Читать книгу Prince of Penzance - Kristen Manning - Страница 16

Chapter Nine

The Race

It is the moment that comes as close to quiet as Flemington on Melbourne Cup Day can be.

The horses have entered the gates. All bets are on. Trainers have done everything they can. Owners tense up. Jockeys take a deep breath.

Ever so briefly there is a hush across the course. That tiny moment between the starter hitting the button and the barriers crashing open.

And then there is a mighty roar.

The roar cascades across the course. Those who have heard it before, who know it is coming, prepare to enjoy it.

Those at their first Melbourne Cup are overcome by it. There is no sound like it.

As the horses find their feet, as jockeys jostle for position, there is a gentler sound, that of punters talking out loud, figuring out where their fancy has settled.

At the jump Prince Of Penzance, who had been loaded into the gates first, who had been there the longest, dwelt ever so slightly.

He is a length behind the rest of the field. But a couple of backmarkers drawn out wider soon drop in behind him while there is room in front and around him.

Michelle Payne makes the most of that space, gently urging Prince Of Penzance forward. It is a balancing act; this is a horse who’d been known to over-race. Push too hard and he could react, do nothing and he would be too far back to be a winning chance.

For the first half or so of the straight Prince Of Penzance does get his head up. But he gives the impression not of a horse being silly or green, but of a horse who is such a keen competitor that he wants to get going. One who can’t wait to show everyone what he can do.

It’s a touch of arrogance.

At Flemington racegoers have wonderful access to the finishing line, as the public stands are right across from it. On Melbourne Cup Day there is not an empty spot.

When the horses pass the post for the first time the roar re-emerges. If it doesn’t make your spine tingle you probably shouldn’t be there.

Meanwhile on the track there is the thunder of hooves, the yelling of jockeys, the heavy breath of horses. As the field passes the stands Prince Of Penzance is tucked away, twelfth on the rails. It takes a keen eye to spot him among the colourful throng.

Around the back of the course, as Big Orange makes the pace, Prince Of Penzance is travelling well, his head on his chest as he trails Max Dynamite. The previous year’s third placegetter, Who Shot Thebarman, is on his outside.

Approaching the 1000 metres there is a critical move. Michelle Payne gently slides Prince Of Penzance one off the fence. His owners watching can’t quite believe how well he is travelling at this stage, though none of his rivals are yet feeling the pinch.

Nearing the turn his position is further improved — he is now three off the fence following Trip To Paris.

As the field fans into the straight they are eight across. Big Orange is still in the lead, Excess Knowledge on his outside, topweight Snow Sky next, then Trip To Paris.

Still behind them is Prince Of Penzance.

Straightening, there is another vital moment. Trip To Paris gives a little kick, then Sky Hunter on Prince Of Penzance’s outside starts to tire.

This presents Michelle Payne and her horse with room to move. Had it been the other way around, had Trip To Paris tired, had Sky Hunter charged, Prince Of Penzance would’ve had nowhere to go.

But Michelle knew that Trip To Paris had the form to fight the race out. He was the right horse to follow.

There is 450 metres to go and Prince Of Penzance has clear air in front of him. Several others do as well, but they are not travelling like he is. He has the cheek, after 2800 metres, to be cruising.

He has eight in front of him, at the 300 metres seven.

He joins the leaders with 200 metres to go. He is flying. With 130 metres left he is in front. Max Dynamite, who had been close to him for most of the race, is making a gallant late run. The classy chestnut Criterion is digging deep.

Michelle is yelling as loud as she’s ever yelled before. And there is a big smile on her face. Then she is at the line.

‘History at Flemington!’ cries race caller Greg Miles.