WE’RE off first time. Flag up, tape back, horses away. Simple really. The angle we’ve walked in at has handed an advantage to the horses lined up middle to outer though. Nevertheless we’re away just behind the leaders, one off the rail. Ideal.

I can see Faugheen striding along in front as the first fence rushes to meet us. We rise and land. Nothing changes. The pink of Townend and the blue of Puppy are in front but from their hands, neither want to be. Noted.

We take the second and start the sharp turning descent toward the two-mile start. It’s tight for room, another sign the pace is slow, and I let Davy Russell know there’s two of us on his inside. He doesn’t respond but the gap doesn’t shrink any further.

Into the long straight toward the stands and the field spreads out and daylight seeps in. Faugheen still leads but he’s slow at the third while Melon wings it, although slightly to his right which means he almost lands on top of the old horse’s tail. I decide to go forward. There’s no pace, I’m jumping well and I’m not afraid of him running keen.

We meet the next on a good stride and I tell Paul I’m going on. Melon pricks his ears. We gallop on up by the stands and swing down into the back straight. Fences come thick and fast.

Downhill, perfect. Water, lovely but out to his right again. First ditch, ideal stride. Normal fence, just up and over. Turn left and uphill to the second ditch. He’s travelling in my hands and we spot a long one. We whoosh through the top of the birch on the way down.

I can’t hear anything behind me so we must have a cushion of sorts. I keep the bit in his mouth as we rise and rise toward the next plain one. We’re meeting it slightly short so I take my leg off him and Melon measures it to the inch.

The brushing of the fence behind me tells me the field has tightened up again. Around the motorbike like bend at the highest point of the track, still no one harrying us, a gift. We straighten for a handful of strides before the notorious fourth last. Long again, but we’re travelling within ourselves and Melon attacks it without a hint of hesitation, if again slightly to his right.

Roller-coaster

We turn left and begin the roller-coaster-like drop toward the third last, where the speed increases like a piano falling out a window. Still no sign of a nose at my boot so I continue to hold onto Melon’s head. Not many of these would place in a Champion Hurdle so no need to go earlier than them.

We fly the third last but immediately a bridled head with a flash of white appears. It should be Faugheen considering where he was halfway down the back straight but it’s Samcro.

Something must have gone amiss. We gallop into the home straight. Russell, while motionless, presses on over the sand road and suddenly Melon is going as fast as he can.

We thunder down to the second last, a neck down now. I ask Melon to fly and he does, quick as lightning. Yellow and black blurs past the thump that is Samcro meeting it halfway. He disappears from view. We’re back in front. Down to the last.

A half stride appears, an all or nothing. Do you ask the blackjack dealer to hit when you’re sitting on 19? Only if someone else on the table has 20. I sit, Melon shortens and tucks up. We’re not slow but we’re not fast either and that chesnut head joins us in mid-air once again.

Then we’re a head down, five strides and we’re a half-length behind. The dream is slipping. Room becomes tight on my right so I switch my stick to my left. The bouncing purple in my eyeline isn’t going away from us anymore. We’re not losing ground. We’re starting to make it. But we’re not going to make it. Are we? Maybe. Maybe. Flash.

Not sure

I don’t think we’ve got there but I’m not sure. I pull up and turn around to watch the big screen. We’re behind. We’re behind. We’re in front. Is this extra slow bloody motion?! Please stay in front. Please. I realise I’m saying this out loud but I don’t care.

Please.

No. Where it matters, we’re up and Samcro is down. F**k. Again I realise I’m saying this out loud but I don’t care.

F**k.

I growl and wait for the loudspeaker to confirm it, checking my number just in case. The loudspeaker confirms that I don’t need to go to Specsavers.

I turn with gritted teeth to congratulate Russell but find him gone, like a boxer who left the ring before the result was called. Hmm. It’s all very good posing for the camera and punching the air for the crowd in victory but if you can’t conduct yourself properly in defeat then your celebrations ring hollow.

Graciousness in victory is easy. A man reveals himself in defeat, even if it is only imagined, as was actually the case here. I was disappointed in him for it.

I send Melon back down the chute, vaguely smiling at some kind words being thrown our way, and we slowly walk back to get ready for the next ride.