Everyday pursuit of excellence
(by David Ashforth of racingpost.co.uk)
THE white Mercedes-Benz is full of fag ends and sunglasses. "Police," says Glenn Heaver, "that's the worst thing about the job." The job is driving-not Miss Daisy, but Mr Sanders. At 11.45am , Heaver drives into Lingfield's car park, has a bowl of soup, and then goes to sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
Seb Sanders, jockey-sized, slings his tool bag over his shoulder and makes for the sauna. He's a superior journeyman, a pusher, a shover, a driver, a get-on-with-the-job, no-showmanship, few-mistakes jockey, moving upwards.
"Not having a high profile doesn't bother me," says Sanders, 27, in his edge-of-Birmingham accent, "as long as trainers know who I am. I want them to think of me as level-headed. I don't get flustered in a race. I get uptight afterwards if things haven't gone my way, but not in the race."
Hands and heels, Bryan McMahon kept telling Sanders, through his apprenticeship, hands and heels and keep pushing. It worked the very first time, on Band On The Run at Pontefract in 1990.
Peter and Natalie Makin arrive, big-hatted, in the parade ring to discuss Muyassir, who is walking around without a hat, ready for the Dracula Spectacular Handicap. It's his first time on the all-weather.
"He got hit over the head at Salisbury," says Natalie, which is the first of the day's many explanations for disappointment.
"You don't want to be up there," Peter tells Seb. "Come from behind and hope he faces the kickback."
Seb agrees. And it goes near-perfectly: smooth ground from the rear, checked on the bend, hit the front late and held on well.
"I always felt we were going to pick them up," Sanders reports.
"Did he idle?" asks Makin. "Yes." "He'll win again?" "Yes." "And the trip suits him?"
"Yes."
"A bit chuffed," reports Bill Otley, Muyassir's owner. "It's our first winner. We're from Bath."
"That gave me a buzz. I enjoy it nip-and-tuck at the finish," says Sanders. "I think I'm pretty strong in a finish. I think that's my strongest point."
This is a bread-and-butter afternoon, six rides for five different trainers, the next for Sir Mark Prescott. Sanders is Prescott 's type of jockey. When George Duffield eventually retires.
"In 1996, my agent had a letter from Sir Mark. 'Your boy can read, can't he?'" With Prescott, you ride to instructions, or you don't ride. Today, for the once-raced Sovereign Abbey, the instructions arrive by phone.
THE monsoon times its challenge perfectly, drenching everyone not in the Tote betting shop, where Trap 4 is about to romp home in the 1.58 at Walthamstow, and Sovereign Abbey drifts from 8-1 to 12-1 before running a promising staying-on third.
The jockeys return covered in mud, whites ruined. I'd hate to be doing the laundry. Guy and Christine Shropshire, Sovereign Abbey's owners, are wet but welcoming. Mr Shropshire says, "Wonderful," and then says it again a few more times. Sovereign Abbey doesn't say anything but leaves straight away for a bath. "Caps on jockeys. Come on, the sun is shining now."
But Seb Sanders' agent seems to have made a mistake. Friendly Alliance , misnamed, pulled up and tailed off, has already run out of things to have cut off. Perhaps they should consider removing his head, whose contents seem to be disturbed.
"This is a horse I like," says the affable Mark Flower, resplendent in yellow corduroys. Only the horse's mother feels the same. "He's all right," he tells Sanders, "but he's better if you get on him while he's moving."
There doesn't seem to be any choice.
"I warned Seb to go steady with him to the start, and to keep a hand on the neck strap," says Friendly Alliance's lad, as Friendly and Seb become small, receding dots.
"He's got three-year-old written all over him," says Flower, and the stoutly bred juvenile delinquent runs better, at 50-1, than seventh of nine suggests. "He's a bit of a character, isn't he?" says Sanders, diplomatically, which is like saying, "That Pinochet was a bit of a lad, wasn't he?"
Sanders seems to have forgotten to bring a proper saddle and is using a hopelessly small leather pad instead.
Geoff Wragg gives a winning cough and welcomes Balisada into the winner's enclosure.
The man in the sweet shop insists on singing.
"He wants his tonsils out," says Joe Naughton, "that's what he wants." But he's talking about Devon Court , misguidedly installed as favourite for the Hallowe'en Fireworks Stakes.
"Plenty of ability, but a tricky customer," is Sanders' polite verdict. "When Darryll Holland gave him a couple, he definitely didn't like it," says Naughton, dapper in one of those dark coats with the belt crossed over. "He definitely goes more for squeeze up than for giving him one. A nice type of horse, but you wouldn't want your mortgage on. In the Horses In Training sale tomorrow."
One and a half furlongs out, in desperation, Sanders does give him one. Naughton was right-he doesn't like it.
I'M about to ask John Waugh why Isabella Gonzaga is called Isabella Gonzaga when he reminds me of the time I phoned up to tell him that Tom Waugh had died, which came as a bit of a shock, because Tom had walked out of his back door five minutes earlier. Anyone can make a mistake.
Robert Cowell issues his instructions, which seem to cover most of the 12 furlongs. "Don't get any sand knocked in her face, keep her handy, I don't mind if you go a bit wide."
After a few chapters, Seb looks a bit hypnotised and ventures, "It's going to be tricky, with so much pace in the race."
"Oh, play it by ear then."
Sanders is a cracking rider, and gives Isabella a lovely ride to finish second to the superior Marozia. "That was the perfect ride," Cowell coos. "Precision."
As they leave the track, snatches of the jockeys' explanations catch your ears. "He blew up three out." "Better with small fields." "Staying on again." "A couple of little gurgles." "He wants two miles."
"She could knock up a sequence round here," Sanders enthuses, in his unanimated way. "She's game, she travels, and she'll stay further."
Simon Holt, owner of a flank of Ultra Beet, explains to me why Ultra Beet has a squeak in the last. Mark Flower then explains why he hasn't.
Mike Rogers, owner of another steak, admires Ultra Beet's bottom. "Whatever else, ours has got the biggest backside in the race," he says, proudly.
For his final appearance, Sanders is wearing a nice fawn-and-blue outfit, which starts at the back of the field but, under persistent driving, ends up encouragingly towards the front.
"If he'd been drawn closer to the rail, we'd have nearly been there," Sanders reports. "A 10-runner race would be perfect for him."
Sanders licks away the sand and brings the day to an end.
"Excellent day," he says. "A winner for one of my main stables, everything's run as it should have apart from Devon Court, and everyone's happy." Bath tomorrow, and tonight.