AP McCoy Memories: Wichita Lineman one of his finest?

Mucho Macho Man: the horse that nearly died as a foal, trained by the heart transplant survivor and ridden by the legend that had come out of retirement. Racing occasionally creates perfect, heart-warming human interest stories, such as Mucho Macho Man's Breeders' Cup Classic victory, but for the vast majority of the time the sport's primary attraction is the opportunity to win cold, hard cash in the battle between punter and bookmaker. 

The thought of financial rewards were firmly at the forefront of my mind as I attended the 2009 Cheltenham Festival bristling with confidence and a wallet full of cash. My hopelessly optimistic dreams of punting success were hastily hampered, however, by Cousin Vinny's eclipse in the opener, while Tatenen's premature exit in the Arkle struck a further blow to my lofty ambitions. Things were about to take a turn for the better, though, surely? My ante-post bets, ravaged by injury, did not comprise a portfolio so much as a single solitary ticket of hope left riding on Cailin Alainn, but, arriving on the back of a victory, trained by the shrewd Charles Byrnes and attracting significant market support, confidence was high that she was about to get my Festival back on track in the three-mile handicap chase. 

The obvious threat appeared to be Wichita Lineman, a previous Festival winner representing the powerful triumvirate of McManus, O'Neill and AP McCoy. Wichita Lineman was a thorough stayer with an admirable attitude, but I hadn't been completely convinced by his aptitude for chasing, and his tendency to come off the bridle was enough for me to eschew having a saver in this ultra-competitive handicap.

I was feeling content as they set off on their final circuit. Cailin Alainn appeared to be going well, certainly better than the favourite Wichita Lineman who had put in some sloppy leaps, including a particularly slow one in front of the stands which prompted McCoy to start niggling his mount. I dismissed Wichita Lineman's prospects at that point; I daresay that I wasn't the only one.

I hadn't planned on following the progress of Wichita Lineman, he was beaten as far as I was concerned, but McCoy, still shaking the reins at his mount, had just about managed to keep tabs on the main pack down the back, and I could see his hunched figure out of the corner of my eye, cajoling, encouraging Wichita Lineman to respond. 

Cailin Alainn, who had travelled well, hit four out, the mistake almost instantly halting her progress. The prospect of ante-post fortunes had gone, but my interest in the race as a spectacle remained as it was noticeable how McCoy, in stark contrast to the other jockeys nearby, fully ten lengths behind the leaders as they set off down the hill, was vigorously driving Wichita Lineman, asking the horse for everything, refusing to give up when no one else would have persevered. It seemed like an admirably futile effort as victory still looked utterly impossible.
 
The deficit had been slightly reduced by the time they jumped the third-last fence but another poor leap did little for the horse's chances. McCoy was undeterred, though, driving more vigorously than ever as Wichita Lineman started to pick off rivals as they took the second last, landing with a bit of momentum and just five horses still to pass as they swung for home. 

Even then, the closest he had ever been, Wichita Lineman looked an unlikely winner as Maljimar, who was still going strongly at the head of affairs, responded well and took the final fence cleanly, establishing a three-length lead, looking for all the world the winner.

The complexion of the race changed in the final 50 yards, however. Maljimar was visibly tiring, desperately in need of the line. McCoy and Wichita Lineman weren't stopping, though, they were coming home strongly; the crowd sensed something special was about to happen. This was my first ever day at the Cheltenham Festival and the atmosphere in the stands was nothing like I had ever experienced on a racecourse before, the deafening roars of 'GO ON AP' completely swamping the increasingly-desperate cries from my Dad and the other few Maljimar supporters who were urging Daryll Jacob to hold off the irresistible late charge of McCoy and Wichita Lineman. The roar was infectious, for the first time I roared home a horse without a financial interest, joining in the vociferous cheers (to my Dad's disgust), as McCoy urged Wichita Lineman ahead in the final strides, leading to frenzied celebrations in the packed grandstands. Sometimes, I guess, on the rarest occasion, the story can be more important than the bet. 

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