Robin Dawson shared the following memories of his first encounter with Alec Head, the legendary French horseman who died June 22 at the age of 97.
It was the fall of 1971, and I was finally breaking loose from the shackles of boarding school, little knowing that I was about to embark on a journey that would indelibly enrich the next fifty years of my life.
I was going to one day train thoroughbred racehorses and, although my dear father – who was working for the Jockey Club in England at the time – had other ideas for me, he did at least allow me to dip my toes in the water. He was hoping, I'm sure, that the experience would put me off forever.
So, after watching the great Brigadier Gerrard win a desperate photo in the mud and rain of the Champion Stakes at Newmarket, the following day I headed off to Chantilly, France, aboard an ancient twin-prop Argosy freighter from Cambridge airport to Beauvais, just northeast of Paris. I rode along with Trattegio, my future employer Alec Head's runner from the previous day, and the irrepressible Reg Perkins, a head lad in the yard I was to work in and then exercise rider of the stables classic-winning filly Pistol Packer. I was well and truly off to the races.
Even though it's fifty years ago, I remember being introduced to the French aperitif, Ricard (sometimes called Pastis or Cinquante-et-un, 51) on the van ride from Beauvais to Chantilly and how it disagreed with my immature and delicate English palate, despite Reg's encouragement that mixing it with peppermint and strawberry cordials would make it even better! Save to say, when I showed up at 5:30 the next morning for my first day's work at Ecurie Head, 4 Avenue de Chartres, I had the worst hangover of my fledgling life, immediately vomiting in front of head lad Christian Dattesan. Not an auspicious start.
Undaunted and not yet fired, I was equipped with a charming wooden pitchfork and put to work in the dark. Ricard is a funny drink. You mix it with water and it goes cloudy. Now, roughly ten hours after my introduction to the popular aniseed-based beverage, I was making a bad situation worse, by trying to put the liverish fire in my belly out with more water. It was a good thing that I had a brouette on hand.
Recognizing my struggles, the lad in the box (stall) next door joked about my misery and introduced himself as Jean-Pierre (Mallet, who would go on to be Alec Head's travelling head man for many years). Jean-Pierre was attending to a small but strikingly powerful 2-year-old bright bay colt with a broad white blaze, whom he introduced to me as Lyphard, explaining that he'd recently won impressively and would be running that week in thePrix Thomas Bryon.
This meant very little to me, as I knew nothing about French form, had never heard of St. Cloud and had no idea who his sire, Northern Dancer, was … or that Lyphard was an exact replica of the horse who would soon become the most influential stallion in the world of thoroughbred racing.
I survived that day and managed not to fall off my mount, Timtar, upon my first sortie in the fog out onto Les Aigles, with a canter down Le Piste de Plaisanterie. But it was a rude awakening and to this day I have shied away from any variation, permutation or mix of any aniseed-based drinks.
Looking back, I think the French lads found my humiliation most amusing, and nobody more so than Reg Perkins, who was famous for his hollow legs.
Observing my struggles my boss obviously felt sorry for me, so he invited me to go to St. Cloud races later in the week, to watch Lyphard run. I can just remember rushing back to the pension where I was residing in the Bois de St. Denys and changing into my nerdishly-Brit-schoolboy racing outfit of cavalry twill trousers, tweed sports jacket and trilby. The standard kit for aspiring young punters in those days.
At shortly after 1 p.m. we embarked in the largest car that I had ever seen: an American Cadillac owned by Alec Head's father Willie. Willie was driving and beside him was his brother-in-law who was introduced to me as Jennings, an ex-jockey. Jennings was small and so we all sat up front, with my boss, his wife Ghislaine and a man who was introduced to me as Alec's brother Peter (Willie's other son) in the back.
By then (1971) Willie Head had retired from a long and distinguished career, latterly training at the charmingly-named Mill Cottage Stables on Les Chemin des Aigles, where his son Peter was then training. Mill Cottage was nothing like any cottage that I had ever seen, more closely resembling a magical Chateau in the forest. On the way to St. Cloud (about 50 minutes) Willie and Jennings regaled me with stories of steeplechasing and how Alec should have won the Grand National Steeplechase in England, had he not ridden such a bad race, which I gathered did not go down well on the back seat.
St. Cloud, in the northern suburbs of Paris, is a charming left-handed (counter-clockwise) racecourse, just over a mile and a half around. The Thomas Bryon was the eighth and main race of the day, Group 3, over a mile. And, in a small field of six, Lyphard was the prohibitive odds-on favorite. It was a foregone conclusion that would stamp the young son of Northern Dancer as the best 2-year-old in France. Or so thought Alec Head & Co.
As it turned out, in a muddling race with little pace, on soft ground, Lyphard found himself boxed in on the deep rail at the critical moment, about four-hundred meters from home. And, by the time that he'd got out, the longest priced horse on the board, the only filly in the race, First Bloom, by Primera had made a nifty move around the outside, in the hands of Alfred Gibert, to win handily at odds of 30-1.
There was a silence. A few quiet French oaths passed in my immediate vicinity and then the booing started. And I wondered, what's going on here?
The boss (Alec Head) looked ashen, his wife visibly stunned and to my right I felt sure that I'd heard father-Willie and Jennings chuckling to one another. Sacre bleu! Not only had the favorite got beat but he'd been beaten by a filly, trained by Alec's brother, Peter Head!
As we descended to the unsaddling enclosure (winner's circle) the booing got louder and Les Turfistes (French punters) were now throwing their programs and uttering unintelligible curses that I assumed were aimed at Alec Head and his son Freddy. I think I heard the word “voleurs” being cried and even my feeble French vocabulary (at that time) was sufficient for me to wonder if some sort of robbery had taken place.
Freddy jumped off, looking for an exit that did not pass anywhere near his Dad and the klaxons and familiar sounds announcing that the horses had weighed in and the race was now official sounded, which only increased the volume of the booing. It appeared that the local fans thought that they been stitched up by the Head family: what an introduction to French racing this was for this innocent bystander!
I need hardly say that Peter Head found alternative transportation back to Chantilly and while Willie and Jennings laughed a lot about the vagaries of horse racing, there was total silence “en arriere.”
I was dropped off unceremoniously outside my new abode and the Cadillac sped off into the gloom. Had it been popular vernacular at the time, it would have been a WTF moment. I headed into the bar, had a drink … not Ricard, and thought this is going to be fun!
Robin Dawson is former trainer, Eclipse Award-winning broadcaster, author of Last Hurrah and lifelong fan of thoroughbred horse racing.
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