John Francome - Declared Dead

Copyright 1988 John Francome and James MacGregor

My hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold onto the reins. Pulling that horse in a seller at Fontwell had been bad enough, but to throw the Gold Cup in front of a crowd of forty thousand enthusiastic racegoers was a desperate and terrifying prospect. I could feel the goose bumps rising on my skin from a mixture of nerves and guilt. I patted Cartwheel on the shoulder and talked to him in a forlorn attempt to calm myself down. I just kept wishing that this whole business was a bad dream from which I would awake any moment, but the bark of the starter, telling us to get in line, brought me sharply back to reality.

Cartwheel was itching to be off and I had to tug hard on the reins to restrain him. He loved his racing and I wasn't even that confident he would go along with my plans. He was an old hand at jumping these Cheltenham fences and if I kept mistiming my take-offs to get him in close to the bottom of them, he was just as likely to think it was all a game and outwit me by standing off a stride and putting in a long one. That way I would be gaining ground instead of losing it.

The starter had a quick look across the field to make sure we were all ready and then screamed, 'Right!' as he pulled down on the lever to release the starting tape. Immediately a huge roar of anticipation and excitement went up from the enclosures and grandstands ahead of us. For the first few yards Cartwheel led the way and I let him skip over the first fence as he wished. I had absolutely no intention of doing anything suspicious in front of the packed grandstands I had chosen the tricky downhill fence on the second circuit for my 'accidental fall'. By the time we reached there I'd make certain we were on the outside and therefore less likely to be galloped on after we had hit the ground. More importantly, we would be out of the full view of the television cameras and most of the spectators.

If I'd been riding almost any other horse, the chances were, if I tried hard enough, I would be able to get it to fall at one of the twenty-six fences; but Cartwheel had a firmly placed instinct for self-preservation. He was a handsome liver-chestnut who planned to stay that way and liked to handle all the intricacies of take-offs and landings himself. He was never going to be another Arkle or Mill House, but he was as good as anything that had run that season and had been favourite for the Gold Cup since skating home in the King George at Kempton in December.

If I took a chance that he might just not be good enough on the day, it would be sod's law that he'd win pulling a cart. There was no alternative; I'd just have to fall off him and try and make it look as though I had been unseated.

I had only ever seen one jockey jump off a horse deliberately before, and that had been at Devon and Exeter when, for some reason, the animal he was riding in a two-mile hurdle race suddenly went off the racecourse and bolted towards a wood. I'd always remember the jockey coming back into the weighing room saying it was the most terrifying and unnatural thing that he had ever done.

As we jumped each fence on the first circuit, his words echoed in my ears as I mentally went through the motions of what I had to do. The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became and the less confident I was of being able to go through with it, and yet I knew I must.

For the first time since I had started racing I looked down at the grass speeding by below me and imagined what damage I might do to myself. It was the ultimate irony. Here I was with the chance of realising every jump jockey's dream by winning the Gold Cup and I was committed to throwing it away. I'd be lucky if I ever got another ride after what I was about to do, never mind have a chance like this again.

At this stage my foremost task was to ensure that we stayed in touch with the leaders for the first part of the race. I had at all costs to avoid alerting any kind of suspicion. As we galloped up the hill and round the top bend towards the second fence, I looked for our principal rivals in the betting. Out front, five lengths clear and blazing the trail, was the grey, Stonepicker. He had already won the Hennessey Gold Cup earlier in the season and was a natural front runner. Just ahead of me and hugging the rail I could see the backside of Eamon Brennan, the champion Irish jockey, aboard Pride of Limerick. The big chestnut, a strapping son of Deep Run, was carrying the hopes of Ireland and, I suspected, most of its ready cash. The Irish had so far enjoyed a bumper festival and had backed their champion as if it was simply a case of putting the money down, returning to the bar, and calling back a few minutes later to collect their winnings.

Brennan was a brilliant horseman who was not averse to a bit of chicanery if the situation demanded it. His catch phrase of 'nothing personal' as he squeezed you for room on the inside rail, or took your ground before a fence, was a standing joke in the weighing room, although it was not so easy to explain to an irate trainer or owner who had seen his horse's chances apparently blundered away by an incompetent jockey.

Finally, at least as far as the ante-post betting market was concerned, there was the most dangerous rival of them all the mare, Melodrama. She was trained in the North of England by Dick Walker, one of the shrewdest men in racing and also one of the most fearless gamblers. When he put his money down, it was strictly on temporary loan. Because of her sex Melodrama was entitled to a five-pound weight allowance and if her last two races were anything to go by, she was as tough as nails and didn't need it. On both occasions, she had been off the bridle a mile from home and looked to have no chance, but the further she went the better she seemed to go. She had all the stamina of a bookie counting his winnings. As for the rest, they were all good-class steeplechasers, but on form none had the beating of the four of us.

For the first circuit everything went smoothly. Stonepicker was setting a very decent gallop and even though Cartwheel was putting in a string of good jumps, we remained several lengths adrift in the middle of the first chasing pack. We were now only three fences away from the downhill fence and I told myself to keep calm. To anyone watching I was riding an intelligent and sensible race, giving Cartwheel every chance. Nobody would ever realise that I had no intention of getting him to the finishing line. As we passed the stands to start the second and final circuit, everyone in the crowd seemed to be shouting at the top of their voices but Cartwheel appeared wholly unperturbed. A couple of fallers had left us in second place, although I knew that Eamon Brennan and Pride of Limerick were jogging along half a length behind us. There was no sign of Melodrama, although she must have still been with us. When the favourite falls in any race, news of it soon spreads through the field of jockeys; and this was the Gold Cup.

Much too quickly for my liking, we now turned away from the stands and were galloping left-handed towards the tricky fence before the water. This was it. I felt nervous and desperately uncertain. Falling off a horse and making it look like an accident is not quite so simple as some punters seemed to think. The field was beginning to close up behind me and for the first time I caught sight out of the corner of my eye of Melodrama, or rather more accurately of her sheepskin noseband. Her head was already set with determination as she fought to keep up and I had no doubt she was going to be right in there at the finish.