Pulse(26)

Adrian handed out some racecards and then he went through each race in turn, referring to a large map of the racecourse and detailing with a marker pen on a whiteboard where each doctor or ambulance was to be positioned.

He himself regularly chose either to remain with the nurses in the jockeys’ medical room or to go up high in the grandstand with the ‘spotter’, someone whose sole job was to watch for any fallers and call in veterinary or medical help if required.

I, meanwhile, would be out on the course with the other doctors, either on foot or as a passenger in a vehicle, following the horses as they ran, ready to give assistance to any faller.

‘Do not forget,’ Adrian said to us seriously, ‘our primary task is to provide aid to every fallen rider within a maximum of one minute of him or her hitting the ground, but not at the price of putting yourselves in danger. Always keep your eyes and ears open for loose horses, and for any runners who are well behind the rest.’

He went on to describe the arrangements for calling for a fence to be bypassed if an injured jockey could not be moved before the horses came back around on a second airliner.

None of it was new. We had heard it all before but it still had to be covered, just like the safety briefing on an aircraft.

‘Any questions?’ Adrian asked.

There were none.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Please confirm to me individually that you have read and understood the latest racecourse medical standing orders and instructions. Also verify that your treatment kits are complete and all drugs and equipment are serviceable and in date. Lastly, let’s do a radio check and, remember, no sensitive material over the airwaves, please. You never know who’s listening.’

We each in turn made some inane comment over our personal radios.

‘Today is Tuesday and the weather is overcast,’ I said, and everyone nodded as they heard me loud and clear through their earpieces.

I read through the racecourse standing orders to see if there had been any changes since I’d last acted as a racecourse doctor the previous October. I smiled wryly at point six, which stated that one of the evacuation hospitals for an injured rider was Cheltenham General. It would be ironic, I thought, if I had to accompany a casualty there.

The briefing broke up and I wandered outside, onto the red-brick terrace in front of the weighing room.

There was an air of huge anticipation all around. The whole season so far had been leading up to these four days, and they had finally arrived. It was the ambition of every owner, trainer and jockey to have a winner at the Cheltenham Festival. Hence, there was a degree of nervous tension mingled within the excitement, especially among those connected to the favourites.

I know it was silly but I found it exciting that people I would normally only see in the newspapers or on the television were here in the flesh, and actually talking to me as if I were one of them. It may have helped that I was wearing a green coat with ‘Jockey Club Racecourses’ and ‘Doctor’ embroidered on the left breast – my uniform.

In my experience everyone was polite to a doctor, at least when they were sober. You never knew when you might need one.

‘Morning, doctor,’ said a man standing in front of me. ‘Lovely day for racing – dry and not too cold.’

I knew him, but only by reputation.

‘Good morning, Mr Hammond,’ I replied.

Peter Hammond was a household name even among those not the least bit interested in equine matters. He had been a champion racehorse trainer, both over jumps and on the flat, for almost as long as anyone could remember and had a waiting list for places in his yard that included kings, princes and presidents. And he had married a former Miss World, who was now an award-winning film star.

The Hammonds were definitely A-list celebrities, appearing almost weekly on talk shows and in the society magazines, and yet here he was talking to me.

I was flattered.

‘Any runners today, Mr Hammond?’ I asked by way of conversation.

‘Only six here today,’ he said. ‘Plus three others at Sedgefield, and two more this evening at Wolverhampton on the all-weather.’

He turned away from me to speak to a journalist who was hovering.

I looked through the racecard. Not only did he have six runners but two of them were in the big race of the day and well fancied.

I was embarrassed. How could I have asked him such a crass question?

I comforted myself in the knowledge that, while I didn’t know much about the day’s runners and riders, he probably wouldn’t know that the most effective treatment for electrocution was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I looked at my watch.

Still an hour to go before the first.

By now, the crowd would be pouring through the racecourse entrances in their torrents – tens of thousands of fans eager to choose their fancies and then cheer them home to victory, or otherwise, up the famous Cheltenham Hill to the winning post in front of the grandstands.

The bars were already doing strong business, particularly in the tented Guinness Village where many of the Irish visitors were clearly well established, quenching their thirsts while listening to their favourite folk bands that had travelled with them across the water.

The numerous restaurants and private boxes were also packed with guests, the racecourse caterers producing literally thousands of gourmet lunches all at once.

A day out at the Cheltenham Festival was far more than just another day at the races. It was a special treat and one to be savoured, and that included by the medical team.