It was at the Doncaster Sales,
When I forked out £10, 000
On a chestnut colt bred to win
The St Ledger or The Derby,
Which then looked like a real bargain.
He stood proudly, Lot 109,
But what should one call a dancer
Who, with only tender training,
Could grace its way to dressage gold?
Unnameable, the perfect name.
The first ride out on the gallops,
Working with a top class sprinter,
Was living proof that God exists.
His noble head carriage was a
Little too free, as if to say,
‘You’re going far too slow for me.’
The jockey then loosened the reins
And left the slow workhorse behind.
The hardest thing was to pull up
Unnameable, even uphill.
We pitched him in at the deep end,
As a maiden in the Listed
Chesham Stakes at Royal Ascot,
And left in ear plugs at the start
To drown out the crowd and fanfare,
But still he was like a coiled spring.
One could see how at 16 hands,
Stretching fully refined muscles
Among a field of green babies,
Unnameable was like a bull.
Unnameable leapt to the front
As thoughts turned to a few months hence,
Spending most of my prize money
At the Casino in Deauville
And cruising round the Baltic Sea.
When he approached the final bend
On the bridle five lengths in front,
Epsom was more than a pipedream . . .
But a few strides after he won
He broke down, tearing his tendon.
© 2017 AGP