IT was the changing of the guard. I could sense it. Hell, it was more than a sense, I could see it, feel it, hear about it. I was on the way out and Jonathan Thomas was on the way in as first call jockey for the burgeoning stable of Jack Fisher. It was 2000, my last year.

Riding like a young man who hasn’t seen the dark side, Thomas had begun to win on my horses. It hurt, but I knew it was time for me to go. In a way, it felt good, to hand it off to a kid who lived and breathed steeplechasing. The numbers - Aitcheson-440…Smithwick-398…Adams-301…Fishback-301…ingrained in his mind like they had been in mine when all we could ride was the back of the couch.