The Tale Of Roanberry



The Tale Of Roanberry


Posted: 13.10 09 Aug 2022
News


I had a very fast and forward two-year-old filly by the name of Roanberry. Quick as lightning she was, she really could shift. The problem was getting her to shift in the first place as more often than not she'd plant herself and refuse to run.

I knew that if she got out of the stalls with an even break then she had a race or two in her, but it just wasn't happening on the track. At home she was fine but on the racecourse she just froze.

By the time the August of 1978 came around she'd run four times and her races to date had not filled me with confidence. Anyone brave enough to back her knew their fate within literally a second of the start.

How could you ever back a horse that was long odds-on to stand motionless in the stalls, even if she was fast at home?

Roanberry was in good nick. Of that there was no mistake. She was tearing up the gallop at home, but when her races came around I didn't have the balls to put the money down.

I scratched my head over this filly for much of July '78 and eventually came up with an idea.

I wouldn't place a bet until I knew she was running. In order to do this I would position myself up in the stand with a pair of binoculars and watch the start. As soon as she was out of the starting gate I'd throw my cap on the floor and a couple of lads would dash to the ring and find a bookie or two who would take a late bet.

It was risky. Those of you who read the previous chapter about Lochnager will know how things can go very wrong when hats are involved. Poor Alice had felt awful about the debacle at Haydock with the hat-pin three years previously, but I was prepared to give it another try.

With the plan firmly secured in my mind the next step was to find a weak race and the Aysgarth Maiden Stakes, a five-furlong maiden race which tail-ended a poor Wednesday afternoon card at Catterick on 9th August 1978 looked just the ticket. An entry was duly made and jockey Colin Moss booked for the unenviable task of getting the lazy so-and-so to run.

I watched Roanberry do her last piece of pre-race work on the gallops and was happy with what I saw. She'd take some beating if she did decide to run.

Raceday arrived and after lunch Roanberry was loaded onto the wagon with Melba Toast who was to run in the penultimate race on the card.

Melba Toast was sent off favourite for his race and failed to make the frame. He was another frustrating character, full of ability but never keen to use it, and how that rascal only managed to win one bad seller at Pontefract in his whole career I'll never know.

It wasn't a good start by any stretch but amends would shortly be made.

As quarter to six, race time, approached I cast an eye over the empty stand and picked the spot for my surveillance. It was time to collect.

Roanberry went down to the start nicely and I climbed the steps to the back of the stand. I watched as the filly loaded without any issues and waited for the moment.

Roanberry had nothing to beat. It was a duck-egg derby with nothing in the form book but zeros. The twelve runners had run 28 times between them and had not made the first six in any of those races. Roanberry's fourth placed effort in a seven horse race at Beverley in July was the pick of the form.

But would she start? It was my job to watch and send the signal.

The cap was ready and as I waited for the starter I held my breath.

"They're under starters order, they're off."

Only Roanberry wasn't, and she had other ideas.

The stubborn filly had again planted herself, eventually setting off in her own time thirty or so lengths adrift.

Cross as hell I threw my cap down on the floor in disgust.

As soon as the cap was on the ground I realised what I'd done.

Seeing the signal the lads thought she was away and dived in to place their bets and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

I cursed myself quietly under my breath. I knew that I wasn't going to be popular.

We'd all lost a few pounds and, after a successful July, we wouldn't send out another winner for a month.

As for Roanberry, enough was enough and as she cantered past the post a furlong adrift I knew that it was time to look for a selling race.