There were 120 horses running on that first day of the Festival so we could assume that, on average, there would be about ten fallers during the afternoon. The record was nineteen. And we might statistically expect a couple of broken bones among the jockeys. Thankfully, major trauma was less common but we had to be ready for anything. And we’d all had experience at some time or another of having to call in the air ambulance.
Hence, I was in my position, eager and ready with my red doctor’s bag by my side, sitting in a Land Rover at one-thirty when the famed Cheltenham Roar erupted from the enormous crowd to greet the start of the traditional Festival opener, the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle Race.
There was a dirt roadway running all around the inside of the racecourse to enable vehicles to follow the action and I hung on tight to the Land Rover’s grab handles as we set off accompanied by an ambulance plus four more cars containing veterinary staff, horse catchers and a team of groundsmen with green screens. Horseracing was the only sport I knew of where the participants were actively chased by a full medical team of ambulances, vets and doctors.
In addition, other ambulances and more doctors were positioned at strategic points around the course, ready to take over if either I or the primary ambulance had to stop to attend to a fallen rider. Gone were the days of sixty or seventy years ago when a solitary fence attendant had to wave an orange flag to signal for veterinary help for a horse, or a red-and-white one to request medical assistance for the jockey, which could then have taken upwards of fifteen minutes to arrive.
‘Hang on,’ my driver instructed as we bounced along the roadway at more than thirty miles an hour. It may not have been as fast as Formula One but, on the undulating single-width track, it was exhilarating enough as we followed the field of horses up the finishing straight for the first time, past the packed grandstands and onwards left-handed.
‘Faller,’ announced the spotter over the radio as we approached the third flight of hurdles down the backstretch.
It was now my time.
I grabbed my bag and had the Land Rover door open even before the driver had pulled off the roadway onto the grass alongside the hurdle. Then I was ducking under the white running rail and sprinting across the turf towards the prostrate figure wearing the now-muddied yellow-and-blue-diamond-checked silks.
As Adrian had instructed in his briefing, I looked around for the loose horse but it had already clambered to its feet and galloped away in pursuit of the other runners.
The jockey wasn’t so much injured as angry and the presence of a female doctor clearly didn’t inhibit him in expressing it.
‘Fucking, fucking hell!’ he shouted, spitting out grass and beating the ground in front of him with his hand. ‘I was going so well, I thought I’d win. Stupid nag should learn to pick up his bloody feet.’
He rolled over, sat up and slowly rose to his feet, rubbing himself.
‘You OK?’ I asked in very non-doctoring language.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just a slight kick in the nuts. Nothing more than a bruise.’
‘Do you want me to take a look?’ I asked.
‘Always, darling,’ he said, with a guffaw. ‘No, really, I’m OK.’
We could hear the cheering from the stands as the race approached its climax and we both turned and looked in that direction, not that we could make out the individuals involved from so far away.
‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘I should be over there winning this.’ The noise died away abruptly as the horses crossed the finish line. ‘Any chance of a lift back? I’ve got a ride in the next.’
We were at about the farthest point on the course from the weighing room. He would be hard pressed to get back in time on foot.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We hurried back to the Land Rover, with him hobbling somewhat.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I asked. ‘You’re limping.’
‘Old injury,’ he said. ‘I’m just back from a broken ankle that I did five weeks ago at Bangor. OK for riding but not a hundred per cent yet for running.’
‘Completely mad,’ I said, shaking my head.
He laughed. ‘It helps.’
He climbed into the back of the vehicle while I got in the front.
‘Thanks, doc,’ he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
I wondered if he was in more pain than he was letting on. Jockeys were supreme experts at avoiding being stood down even for quite serious injuries when lesser mortals would have gladly taken weeks off work. For a jockey, not riding meant not earning, and there was no sick pay for the self-employed.
‘Don’t forget to report to the jockeys’ medical room to get clearance before you can ride again.’
‘Sure,’ he said, not opening his eyes. ‘No problem.’
All fallen riders had to ‘pass the doctor’ even if there was no apparent injury. In particular we were looking for any signs of concussion. They had to answer seven specific questions known as the ‘Turner Questions’ to test their memory function – the name or number of the horse they had just been riding, the trainer’s name, the type and length of the race, the name of the racecourse, the name of the current champion jockey, the winning horse or jockey of the previous Grand National or Cheltenham Gold Cup, and the names of two other jockeys riding at the course on that day. The aim was to test both short- and long-term memory.
They also had to do the Tandem Stance Test where they were required to stand with their feet in line one behind the other, hands on hips and eyes closed for twenty seconds without losing balance.
Any rider with suspected concussion would be fully medically assessed, immediately stood down and not permitted to ride again until cleared by the Chief Medical Adviser (CMA) of the horseracing authority. They are also not left alone or allowed to drive and may well be sent directly to hospital for a brain scan.
The driver dropped us off as close as possible to the enclosures. We hurried together across the track and up the horse-walk where the horses come out onto the course from the paddock.
The huge-screen TVs next to the parade ring flashed up the photo of the dead man with the bold DEAD-MAN caption underneath asking if anyone recognised him.
The jockey beside me stopped abruptly. He was staring up at the screen.
‘Do you know that man?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer.
‘Do you know him?’ I asked again, this time more forcefully while tugging on the arm of his silks.
‘Er, no,’ he said, turning towards me. ‘Never seen him before.’
He started moving forward again, briskly pushing his way through the crowd towards the weighing room. I stood and watched him go.
He had clearly been lying.
I took the racecard out of my coat pocket and turned to check the details of the first race. Yellow-and-blue diamonds, yellow cap – the horse was called Fast Broadband and had been ridden by one Richard McGee – Dick McGee.
He was one of the top twenty or so jump jockeys presently riding.
I made my way back to the weighing room but more sedately. I needed to register the details of the faller on the computerised Riders Injury Management System, known as RIMANI, even though there was no real injury to speak of. Every patient encounter, however brief, had to be recorded.
‘Hi, Chris,’ said Adrian Kings as he saw me enter the medical room. ‘All well?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Just filing my report.’
I sat at the computer terminal and typed in the information.
‘I see from this that you have already cleared Dick McGee to ride,’ I said, spinning the chair round to face Adrian.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was in here a second ago.’ He suddenly looked concerned. ‘Is there a reason why I shouldn’t have?’
‘No reason,’ I said. ‘I just wondered how you found him.’
Adrian shrugged his shoulders. ‘Much like any other bruised jockey who is trying to convince me it doesn’t hurt when he’s actually in agony. These boys could give our footballers a lesson or two.’
‘But you still passed him fit to ride?’ I asked.
‘No medical reason why I shouldn’t. Bruises may be sore but they are not normally dangerous, not unless they’re of the brain, of course.’
What I had really meant was more to do with the jockey’s demeanour. Had he been unduly agitated? Or overly concerned?
I was certain Dick McGee had recognised the dead man and I intended finding out why he had denied it.
The second race was event-free as far as the medical team was concerned.
The doctors rotated their positions on the course for each race and this time I was down at the start as the twelve runners circled while having their girths tightened by the assistant starters. I stood by the rail watching Dick McGee go round and round. He was now wearing red-and-black silks aboard the favourite, a six-year-old grey called Oystercard.
He saw me looking at him but, if that worried him, he didn’t openly show it.
I climbed into the Land Rover as the starter called the jockeys into line and then the chase was on once more.
Ten of the twelve horses finished the race and the other two pulled up without incident when tailed-off coming down the hill towards the third-last fence.
Oystercard won.
In the distance I could see the figure in red and black standing tall in the stirrups and saluting the vast crowd, which roared back its approval as he passed by the winning post, in front by two lengths.
The lows and highs of jump racing, I thought – a kick in the nuts and a mouthful of grass in the first, victory and acclaim in the second.
However, the third race, a three-mile handicap steeplechase over two complete circuits of the course with twenty fences to negotiate, was more challenging for the medical team.
Twenty-four runners went to post but only fourteen of them were to get to the finish. Of the remaining ten, four pulled up, four fell and the other two were brought down by tripping over another horse that had already fallen, both at the same fence, the second open ditch at the far end of the course on the first circuit.
Being ‘brought down’ was always the worst way to fall. Not only was it no fault of the horse in question, but there was little or no warning for the jockey, who could easily be catapulted directly head-first into the turf.
So it was with some trepidation that I ran across the track to a motionless form, while a second doctor plus one of the ambulance crews tended to the other two fallen riders.
To compound the problem, one of the horses was still lying on the ground nearby, its forelegs thrashing about violently. I feared at the time that it might have been fatally injured.
Taking care to avoid the flailing hooves, I reached my allocated jockey who was lying on the grass curled up in a ball, gently moaning.
I took that to be a good sign. At least he was conscious.
I went down on my knees next to his back and gently touched him.
‘Dr Rankin here,’ I said. ‘Don’t try and move. Let me assess you first.’
‘It’s my left shoulder, doc,’ he said, panting slightly with the pain.
‘Dislocated?’ I asked. Many jockeys knew from prior experience what the excruciating pain of a dislocated shoulder was like and, if you’d felt it once, it was difficult then to forget.
‘Collarbone, I think,’ he said. ‘I’ve done it before.’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Dave,’ he said. ‘Dave Leigh.’
I pulled up his racing silks and ran my hand down his spine inside his body protector. ‘Any pain here, Dave?’
‘None.’
Next I felt round his neck. ‘Anything?’
‘No.’
‘Can you remember if you banged your head?’ I asked.
‘I know I didn’t,’ he said with certainty. ‘I instinctively put my bloody hand out to break the impact. Stupid idiot. I landed on that.’
The classic method of fracturing a collarbone.
‘Wiggle your toes for me.’
He did so. I could see them moving inside his wafer-thin riding boots.
‘Can you sit up?’ I asked.
I steadied him as he rolled towards me until he was sitting upright on the damp grass. He supported his left wrist in his right hand. I had a gentle feel around the joint. As far as I could tell, the head of the humerus was correctly located into the glenoid fossa, the shallow shoulder socket, so it didn’t appear to be a dislocation, but the left arm hung down slightly lower in a manner expected with a broken collarbone. However, only an X-ray could confirm if that was truly the case.
My doctor colleague came over to join us, his fallen rider having hurt nothing more than his pride.
‘Dave Leigh,’ I said. ‘Suspected fractured clavicle. Hospital job.’
‘Can he be moved?’
I looked around. The other two riders had already got up and gone and, much to my relief, even the horse was now on his feet and being led away, but the fence attendants were hovering nearby, getting ready to doll off the fence for the remaining runners to bypass on the second circuit.
Our primary concern was always the welfare of the jockey and my decision had to be in his interests first but I would not be thanked if I didn’t make every effort to clear the course if it was safe to do so.
‘Come on, Dave, let’s get you up,’ I said. ‘But tell me immediately if anything else hurts.’
The other doctor and I helped the jockey to his feet and, together, we walked him off the track towards the waiting ambulance, and just before those horses still running in the race arrived back at the fence.
I turned and watched them again jump the open ditch, this time without incident, and, with the injured jockey now safely installed in an ambulance ready for the journey to hospital, I jogged back to the Land Rover to continue the pursuit, smiling broadly.
Boy, it felt good to be doctoring again.