To watch them slog it round the old horse track up beside the arena almost hurt at first. Thick spit stuck to Dad's huff-puffing lips. His slow heavy strides, like the ground wouldn't let him lift his feet. Neily slowing down for him, jogging backwards. C'mon, Johnny McKnight, move those bones. Shut yer gob, Waldengarden. Jockeys on the trot flicking whip sticks and clucking their tongues and having a laugh, look at these wackos, who in hell runs round a dirt track at seven in the morning? Every day. Even Sundays.

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