Life As I Know It (11 page)

Racing is not random, though. People have the capacity to influence the outcome. Owners, trainers and jockeys are always planning, theorising, strategising. Stables employ specialist analysts whose job it is to anticipate the positions horses will take up in the
field, based on their record and their barrier. These are called speed maps, and increasingly they were appearing in form guides when I started as an apprentice. These analysts also anticipate what jockeys will do at what stage in a race: a horse that has no sprint might have to start its slow grinding run from the 1000-metre mark; a horse that is not good enough to win a race might be ridden for luck on the off chance it gets an inside split and bursts to the front at the right instant, because that's the only way it can win against better horses. And sometimes races do go to plan and everyone looks like a genius.

But, as Dad always says, ‘There's always luck. You could go inside and get a clear run or you could go inside and not get the run. Who's to know?'

Races don't unfold the way you think they will every time. A horse can pull you forward to the front of the field when you were instructed to sit back at the tail of the field. A horse can miss the start and won't go forward when you've been instructed to lead. A horse can get caught three and four wide without cover and will be out of fuel as the field turns for home. A horse can get buried away on the rails and get shuffled back by tiring horses. A horse can be in the ruck with no opening and never get a run.

Even as a young jockey all this seemed obvious to me: you can read a race only when you're in the middle of it and then you can act. That's when you can anticipate what's about to unfold, and you make a rational decision in the split second you have to process the information. You can respond to your intuition and instinct, and the combination of both, which is best called ‘experience'. But one thing is certain: a jockey
cannot
control what other horses are doing. I've also learned that not everyone realises this. I see how jockeys are sometimes blamed for things that happened
to
them. When you are a young female jockey you really get blamed. It is
unfair and frustrating. I want people to know that things don't go wrong because you are a woman. They just go wrong.

When I was starting out, male jockeys—the senior riders and the apprentices—did not cop the same degree of criticism as women. They were more likely to be forgiven. Poor rides were not blamed on their maleness. While some owners and trainers were very fair the tendency was that women were less likely to be forgiven. Then, if a horse won only because of the tactically and technically outstanding ride from someone like Clare Lindop or Holly McKechnie, there would be this sense of surprise: ‘Who would have thought? A brilliant ride from a woman!'

I was always aware of this attitude. I'd seen it with my sisters. I'd see it at trackwork. I'd see it on race day. It is a culture, a set of assumptions that affects the lives of female jockeys. It is unjust. But it is the way it is and we have no choice but to exist within this culture, while working to change that culture.

I would speak up and argue my case when it happened to me. I think the Loreto girls were not surprised when I defended myself to racing people if they were with me when I got a phone call from an owner. I would stand my ground, try to give rational explanations to people who had not experienced the hurly-burly of what a race is like. I would get so disheartened by the attitudes. I spent a lot of time talking with Joan about it. She knew how hard I tried, how hard I worked.

‘Women jockeys have to be twice as good to be considered half as good,' Joan would say.

There were some moments when I felt I made progress. Not long after my eighteenth birthday, Heath Conners, for whom I was riding trackwork at Caulfield, nominated Gaju Chief, a wet-tracker, for a Randwick 2400-metre race. It had been raining up in Sydney and Heath gave me the ride. After coming across from barrier four, Gaju Chief settled well, handled the wet ground comfortably, and
I got a nice split in the straight and went on to win the race—my first winner in Sydney. The crowd was very welcoming, cheering me back to the winners' circle.

However, two very experienced jockeys, Larry Cassidy and Corey Brown, protested, claiming I had interfered with their horses as I came across from my barrier. Larry Cassidy argued that my action caused his horse to over-race. In the hearing I suggested that Larry Cassidy had slapped his horse out of the barriers and that his actions caused his horse to fire up, definitely not mine. The stewards agreed, and the protest was dismissed. I didn't think much of it—I was just arguing what was reasonable. Joan said it showed I was willing to stick up for what I thought was right, something some in racing weren't expecting from a young female apprentice.

I stuck at it. A number of trainers were continuing to give me opportunities, taking advantage of my claim: Brian Mayfield-Smith, Brian McKnight, Mike Moroney, Heath Conners, David Hall, Andrew Noblet and others. When John O'Connor came across from South Australia he'd often get me to ride for him. He'd ring Joan: ‘That you, Joan?'

‘Yes.'

‘Michelle Payne's Number One fan here.'

A young jockey needs a bit of that.

It got to the point where I was spending most of my time in Melbourne, which was easily the best thing I could be doing to make my way in racing. Dad didn't agree. I think he was getting a bit lonely as it was just him and Stevie left at home. It was very quiet and Dad wasn't handling it well. He was used to a house full of activity, laughter, good fun, hard work, and all those things he loved so much when we were all young. Not that I thought about
it at the time, but he probably realised that he was getting older. He had some health concerns. He'd had a minor heart attack when he was the age his father was at the time of his death. It was generally a time of change for him.

Towards the end of 2003, when I was in Ballarat, Dad offered me a deal to come back home and take a half share of the prize money on the horses he trained. But he only had two horses, and that meant opportunities for me were going to be limited. It was impossible for me to get to early morning trackwork in Melbourne from Ballarat—I didn't have my driver's licence. I didn't have to think too long about his offer.

‘No, I think it's better for me to stay in Melbourne, where I work, because I'm getting plenty of rides,' I said to let him down as gently as I could.

‘Go then. You can find another trainer to look after you,' he shouted.

I didn't say anything; he had never been so angry with me before. Cathy was with me, and she could see how upset I was and how furious Dad was.

‘Come on, let's go,' she said, and drove us back to Melbourne.

Dad and I had had heated arguments before and they had always blown over. This felt very different. The next morning, when I was on my way to the races at Kilmore, he rang.

‘Now, if you don't find yourself another trainer by tomorrow, I'm going to stand you down. That was a good deal I offered you and I can't believe you don't want to take it,' he lectured. I knew he was hurt. I didn't argue, as unfair as it seemed. Although I was disappointed by his reaction I understood it.

It was a pretty drastic threat, though, and he certainly had the power to make it happen. Perhaps he thought he could force me to change my mind. But I wasn't going to cave in. I thought he was being unreasonable and I was determined to stick to my guns.

I was riding for Brian Mayfield-Smith that day and explained the situation to him. He didn't hesitate. He was happy to take me on as an apprentice. I rang Dad on the way home.

‘Brian's going to take me on.' That's when Dad and I stopped talking. For the first time in my life I was estranged from my father.

B
EFORE OUR DISAGREEMENT
, I was speaking to Dad once or twice a day, sometimes more. No matter how busy I was in Melbourne, through 2002 and 2003 I'd ring for a chat or a word of advice. That was part of daily life. After our falling out towards the end of 2003, Dad was extremely unhappy. And so was I. I saw it as a matter of principle. I thought Dad was being unreasonable, or even unfair, and when I feel something is not fair I'll hold my ground. I thought he was being selfish, putting himself ahead of what was best for me—something I'd never seen in him before.

There's a point at which my dad's determination can become stubbornness—I know that because I can be the same. He wasn't budging and neither was I. It wasn't that I was ignoring Dad, far from it. It was more about my focus—I was on my way, concentrating on the path I'd chosen and determined to do my best. In this case I don't think I had a blinkered view at all.

My sisters were concerned, especially Cathy, but no one was going to get involved. They thought we needed to sort it out
ourselves. They were busy with their own lives and responsibilities, anyway. Therese's tribe was expanding. I felt I was taking good steps as a young apprentice and I knew I was with one of the very best trainers in Brian Mayfield-Smith.

Of all the people in Australian racing, Brian was one of the most respected. He was a horseman's horseman, who still rode his stock pony during trackwork. He was a purist like Dad. He loved horses, and his primary concern was the welfare of his, and of all, animals. He hated anyone being cruel or even rough to horses. He loved his horses.

Brian had grown up in far north Queensland, where he'd been a bush stockman. His work with horses there directed him towards racing. After moving to Sydney he became the first trainer to knock T.J. Smith, Gai Waterhouse's father, off the Trainers Premiership Table. T.J. had won it for thirty-three years in a row. Brian went on to win it a couple more times, so it was no fluke.

Not long after his Sydney successes Brian and his wife Maree began travelling to Africa. The more they went, the more they wanted to be there, working in animal conservation. They moved to Africa for a period, concentrating their efforts on saving the white rhino, which proved to be somewhat frustrating. On their return to Australia Brian established stables at Flemington and built a strong team. Again, he became one of the country's best trainers.

Although I was signed over to Brian for three months, Dad was ultimately still the master of my apprenticeship and he retained the final say in what I could do. But day to day, I worked with Brian. His home was just around the corner from where I was living with Maree and Brett. Still without a driver's licence, I relied on Brian. He would pick me up at 4 a.m., six days a week, and I'd ride trackwork for him. He'd drop me home when we finished at 9.30 a.m. I had to work until then, even though we had finished riding around by 7.30, to earn my wage of $215 a week with the
afternoons off. By this time in my apprenticeship I was riding almost every day. I remember once riding twenty-six days straight. Nowadays apprentices are only allowed to ride nine days straight. It was incredibly tiring and I would become so sleep-deprived an afternoon nap would sometimes carry me through until the alarm went off at 3.30 a.m. the next morning. I'd also sleep for six hours during my days off to catch up.

When it came to my technique Brian was a helpful critic, encouraging me, but letting me know when I'd made a mistake. He was a natural teacher. He taught me patience and that, while strength was valuable, there are other ways to get the best out of a horse. His way was all about getting horses into a rhythm and having them travelling well on a nice rein, getting their breathing right, and keeping them balanced. That's what I'd learned at Home, so we basically had the same philosophy. It was reassuring.

Most trainers watch trackwork from the tower, a tall structure with an enclosed platform from where they can keep an eye on the horses being worked. It's a place of binoculars and stopwatches and horse talk. Brian was different. He liked being out in the middle. He sat on his pony at the end of the straight so he got a closer look at the horse's action and was able to listen to the horse's breathing as it pulled up.

Once I signed on with Brian, though, I did not get nearly as many city rides and Dad did not think Brian was doing the right thing by me. He wanted to change the nature of the apprenticeship again. He delivered a second ultimatum: ‘If you can't find another trainer by tomorrow night I'm standing you down from riding.' He had the power to do that.

By then Therese had her trainer's licence and was based at Rockbank on the western outskirts of Melbourne. I rang her.

‘Therese, Dad won't let me stay with Brian. I need to find a new master. Can I sign with you?'

‘No worries,' she said. ‘Of course you can.'

Sorted in a minute.

Dad and I still weren't talking and there was no end in sight to the trouble between us. Neither of us was giving an inch. I'd wonder, was I really gambling my relationship with my father against my riding career? This was constantly on my mind, but I continued to think he was trying to make life harder for me in Melbourne in the hope I would return to Ballarat. That still didn't seem fair to me.