In It For The Long Haul

The longest day, and in more ways than one.

On the two previous mornings, the only racegoers on the train had been murmuring to each other over the rustle of their newspapers, trying not to feel too conspicuous in their finery among the stolid and resentful commuters. Yesterday, the same service was crammed with the noisy, bibulous vanguard of Ladies' Day, launching a fusillade of corks in ominous syncopation with the safety-catch clicking of cans. Some, plainly, were setting impossible early fractions.

By the time the shadows of the solstice evening began to lengthen, they had been given an edifying lesson in how to manage a far more arduous test of stamina. And not just by the three magnificent horses who, after two and a half miles, produced a Gold Cup very nearly as thrilling as the one that last year qualified as the race of the British season.

For the fact that they were able to do owed much to three top-class jockeys in their prime, who eked out the reserves of their mounts by individual variations of the seasoning gained through decades of shared experience.

First there was Colm O'Donoghue, throwing down the gauntlet on Torcedor (Ire) (Fastnet Rock {Aus}) as a man transparently emancipated by his new responsibilities as a stable jockey. Then came Christophe Soumillon, playing late cards with all his familiar verve on Vazirabad (Fr) (Manduro {Ger}). But ultimately both had to yield to the track's presiding genius, Frankie Dettori, on Stradivarius (Ire) (Sea The Stars {Ire}).

In the bigger picture, moreover, Dettori's renaissance with John Gosden–for whom he had also ridden a treble on the opening day–is itself a model of sustained vitality. That he should remain at the peak of his powers, at 47, is a measure of the renewal by which he has maintained the median of his stardom, no matter how steep the occasional troughs.

With his showmanship, of course, Dettori was also able to renew his connection with those who had resorted, from so early in the day, to a more artificial form of effervescence.

Uniquely in his generation, Dettori has equal celebrity among the professionals who judge him as a horsemen; and the dilettanti whose curiosity the industry will perhaps only value once he has gone.

These appreciated his flying dismount from Stradivarius no less than Wesley Ward, nowadays something of an Ascot institution himself, did the hug and kiss that interrupted a television interview after the opening race. Ward responded by cheerfully reproaching Joel Rosario for his failure to master a flying dismount for the G2 Norfolk S. success of Shang Shang Shang (Shanghai Bobby).

If this markedly different race must also have enthused the casual fan, simply by dint of the desperate margin, then it also contained an important lesson for the cognoscenti.

True, European breeders are mistaken if they view American blood as a conduit purely for speed: the Kentucky sire's hallmark is sooner the ability to carry that speed over Classic distances. But you can see why the incursions of Ward speedballs over the past decade might have nourished the myth.

In that case, however, why should such a cult have developed around European sires who often impart a degree of speed and precocity, but seldom any real class? Because whether by training or breeding, the indigenous sprinter has been routinely exposed by bare handfuls of American or Australian raiders at Ascot.

If you want class as well as speed, by this stage you really should know where to get it.

So here was a perfect barometer of the state of play for European commercial breeding. Five furlongs, flat out, on summer ground at Ascot. And the first two home, divided by a nostril, were the only American-breds in the field; closely followed, in a clear third, by a colt from the first crop of No Nay Never (Scat Daddy), whose track-record success in this same race, five years ago, helped bring both his sire and trainer to wider notice in Europe.

If the winner had a familiar profile, as another to pour on the pace for Ward, then much could be learned from runner-up Pocket Dynamo (Dialed In). For while Robert Cowell arguably loses as much as he gains from his expertise with sprinters–

however diverse a trainer's talents, pigeonholing tends to become self-fulfilling–then his acuity in the discipline makes it highly instructive that he should be one of few European trainers prepared to put in the legwork to sift the deeper recesses of the Keeneland September Sale.

Cowell found Pocket Dynamo there in 2017 as Hip 2934, for $35,000 from Hunter Valley Farm. In admitting to the value he finds falling through the cracks at Keeneland, Cowell can rest assured that these will not suddenly be closed by an influx of neighbours from home. Hip 2934! Read it and weep. Especially if you are one of those trainers who a) complain about being overmatched by the stables of the big owner-breeders; and b) lack the imagination and balls to hang around Lexington when the only familiar faces still in town belong to breeze-up pinhookers.

“I've been going for six or seven years, and it's something I'm very keen on,” Cowell said. “I just feel there are a lot more horses and a lot fewer buyers. I'll be there through Books 4, 5 and 6, and do it all on my own. I came back with six last year, including a couple of others that trialled for Ascot but just weren't there yet. But they will be. It's just that they're a different shape, bigger horses.”

“This horse didn't cost much, but I thought him a beautiful yearling: a really strong, sturdy type. He's so tough and genuine, when he won at Longchamp last time he was taken on a long way out in quite a snazzy race but just kept that nose of his in front. And he's maturing all the time, there's better to come.”

Few trainers operating at the same level could afford Scat Daddy yearlings but that, sadly, will no longer be a problem. The three members of his last crop to have run at this meeting so far, incidentally, have finished second (in a photo), third and fourth. But while Scat Daddy was clearly exceptionally potent, Cowell has had the enterprise to explore the wider ripples, and not just the stone cast into the middle of the market.

It was the beginning of a sumptuous summer afternoon, but the long evening to follow was bound to be lost on some. Thinking back to the morning train, I am reminded of the tot of Caribbean rum I was once offered. The brand was Sunset. “Coz it don't matter what time you start drinkin' it,” the barman explained. “Your day is over.”

Happily, with all due respect to the monarch who actually owns the place, there is little sign of the sun setting any time soon on Dettori's Ascot empire.