Page 23 - The Game November 2006

Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper The Game, November 2006 23
Cuthbertson Continued from Previous Page
Woodbine is actually where it all began for Cuthbertson. It’s hard to actually fathom that E.P. Taylor’s racetrack was only 8 years old when Cuthbertson rode as an apprentice in 1964. He doesn’t recall exactly how many winners he had, “maybe twenty or so,” but he sure knows the name of the first horse to bring him to the winner’s circle.
“My first winner was a horse called Buttermilk Pike for a trainer named Doug Hess,” he says, “ The race was 6 1/2 furlongs. I won it by a nose. It was over before I knew it.”
The start of Cuthbertson’s career coincided with the glory days of many of Canada’s most memorable jockeys.
“There was a lot of awesome riders back then,” says Cuthbertson, “Avelino Gomez, Chris Rogers, Hugo Dittfach, Ron Turcotte was here.”
After his first year, though, Cuthbertson decided to ride out west, for the simple purpose of becoming a better horseman.
“I went out west and that’s when I really learned how to ride and develop my own style, because I was riding 7 or 8 horses a day as opposed to a couple or three here. I ride real acey-deucy.”
His interviewer gives a quizzical look at the acey-deucy reference, so Cuthbertson elaborates.
“I ride short on one side and longer on the other, mostly because I was riding on bullrings, so you had to ride a little longer on the inside to lead into the corners. I just kept that style on the bigger tracks because I got comfortable with that.”
For over 40 years, Cuthbertson’s comfort zone took him to Stampede Park and Northlands in Alberta and then farther west to Exhibition Park and Hastings in Vancouver and as well Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields in Northern California. In the process he racked up over 1900 wins.
As he gets perilously close to the onset of his 7th decade, Alan Cuthbertson shows no sign of mellowing or losing his edge. This summer’s Manitoba Racing Commission Thoroughbred Rulings have a liberal sprinkling of his name:
May 3rd: Smoking
June 13: Suspended three days, exceeding the limit for breath analysis
July 7: Careless Ride
August 12: One-day suspension, misuse of whip.
“He’s ridden for 43 years and he rides to win, but within the
allowable limit,” says his agent Eshelman, “In the jock’s room he’s always had the respect of the other riders. He hasn’t necessarily been a thorn in the side of the stewards, but he has been the architect of his own problems from time to time.”
It didn’t take Cuthbertson very long to get his name on a better list – a race result with his horse first. In the sixth race at Woodbine on October 19, Cuthbertson was on the three-year- old colt Charada in a $20,000 claim race. Sent off at 3-1, Charada, trained by Joe Johnson for Kenneth Sawatzky, was up close down the backstretch, then taken to the outside at the head of the lane. Emile Ramsammy had Algonquin Highland on the lead, but Cuthbertson was driving his horse and in a dramatic stretch run, Charada stuck his neck in front about ten feet from the wire for the victory.
Alan Cuthbertson was 59 years, two months, two weeks and a day old when he won this race and the first thing that crossed my mind was “is he the oldest jockey to win a race at Woodbine?”
According to track historian Louis Cauz, it’s close, but Cuthbertson still has a few months to go.
“Pat Remillard retired in 1966 at the age of 60,” Cauz informs me, “He had a few wins after his 60th birthday.”
Remillard’s standard would seem to be an easy reach for Cuthbertson, as staying in Toronto is part of the plan.
“We’re going to finish the meet here and if we can get rolling, Bonnie and myself, we’re going to come back in the spring,” says Cuthbertson.
“At first I was met with these long looks from the majority of people,” says Eshelman, about trying to get mounts for her rider, “However, now when I go to see those same people, I can see that the nut is starting to crack. He’s such an awesome rider. He’s a great judge of pace. Calls are starting to come in. It’s going to happen, it’s inevitable.”
Actually, Cuthbertson will only have to ride for a full decade more to match the incredible record of Frank Amonte who, on September 4th 2006, steered 10-1 shot Cuff the Quote to victory in the second race at Northampton Fair in Massachusetts.
The next day, Amonte celebrated his 70th birthday.
The Invisible Gallop Boy - By evenSteven
As the hazy days of summer shorten into the crisp nights of fall, I’ve begun to notice a strange phenomenon at Hastings Park, it seems I’m becoming invisible. Although I’ve been exercising horses since April and walking hots for three years before that, lately I spend my autumn mornings wandering the backstretch alone. In the space of three weeks I’ve become the ghost of the track, haunting the gaps and shedrows in the ever desperate hope of finding a ride. At first I wasn’t sure what was happening. Grooms previously friendly no longer gave me the time of day. Trainers who once awaited my arrival were now nowhere to be seen. I used to sing to my horses as we galloped merrily around, but these days all I’m singing are increasingly relevant blues standards: “In your pockets, not one penny, as for friends, you just don’t have any.”
I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for my recent drop in status. I keep hearing reasons such as: “It’s that time of year,” or “Horses are going home for a rest,” or my personal favourite: “Maybe it’s you.” I try not to take it personally that in the space of a month I’ve dropped from riding ten horses a morning to two or three. To boost morale I’ve begun consoling myself with a mantra developed during my career as a treeplanter. Tree planting and galloping horses have more in common than you might imagine. In tree planting, the keen beginner inevitably starts out by comparing his own modest but perfectly acceptable output with veteran productivity. This common mistake can wreak havoc with the keen beginner’s confidence. By the end of my first week as a tree-planter, an exasperating period where even the keenest beginner might plant only a tenth as many trees as a wily veteran, I developed a mantra in the hopes of preserving those final, fraying strands of my shredded self- confidence: I will not measure my self-worth by how many trees I plant in a day. Since becoming an exercise rider, I’ve been forced to adopt a new mantra, which I mutter to myself every morning as I wander the backstretch in search of rides: “I do not measure my self-worth by how many horses I gallop.”
So it probably looks like I’m talking to myself as I pace up and down the shedrows looking for mounts, twirling my whip or smacking it idly against my chaps. Although these slow days can be frustrating, I try not to let them get me down. During your first year as a freelance exercise rider, trainers don’t exactly beg you to ride their horses. Wandering around like a lost puppy is also known as “paying your dues.” The only thing you can do is make the most of every opportunity that presents itself. Of course, some opportunities present more of a challenge than others. Challenges can include runaways, broken equipment, horses stumbling and jerking you out of the tack, or horses that like to stop and prop so quickly you’re airborne before you know it.
Earlier in the year I galloped a grey filly who proved herself particularly adept at this manoeuvre. One day the two of us were galloping down the homestretch when something caught the filly’s ever wandering eye. With a precision of execution a Lippizan stallion would have envied, she stopped, propped, and somehow
managed to duck sideways at the same time. It was a marvelous feat of athleticism I barely had time to admire as I flew past her head. It happened so fast I didn’t even have time to get my arms out, the prompt manner of my ejection dictated otherwise. Fortunately my chin was perfectly extended to break my fall. As ugly as it was, my landing could have been much worse. If my jaw wasn’t hanging open, I could’ve slid much further than a couple of feet before enough dirt flooded my mouth to halt my forward momentum.
Of course that happened back in the busy summer when it seemed like I was always in the saddle. I’ve since discovered that catching ten horses a day is the perfect number for me. Riding too many horses can be more stressful than not riding enough, which is only stressful for your bank account. There have been days I’ve gone from five or six rides all morning to five or six horses an hour. These sporadic surges in popularity decrease your potential margin for error. You get all your horses lined up in fifteen minute intervals and arrive to find horse number two still lying in his stall, sleeping, caked in manure. “Is it eight o’clock already?” exclaims the innocent groom—“Sorry ‘bout that, it’ll only take me a minute to tack him.” Out the window goes your schedule. The rest of the morning is spent apologizing to disgruntled trainers who hold you responsible for ruining their day.
On the bad days exercise riders make convenient scapegoats. On the good days, days where more popular, veteran riders are hungover or gone fishing, even the worst exercise rider can quickly become the most popular guy on the backstretch. On days like these, days where trainers can’t find anybody else, days where I find myself suddenly and inexplicably popular, I take to sneaking down sparsely populated shedrows, hoping to avoid the requests I cannot hope to grant. On these days trainers seem to materialize from nowhere, emerging from the shadows of deserted boxstalls, “You got time to catch a horse?”
When I shake my head sorrowfully, “No, but thanks for asking”, they spit their disgust into the dirt and melt back into the shadows. There have been stretches where I might go two or three days in a row feeling like the winner of some absurd popularity contest before things settle back to normal. On normal days I feel mostly invisible.
I soon realized walking around the backstretch looking for mounts wasn’t doing a thing to advance my cause. If a trainer needs you they’ll sniff you out at the bottom of a manure bin. If they don’t they avoid you like the plague. I’ve spent long hours wandering the backstretch, smiling and casting hopeful good mornings like a fisherman desperate for a bite. On days like these I’m lucky to catch eye contact let alone a mount or two.
People keep telling me: “Don’t worry, things will pick up in the spring when you have more experience”, and I know they’re right, without any doubt. But help may come too late for these lonely days of autumn, because nobody knows you when you’re down and out.