Well folks, what a race we have on our hands. 15 miles of tall timber being contested by some of the finest horseflesh ever seen. Greeting the starter were 22 of the fittest equines being ridden by some of the best jockeys, from all corners of the globe, well almost, a few came from far flung, exotic places, but the rest were battle tested locals. Or so we thought. Oh how wrong we were. So strong a pace has the mercurial Mick set, that most of the field lies strewn across the course like empty stubbies at a beach piss up. As mentioned, Mick has cut a dashing figure at the head of the field, and has so far taken some running down. But he's a worried little mother. After bolting away to a handy lead, he now shows signs of panic. He's taken a peep or two and has not asked his mount for the big effort yet. He's holding fire until they turn for home. How much has he left in the tank? Cyc, the Wonder from Down Under began well and has kept a close eye on the massive arse of the leader. The smell has not been pleasant, but being a class act, Cyc has forgiven the offensive behavior and decided to concentrate on the job at hand. Sensing a weakness in the fleeing, fearful Mick, the Wonder has opted to take the race by the throat and try to steal the front before they hit the bend. Ron could be the fly in the ointment though. Well maybe. Either he's got a lap full of horse under him, or he's fairly ****ting himself. As the race towards the three quarter mark, he's sitting cold. He's asked little of his conveyance to date. He began well, but has for all intents and purposes, has gone to sleep in the saddle. Somewhat akin to his honeymoon from what I've been told. Behind these wonderful, tear away leaders, comes a bunch of hard ridden pluggers headed by the Rude Lad. LG has pulled the whip and taken a shot at bridging the gap to those up front. All or nothing for him. Robbie, Woolly and Steveo, like bunged up cheese eaters, have a painful job ahead of them as they try squeezing out a result. Rapidly dropping out the back is the Irish hope ridden by the erstwhile Stick, who has for quite some time now, has been wielding the sheleighleigh without much success. He looks pretty in the pig skin, but it has to be admitted, his looks far outweigh his talent. But we all love a trier. Last and by all means last, at least of those still left standing, is the pride of God knows where, Channinbar. As he throws his tired, but not to be trusted mount at each and every fence, the following ambulance men get set to hit the skids. It's been well noted that Channinbar has had just 16 rides to date, but has fallen on 17 occasions. After falling in his sixth race ride, it's been said that he fell from the stretcher while being loaded into the ambulance. There is no truth to the wild rumour that he's carrying a cut lunch just in case of starvation during the long journey.
Connections are lining up a massive plot in one of those class 7 two milers at Wolves one chilly night in November Cyc.
