Jonathan Doidge with personal memories that prove the John Smith's Grand National is a race like no other.
Bad decision to ignore flashing lights
The year was 1985. I was there. Yes, right there for my first Grand National 'in the flesh' as West Tip, the horse I backed, deposited amateur rider Richard Dunwoody on the turf right before my feet at Becher's Brook.
I recall nothing else about the race except running up the tarmac road on the inside of the course as the horses streamed away from us, trying to get back to the winning post before they did.
Earlier, we had queued in traffic on the M57 as a car sped up the hard shoulder beside us, hotly pursued by a blue flashing light. As we edged alongside, my friend turned from the driving seat and asked "Who's the bloke in that car? I recognise him."
"Hywel Davies", I replied. "What's he riding in the National?" came the question.
"Oh just a 50/1 shot called Last Suspect. It's got no chance," I said. I failed to make it back to the winning post on time. Last Suspect did.
That was way back in my school days when I was a mere enthusiast. More recently I've made a living out of getting it wrong. I mean, what sort of pundit could fail to back any of the Irish winners of the past decade or so? This one.
Whatever the levels of profit or loss, the Grand National is the greatest steeplechase on earth. Simply, there is nothing like it.
Magical memories
That spring day, just before my 17th birthday, was something I had looked forward to ever since I had seen the first National I recall, Red Rum winning for a second time in 1974.
Like most, and especially in those days of dwindling attendances at Aintree itself, I was introduced to this unique event by television. David Coleman had only to utter the words "Dawn at Aintree" when the BBC's Grandstand opened in the late morning and the goose pimples failed to dissipate before 3.30 (the race was much earlier back then).
L'Escargot got the better of 'Rummy' in '75 and Rag Trade did the same a year later, before Ginger McCain's gelding provided what is still probably National Hunt racing's greatest ever day with that third win.
I can hear him now, a pre-knighted Sir Peter O'Sullevan with that call of calls, "He's getting the most tremendous cheer from the crowd. They're willing him home now. The 12-year-old Red Rum being preceded only by loose horse, being chased by Churchtown Boy, Eyecatcher has moved into third and The Pilgarlic fourth.
"They're coming to the Elbow. There's a furlong now between Red Rum and his third Grand National triumph. And he's coming up to the line to win it like a fresh horse in great style. It's hats off and a tremendous reception, you've never heard one like it at Liverpool. Red Rum wins the National!"
You can't buy that. My school friend at the time, who had no interest in racing before or since, was there that day. I never forgave him.
Jonjo obsession
If Red Rum and Tommy Stack still bring a lump to the throat, then what of my hero, Jonjo O'Neill. Year after year the poor fellow got on the wrong horse. Well, ok, he did ride Rag Trade, but that was a couple of years after he won it. Then there was the gut-wrenching loss of Alverton, a Gold Cup winner carrying less than 11 stones and travelling really well. I cried.
When Jonjo winning it was clearly not going to be an option, I just wanted him to get around. Just to finish. No such luck. By then it was as if trainers didn't want him up because he was some sort of jinx.
Lucius, Rubstic and Ben Nevis followed Red Rum as winners. I thought I'd never ever be able to say I'd picked one that came home in front. It didn't seem to matter though in '81. Who cared? Bob Champion and Aldaniti, crocks of differing sorts had been through extensive repairs to combine for the race of their lives.
If you weren't moved by that story then you may need to have a surgeon check you over to discern whether or not you have a heart. It was, is, remarkable. But then this is the Grand National.
Prize winner
Three years on I was lucky enough to win a prize in a well-known tabloid newspaper, which sent me on an all-expenses paid trip to London to meet Bob, the cast and sundry celebrities and see the Royal Premiere of "Champions" at the Odeon, Leicester Square.
It was memorable, especially when Arsenal striker Charlie Nicholas came up and said "Can you tell me where the bar is please?".
But I digress.
Aside from an amazing story of both human and equine achievement, '81 is another year that stands out for race commentaries. The O'Sullevan version was impeccable, but even Sir Pedro was gazumped for sheer levels of excitement by the late, great, Peter Bromley.
Having since stood in the box with Bromley, u-boat binoculars and all, it is not hard to imagine that the stands shook merely from the power of his vocal chords as Aldaniti stretched out past the Elbow.
With Vienna still slipping down the charts, the man with the microphone truly was ultravox that day, although a tearful Lord Oaksey, also part of the commentary team, summed up best of all:
"If an imaginative novelist had dreamed up this result we would call him a stupid, imaginative novelist. It was the most perfect race and the most perfect result."
Amen to that.
Pitman era
Corbiere became the first winner of the race trained by a woman and the lady herself, Jenny Pitman went on to repeat the feat with Royal Athlete over a decade later. We'd best not mention Esha Ness. Jenny, of course, became almost as famous for her annual love-in with Des Lynam as she did for those successes.
1984 was special on a personal note because my 50p each way (I used to bet big then) went on Hallo Dandy, providing me with my first winner of the race.
The euphoria of '85 and my first visit was enough to offset the crushing loss of £1 each way on West Tip (I had a Saturday job by now), and '86 was notorious for being one of only two Nationals that I haven't seen in running since my first.
Instead I was revoicing the Radio 2 commentary on my Walkman to a party of school children while walking around the Mulgrave Estate, Whitby! My loyalty to West Tip (or "Tippy", to those of us more familiar) paid off.
If you're going to give a personal history of your National memories then I guess you have to have been there at the track while backing the winner. It has only happened twice.
1987, what a glorious Grand National. I was stood on a temporary stand on the inside of the track screaming home Maori Venture at 28/1 for a tidy profit, don't you know, although the bookmakers got plenty of it back in the following two years.
Forecast delight
By 1991 I was looking for another challenge. Seagram's success from Garrison Savannah, both of whom I'd backed and put in a reverse forecast, showed just how easy the job really was. Since then the barren spells have been increasingly lengthy.
Rough Quest was a help in '96, although I am not sure winning what amounted to £75 was "Better than sex" (Fitzgerald, M., 1996), but Suny Bay (twice) and What's Up Boys both came home one behind the winner, and after the Irish started to get their act together and make the race an even bigger conundrum than ever, Comply Or Die has been a beacon in an otherwise dark, desolate, punting vacuum.
Still, on the bright side I did survive the bomb scare of 1997. Yes, I was there, rooted to the spot at the back of the concrete slope that is the Tattersalls Stand. I didn't want to be moved. Didn't want to believe that this great race was being blighted by idiots.
Or was it just that I didn't want to get my head around the fact that one of my brothers was on the racecourse, in front of my eyes, worse for wear and jumping off The Chair?
There were only a handful of us left that day when the police horses trotted up the slope and those on board told us to leave immediately or we would be placed under arrest and taken away.
In defiance, two of us drove the 75 miles back there on the Monday to see Lord Gyllene dot up. Isn't that the true spirit of Aintree?
Aintree heroes
In addition to all of that, there are the great stories from days of yore. Golden Miller winning this race in the same year as the Cheltenham Gold Cup way back in 1934, Pat Taaffe's two wins from the saddle on Quare Times and Gay Trip fully 15 years apart, the Devon Loch incident in '56 and of course a pile-up that will never be repeated at the 23rd fence in 1967, when Foinavon triumphed at 100/1.
Though all of those were before I was around, I have seen the footage so often it's as if I was there. And I was there, yes, I was, just 12 months ago.
Standing, this time, by the winning post as Anthony Patrick McCoy stood bolt upright in the irons and waved his whip aloft in triumph on Don't Push It.
I guess that was my 'Red Rum moment'. This Grand National. Oh yes, it's a race apart.
