many horse enthusiasts competed in both types of racing, among them the famous thoroughbred trainer Dick Mason. Christchurch and Dunedin became the leading racing centres, offering the largest stake money and the most important events. It was not until 1913 that the Auckland Cup overtook the New Zealand Cup (run at Riccarton, Christchurch) in value.

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Excerpted from How to Pick a Winner by Mary Mountier. Copyright © 2004 Mary Mountier. Excerpted by permission of Awa Press.
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