Читать книгу Jumbo to Jockey: Fasting to the Finishing Post - Dominic Prince - Страница 6

Chapter One

The basic arithmetic was simple. To become a jockey I needed to lose five stone, to get under the minimum allowance of 12 stone. Having never been on a diet of any sort in my life before, I had no idea how long it would take or how to do it, apart from the obvious things of not eating or drinking too much. But I assumed, not unnaturally, that it would probably take a hell of a long time. If I could lose half a stone a month then by September I would have lost enough weight to be ready to race. But before I could establish when to race and how to diet, there was the question of how I could teach myself not to eat so much when surrounded by people who spend a good deal of time shopping and cooking mountains of food.

The first thing that had to be cut out was bread and pasta and butter and cheese. I remember my mother, who claimed constantly to be on a diet, saying years ago that she did the same thing. There was no precise science involved to suggest that this was the best way to proceed, but it felt like the right place to begin. The day after my announcement, Rose and I worked through what I might be able to eat and how it would fit in with what we would both still enjoy eating, since she had decided to take on the diet as well. It was not easy. We haggled and bickered and then discussed it all before reaching a compromise of sorts.

The conundrum of the diet was that since all athletes – footballers, boxers and rugby players among others – take a huge amount of carbohydrates on board, pasta and the like was a natural part of their daily intake. If I was going to be exercising for the first time in more than twenty years and put unfamiliar pressure on my body, carbohydrates would be essential for refuelling. But I wasn’t an athlete and, besides, jockeys ate virtually nothing. Where was the middle ground? We decided that, rather than simply starve four stone off my body, we would start with a diet of pulses, beans, lentils – protein – lots of vegetables, salads and fruit, and wait and see what happened. The hardest part was the wine, which had been a part of my daily life since I got my first job, but that too was struck off the list, and then put back on, before being taken off again, and finally being allowed – in moderation.

Next on the list of things to do was to call everyone I knew in the horse world – trainers, owners, agents and managers – to find out what chance I had of riding a horse on a proper racecourse. No one took me seriously. Most people said it was a mad idea and that I would soon come to my senses. Others said that there was a good probability of me killing myself. The rest just howled with laughter. But then, when I said that I really was going to do it and that no one was going to stop me, the tone changed, and I started to get the advice I needed.

What was immediately apparent was that before I could go anywhere near a horse I needed to get fit and to lose a lot of weight. Until I had done that no one was going to let me ride. Quite apart from the fact that a Thoroughbred racehorse is a very delicate creature, the dangers of falling off one are exacerbated when you are overweight. The extra pounds make riding a horse a tricky balancing act, and if you do fall off with an extra four stone of ballast pushing down on you as you connect with the ground, broken bones are inevitable. I was told to watch footage of the greatest jockeys, men like Lester Piggott and Frankie Dettori, to see how their remarkable balance and rhythm did not upset the horse’s natural gait. If the horse is put off its stride it will lose valuable ground. As I watched old tapes of their famous victories I clutched my girth and laughed to myself as I thought that this was what I was hoping, in my own way, to emulate. But I had to start somewhere.

If there was one real concern, though, it was that the pursuit of a childhood dream, in itself, was worryingly selfish, since this was all about the urge to pursue a dream that had been gnawing away at me for years. It would mean cutting myself off from my wife and children for weeks at a time as I disappeared to the countryside to train. It would mean a disruption, not just to our everyday diet but also to the children’s wellbeing, and our family life. It left me with the nagging question that I should be have been concentrating on being a responsible father. Others who had faced a midlife crisis had just gone out and bought a Porsche. Why, some asked, couldn’t I just go off and do that? On the other hand, I reasoned with myself, hadn’t the children for years thought that they had a rather eccentric fat bloke for a father, who just ate too much? For as long as they could remember they only ever saw me with a glass of wine in my hand. Surely I could do better than that? This, then, would be a new era, a challenge the like of which I had not had for years, certainly not within their lifetime.

For as long as I can remember breakfast has usually consisted of a few slices of toast with marmalade, perhaps a fried egg or a couple of rashers of bacon. Occasionally I would have a Stockbridge sausage or two, all washed down with a mug of tea with full-fat milk. What I would now be presented with at the start of each day was a breakfast truly fit for a horse. Every evening I would prepare a meal of deliciously malted crushed barley, oats, linseed and a dessert spoon of honey all soaked overnight in water. It was a cold porridge-style gruel, which was not much to look at, but was far from unpleasant, and very early on it became the highlight of my day. This was supplemented by a strong cup of Earl Grey, with skimmed milk. Without doubt the best Earl Grey available is Fairtrade tea bags sold by the Co-op. It used to be that Safeways was the best but that particular enterprise folded into Morrisons and they foolishly did away with the tea. The breakfast felt healthy, and almost immediately I could feel the difference as I digested the food quickly, and it left me buzzing with a new energy. Within days I felt better than I had in years.

Whereas before lunch constituted grazing over delicious leftovers with a glass of wine (permanently topped up), it now became a meal consisting of salad with a piece of fish or cold chicken. White beans with olive oil, thyme and tuna was another favourite; it is so good that it has become a household speciality, with which I serve up pots of tiny brown Puy lentils with finely chopped celery, onions and carrots cooked for 20–25 minutes in chicken stock. To cook the lentils, first I fried the vegetables in olive oil, then added the lentils, stirring vigorously for 2–3 minutes and then finally the chicken stock. It was a warming, intense experience and it kept the bowels open. Dinner was taken after a walk with Billy, our dog, and would generally consist of more of the lentils cooked earlier in the day, a piece of steak and a salad.

To supplement these home-made concoctions I drank between five and seven litres of water a day. This was far more than is recommended, but I stuck to it religiously in the perhaps misplaced belief that it would help flush out the fat. I kept litre bottles of water at my desk, in the car, in bed – anywhere I knew I would be for more than a few minutes. Inevitably it led me to think that I might develop another phantom ailment – this time diabetes.

For the first few weeks I deliberately stayed away from the scales, anticipating the excitement of shedding the first few pounds. I felt better, cleaner somehow and more alive but also still lumpen. When I stepped onto the scales for the first time, filled with the excitement of having achieved something special, absolutely nothing had changed. The bathroom scales just crept up to the 16 stone 7lb mark, and did the same every time I got on them. More drastic measures needed to be taken. I returned to the diet list and crossed out the drink again, vowing to give it up for five days of the week. That way I could reward myself at the weekends. For the time being, I would continue to smoke but also tried to cut back on cigarettes, too. Not that I am sure it made any difference, but it felt like the right thing to do.

So much for the innards, but what of the body that I had to shed five stone from and needed to tone into coarse muscle and sharpened reflexes? In the modern era there are so many options for fat people to lose weight. There’s a gym on every corner and swimming pools in every town. There are tennis courts and football pitches, bicycles, footpaths and now even government initiatives. When I put on my trainers for the first time, along with everyone else who was trying to make good their New Year’s resolution, I joined the crowd at our local park as we did circuits panting, wheezing and sweating like old pigs ready for slaughter. I was grateful to be told by the racing professionals that I needed to protect my knees in order hold my balance in the saddle; it meant that running was out of the question. After my brief humiliation, I started cycling instead and quickly realized that it was the perfect way to combine exercising Billy.

Billy is a golden cocker spaniel. He was a gift from my mother-in-law and soon became a secret weapon in my fight against the flab. I had never wanted a dog, relenting only to please the children, but in time he became my best mate and a source of inspiration. He was an untrained, unkempt animal with awful, slothful manners. He was greedy, hardly house-trained, could be grumpy and misbehaved at every opportunity. We had much in common. As the weeks became months and I applied the discipline, slowly he came right.

Every morning I took Billy on the lead, towing him behind me while Lara, my daughter, rode her own bike. We soon got into the routine of cycling the three miles to Lara’s school, although the first time we did this we were both nervous that Billy was going to end up under the wheels either of the bike or of a car, bus or lorry. But he got used to it and soon enough he was running alongside us, as we pedalled merrily past the morning commuters.

The weather throughout most of that winter was cold and crisp. I wore a beautiful brown tweed coat from Cordings of Piccadilly, more at home at a local point-to-point than Chelsea. Wrapped up in a puffa jacket and scarf, Lara would get dreadfully embarrassed because most parents either drove their children to school or sent nannies to escort them. After a few weeks, though, in a funny way she came round to enjoying the eccentricity of it all. Billy, on the other hand, loved it from day one. Cycling down long, tree-lined carriageways, over Chelsea Bridge, we’d stop to cross the main roads, waiting for articulated lorries to pass in a blast of diesel fumes. We took these opportunities to train Billy to sit and wait and for the lights to change before we get back on our bikes again. On the final leg of the journey we turned down Ebury Street and skirted Belgravia with people waving at us, cheering us as we arrived at the school gates. I would then chain Lara’s bike to the railings outside the school until repeating the exercise later on in the day at 3.45, when I’d go to collect her.

From school I might go to the bank, Billy still in tow, or the butcher’s, before returning home to stew some more lentils. Each time I cycled back on my own through the park I would pretend that it was a horse beneath me and not a bicycle and I would pedal furiously, overtaking Billy as he barked at me, feeling the wind in my face and knowing that every day I did this my thigh muscles would get stronger.

Working from home with Rose meant that we would meet for coffee after the school cycle ride and lunch together at 1 p.m. when we would routinely assess my diet and the exercise I was going to do. We quickly realized that the cycling alone was not enough, and so, twice a week, from the beginning of February, I took myself off to the Chelsea swimming baths just off the King’s Road and put myself through twenty lengths of really hard physical swimming, resisting the urge to resort to doggy paddle rather than the really good heart-pumping stuff of front crawl and breaststroke.

One of the many benefits of the new regime is that I found mundane weekly chores much more enticing. Going off to the shops became a welcome distraction much more easily accomplished on a bicycle than in a car. As a result, as the new regime took hold I constantly found excuses to leave the house to go for a ride on my bike. I worked out that the long driveway running west to east in Battersea Park was roughly a mile long, so each time I left the house, no matter where I was going, I would always put in a lap of the track before returning home. I would step high on the pedals and start to push, pump and tug the handlebars as if they were reins. I would try to get the bike to go flat out and kept imagining, as on those journeys back from school, that below me was not tubular steel but a real, live, galloping beast of a horse, even though I had no idea when I would be getting anyway near one.

It was only a few weeks before I was sleeping more deeply, exhausted, but exhilarated, by the exercise. From about the second week of the diet I would wake every morning quite literally feeling things – toxins, perhaps – being expunged from my body. Although I already felt leaner – even if the scales did not say as much at that stage – almost the day I started the diet spots began to appear on my face as though twenty years of three-hour lunches and fine wine was seeping out of my body. It was as though my body was celebrating the change, enjoying the respite I was affording it and was preparing itself for the transformation that I was undergoing. Very soon after I started the regime, I ceased to have the urge to eat as I once had done, to drink or to smoke. It was as though the passion I had for all these pleasures had been transferred in one fell swoop to indulging none of them as I set about straightening myself out and getting fit.

By the end of the first month I had given up smoking altogether. Even at Christmas, I had been devouring thirty cigarettes a day with religious devotion even though I was not starting until after three in the afternoon. Like any good addict, I had quit on numerous occasions in the past and found it easy, but this time it would be different, I promised myself. This time I would quit for good, another positive side-effect of going in pursuit of this dream. The only problem, I knew, was that when I stopped smoking I would have to look for some other distraction. If I could channel that dedication into another kind of obsession, then I would easily be fit for a race day in September.