The wind blew sleet into the starter's face as he called the thirteen runners into line for the 1989 Tote Cheltenham Gold Cup. The weather was atrocious: over three inches of snow had fallen overnight in the Cotswolds, melting as the morning progressed to leave the course soaked to the point of possible abandonment.
Indeed, when jockey Simon Sherwood looked out of his bedroom window at first light and saw the snow, his heart sank. He hoped the meeting would be called off, as these were the conditions which were anathema to his mount, Desert Orchid. 'Dessie' didn't like soft ground. The nation's star racehorse was at his brilliant best when he could feel his hooves rattle and bounce off the turf. It was going to be difficult enough racing round a left-handed track opposed to his favoured right, without the handicap of the dreaded mud.
But this was the biggest day in the steeplechasing calendar. It would take more than heavy going to force a cancellation. And as the morning passed, so did the worst of the weather; the unseasonable mid-March snow had stopped by the time the betting shops opened. But it had done enough to dent the confidence of many serious punters, and Dessie's odds slowly drifted out as the rain drifted in. Yet such was the loyalty and affection that this grey gelding had earned from his legion of fans that his position at the head of the betting market remained unchallenged. As the contenders circled at the starting gate one last time, Desert Orchid was the five-to-two favourite to win this most eagerly anticipated of races.
The tapes went up to an almighty cheer from the crowd. They had braved the elements and the threat of cancellation, but now all was well. The race was underway.
Surprisingly, Sherwood had lined up Desert Orchid well away from the inside running rail, with half a dozen of his rivals huddled together to his left. Dessie had a tendency to run away slightly to his right and lose ground on left-handed tracks, and it seemed strange to opt for a wider berth from the outset. But the jockey knew his job and he knew his horse; he was giving him a bit of room and a good 'sighter' of the first of the twenty-two fences. Dessie took the first two obstacles without effort, then eased majestically across to the rail and into the position he felt was his by right: leading the rest of the field.
Closely tailing Desert Orchid was a horse that many people feared would be the main danger to the grey: Ten Plus. Representing the stable of the legendary Fulke Walwyn, he was talented, on the improve and bang in form. The mount of loyal stable jockey Kevin Mooney, Ten Plus was the five-to-one second favourite. Mooney held on to a tight rein and kept within a stride of the leader from the off; as the runners passed the cheering crowd in the stands with a circuit to go, the principals in the betting were still calling the tune.
The field made its way out into the country for the final time, away from the bellowing public. Jostling eagerly and focusing their binoculars onto the far side of the course, Dessie's supporters were now watching for any signs of weariness. This was a race of three miles and two furlongs: a long way at the best of times but a big ask in these testing conditions. Could he possibly win such a contest? Surely he would need to lead all the way to do it, and not give away too much ground by drifting to his right when the pressure came on.
As they raced downhill with six fences left to jump, Kevin Mooney and Ten Plus decided to assert themselves and take the lead. Only by a fraction at first, with the Orchid resenting the imposition and pulling back on level terms. Several times they bested each other, till Mooney grasped the nettle and took a three lengths advantage with four fences to go. The crowd gasped as they saw this brilliant horse leave the rest of the runners and make his charge for victory. They gasped again, this time incredulously, as Desert Orchid once more responded and drew level on the outside of Ten Plus. They hurtled towards the next fence, the third from home.
And then disaster struck.
Ten Plus clipped the top of the fence and pitched steeply on landing. Mooney was jettisoned to the ground. A stunned gallery watched Ten Plus haul himself back up and instinctively try to continue, his jockey lying motionless at the foot of the fence. The horse struggled valiantly on, but it was clear he had sustained a devastating injury to one of his hind legs. He had only minutes left to live.
Desert Orchid, drifting to his right in the testing ground, was left clear. But not for long. A horse called Yahoo, a twenty-to-one outsider, was catching him fast and taking up the advantage of the vacant inside berth. Yahoo, under the masterly guidance of jockey Tom Morgan, had stalked the leaders for most of the race, never putting a foot wrong, never losing touch. And more to the point, he wasn't tiring in the muddy ground which suited him so well. There were only two fences left to negotiate; only two horses left in the race with any chance of winning . . . and Cheltenham's notorious hill would be waiting for them between the final fence and the winning post.
They met the penultimate fence simultaneously but quite a way apart. Desert Orchid had drifted yet further to his right, while Morgan held his position by the rail on the spirited Yahoo. As they gathered themselves on landing, it was Yahoo that got away the better. Dessie seemed to be struggling and, on the way to the final fence, with Yahoo forging on relentlessly, he looked a beaten horse. But, as he veered again toward the grandstand, he somehow stayed within striking distance of his rival. He made up enough ground to be on level terms at the final fence, and both horses took it cleanly. Now it was a fight to the finish.
Again, Yahoo was best away. Tom Morgan had given his mount a ride of the utmost craftsmanship, and glory was now within sight. Desert Orchid, palpably out on his feet, was a length down. Before the gap could widen further, Simon Sherwood rousted him with all the effort he could muster. The horse responded. He responded to Sherwood, and then he responded to the roaring crowd; for they had opened their throats and their hearts and they pleaded for this horse to find something that no horse had ever found before on this most unforgiving of run-ins. He certainly heard the crowd. In fact, he must have heard the nation because from being a beaten horse he began to dig deep and get after his opponent. As the hysteria grew louder, the gap grew smaller. Yahoo was holding on . . . but he wasn't getting away.
With a hundred yards to go, Desert Orchid drifted in towards Yahoo under the demanding drive of Sherwood. Yahoo was beginning to tire; Dessie edged ever closer to his flanks and Sherwood tugged his reins to avoid a collision. But here were two horses coming to the end of their reserves. Again they drifted toward each other like two exhausted foot-soldiers staggering from the trenches, leaning upon each other for support as if hoping to pool whatever courage they had left between them and to draw from it for one last impossible effort.
As the horses parted again with just yards to go, it was Desert Orchid who found the last drop of strength on offer. To a roof-raising ovation the grey battler surged ahead and crossed the line like a king. "Dessie's done it!" cried Peter O'Sullevan to the television viewers. He'd done it, all right. Heaven only knew how.
There were tears a plenty now. Tears of joy from Desert Orchid's fans, his backers and closest connections. But bitter tears of sorrow were being shed in private back in the jockeys' changing room, where a disconsolate Kevin Mooney was trying to come to terms with the death of Ten Plus. Triumph and disaster are unseemly bedfellows.
Back on the course, the gallant Tom Morgan sportingly shook the hand of Simon Sherwood and patted Dessie on the neck. Morgan's handling of Yahoo and his generosity in defeat must never be overlooked or forgotten. Neither must Yahoo himself, who had run the race of his life; against any other horse, the spoils would surely have been his.
Desert Orchid passed away in 2006 at the age of twenty-seven. There will never be another like him, and probably there will never be another Cheltenham Gold Cup such as the one he so deservedly won. It was a victory gained in what must now be seen as a golden age for racing; an age in which brave men and brave horses gave everything and more.
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