Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori

By now I was well into the swing of an English season which often involved long journeys to distant racecourses for one ride without any obvious chance. At least Our Krystle finished third for me at Newcastle on August bank holiday Monday, but she had hung so badly left in the closing stages that a stewards’ inquiry was a formality. She was disqualified and I picked up a three-day suspension for careless riding.

I was looking forward to a night in the pubs of Newcastle but managed only a couple of drinks before I was forced to change my plans. A drunk Geordie punter decided that he wanted to kill me because he’d backed my horse each-way and had done his money when it was disqualified. He was so aggressive that I rushed straight back to the lads’ hostel and, as usual in times of danger, locked myself in my room.

The next morning I caught the train to Chepstow. This involved a marathon trek across country involving several changes, and then a long walk on a boiling hot afternoon from Chepstow station to the racecourse with my bag on my shoulder, because I couldn’t afford a taxi. I was melting by the time I staggered into the weighing-room. I’d come for the one ride, a 20-1 chance, and you can imagine how I felt when the trainer told me the horse wasn’t fancied. Sure enough we finished in the rear before I managed to hitch a lift back to Newmarket.

I had much better fortune when I returned to Chepstow ten days later. William Haggas, in his first season as a trainer, booked me for a horse called Far Top in the second leg of the apprentice race, while Colin Rate was down to ride Girotondo in the first leg. Colin and I persuaded a friend to drive us down to Chepstow, but none of us was very experienced at finding our way to Wales and we became so lost that we arrived at Chepstow just in time to see Girotondo romp home ridden by a late substitute jockey. Far Top, who started hot favourite at 4-9, then scrambled home with me by a neck.

So far I had managed only seven more winners in seven months in England. For someone who badly wanted to set the world on fire I was having trouble igniting the spark. Despite having plenty of confidence in my ability, I began to wonder if I would ever make the big breakthrough. My doubts grew in September during a lean spell at the same time that I was forced to move my digs after two happy years with Dennis and Val. The local council, it appeared, objected to tenants taking in paying guests. I didn’t want to be the cause of them losing the house and felt the only course was for me to pack my bags. Several years later I was delighted to hear that their daughter had bought the house for them from the council, so now they have a home for life. Finding somewhere to match the comfort of the last two years was always going to be an impossible task, but a friend, Bernice Emanuel, who was Ben Hanbury’s secretary at the time, had a room in her house and was prepared to put me up for a month until I sorted out something more permanent. I ended up staying two and a half years.

I’d been to her home before for supper with parties of Italians she hosted from time to time. Bernice made me more than welcome and proved to be a loyal friend, but straight away she made it clear she wouldn’t be cooking for me very much nor was she planning to wash and iron my shirts. Instead, she taught me how to use an iron.

Soon after moving in I spoke to my father about my lack of success in England. The next morning I told Bernice that I was determined to try my luck in France, which had been part of my dad’s original plan. Luca was having none of it. He rang my father and persuaded him that I should persevere in this country. A few days later I rode my final winner of the season on Luca’s filly Sumara in a maiden race at Haydock. She was owned by Sheikh Mohammed who would later play such a key role in my success as a jockey.

Most mornings I was allergic to climbing out of bed. I was working long hours and trying to keep my weight down, so I often slept straight through my alarm. I was late at least once a week, and many times Luca would ring Bernice to ask if I had shown any sign of life. Then I would make a mad dash to the yard, be given the inevitable lecture and try to catch the others up. To teach me a lesson when I was seriously late, Luca would take me off the horses that were working or galloping and put me instead on ones that were on the easy list, walking and trotting.

I had no difficulty waking up on the morning of the famous storm on 16 October 1987 which left a huge path of destruction as it swept through the town. The noise in the early hours would have woken the dead. The tempest was at its peak shortly before dawn and brought down power lines and even large trees. I set off for work on my scooter more in hope than expectation. The wind was so strong that several times I was nearly lifted bodily from the saddle. Eventually, I battled my way through without mishap but a huge tree had come down onto Luca’s covered ride, and others had fallen in the yard and paddocks, so there was little we could do except feed and muck out the horses.

As far as I am aware only one person in Newmarket slept through all the mayhem. That was my father who was over with Christine in his large camper van. They had come to dinner at Bernice’s house the night before and then returned to the van in a car park nearby. The wind was rocketing past his window, roofs were disappearing, slates were flying in all directions, rows of trees were falling over like skittles, and their van shook as if it was at sea in a force 9 gale—but Dad slept soundly through it all, before emerging later that morning to ask what all the fuss was about.

As the season drew towards its close I expected to be heading home for another winter in Naples, but this time Luca put his foot down and insisted that I shouldn’t be allowed to fritter away my claiming allowance in Italy. He and my dad debated long and hard before coming up with a plan to send me to California, where I would continue my education as a work rider at Santa Anita racecourse under the guidance of Richard Cross, one of Luca’s first assistants. It was a decision that had a profound effect on my career.

Santa Anita in December—against the stunning backdrop of the San Gabriel mountains—was a vast improvement on Newmarket but it was hardly a picnic. I stayed with Richard and his family that first year at their home in Pasadena, fifteen minutes from the racecourse. We started work at dawn and then rode up to ten horses each morning round the tight left-hand track.

With the rest of the day to myself I’d play cards in the track kitchen before watching racing in the afternoons and having a few little bets to keep myself entertained. Luca had told Richard to be tough on me and keep me under control, but I managed to escape his watchful eye most of the time—though there is a limit to the damage you can inflict on $100 a week.

This was the golden era of jockeys in California, with Bill Shoemaker, Chris McCarron, Eddie Delahoussaye, Angel Cordero, Fernando Toro, Laffit Pincay and the young star Gary Stevens in action most days. Shoemaker—who died in October 2003—was tiny but wonderfully effective, a legend who, by then at the age of 55, was as cute as an old fox and still difficult to beat in a finish. ‘The Shoe’, as he was knicknamed, retired three years later with a record of 8833 wins. Laffit Pincay eventually passed that total and had reached 9530 winners by the time he retired in 2003. Some day someone will overtake that record, but it is still an amazing total when you think I was still just short of 2,000 winners in England at the start of 2004.

Angel Cordero quickly became my favourite jockey in America, perhaps because we are quite similar. He was a crowdpleasing showman whose trademark was to produce a flying dismount after his big race victories. It was stunning to watch. Soon, in the privacy of Richard Cross’s barn in a quiet corner of Santa Anita, I was indulging my fantasies by practising my own flying dismounts in front of a baffled audience of a few Mexican horsewalkers and grooms.

Often my last task of the morning was to ride the tack horses, the ones that had just come back into training after injury or for some other reason were not ready for anything more strenuous than gentle exercise walking round and round Richard’s barn. Completing endless laps at such a slow pace for up to an hour was mind-numbing, so to keep myself awake I listened to tapes on my earphones and amused myself by trying to mimic the mannerisms and styles of the great riders of the day. Then I would invite Richard’s grooms to identify which jockey I was imitating.

I managed a passable Shoe, and a decent Chris McCarron, but the impression I enjoyed the most was always my Cordero flying dismount. Not that I would have a chance to unveil it in public for another nine years. When the hour was finished I used to launch myself as high as I could like Angel. That’s how it started. I just copied him. The trick is to use the irons as a springboard. Angel was an inspiration and had a massive influence on me. He was so strong he could lift a horse in a finish. Most of all I loved his personality, perhaps because I am naturally outgoing, too. Years later I heard that one of his flying dismounts had gone spectacularly wrong. As he jumped off, one of his feet remained trapped in the irons with the result that he fell head first under the horse. Luckily only his pride was hurt.

Somehow, probably without realising it, I was taking the best from each of these riders as I tried to improve my own style. The last thing I wanted was to stand out like Ned the Coachman among these great jockeys! So I worked hard to improve my riding and streamline my position in the saddle—though I wasn’t yet tempted to try the toe-in-the-iron style that is now the fashion on both sides of the Atlantic. That came a few years later.

All American jockeys ride with their right leg a fair bit shorter in the stirrups than the left one. It is a method known as ‘acey-deucey’ and gives them better balance on their tracks which are all left-handed (anticlockwise). Naturally I tried this by altering the length of my irons in the mornings, though long before I visited California for the first time I was already in the habit of riding with the leathers on my right leg a hole shorter than on my left. I’ve just done it from day one. Don’t ask me why.

There was a further bonus from my daily card sessions among our regular school in the track kitchen. It came from contact with a tiny little character who was one of the heroes of American racing. By the time I met Johnny Longden he was already in his eighties but he had a sparkle in his eyes to match the diamonds on the horseshoe rings he wore on his chubby fingers as he played cards each morning. He had short grey hair, wore glasses and remains the only man to have won the Kentucky Derby as a jockey and as a trainer.

Johnny’s story was a fascinating one. He was born in Yorkshire but emigrated to Canada with his family at the age of five. Later he worked in coalmines in Alberta. He rode in unofficial bareback races before moving on to seek fame and fortune in America. He retired in 1966 with a record 6032 wins, but was still drawn to the racecourse each morning. I regret that we never talked much about riding. More than anything I wish I could go back and chat to him again now.

I was lucky that I could play cards with people like Johnny, although they probably looked on me as another sucker to provide them with easy money. It was a strange time for me because there I was, just seventeen, living in a grown-up world which I found quite scary. One thing I did learn on that first visit to California was to ride against the clock until it became second nature. American horsemen rely heavily on the stopwatch to measure track work, and within a few months I could complete a gallop to order to within fractions of a second. It is a gift shared by every American jockey and explains why they are such brilliant judges of pace and so comfortable at making the running in races.

The hardest part of the job that winter was gaining entry to Santa Anita racecourse. The Americans have always been pretty strict about issuing track permits for visiting riders, and for some reason all I had was a tourist visa. So each morning I had to smuggle myself into the racecourse, either behind the back seat of a car or hidden in the boot. It helped that there were two entrance gates to the stable area.

On the occasions I was caught I usually managed to slip through unnoticed at the second gate. But eventually they became wise to me at both entrances, so then I had to slog all the way to another racecourse, Hollywood Park, which was at least a forty-five minutes drive from Santa Anita. That meant getting out of bed at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m! Without a track licence I was not insured to ride work at Santa Anita. In effect I was an illegal immigrant, but I enjoyed the challenge of trying to beat the system each morning. It made life more exciting.

Eight Give the Kid a Chance (#ulink_1752a976-6162-56ef-b583-58a9f900850d)

My first task in the spring of 1988 was to find myself an agent to help book my rides. The obvious choice was Mattie Cowing who had shared so many entertaining days with me in Cuthie Suttle’s betting shop. Mattie was already handling Bruce Raymond’s rides, but he turned me down because he was not convinced that I took my job seriously enough. Next I turned to Simon Crisford, the Newmarket correspondent of the Racing Post, but he—sensible fellow—said he had to look after his own career and was not going to let me drag him down! Years later we would become the best of buddies working together for Godolphin. Eventually I signed up with Cliff Woof who’d just opened a jockey’s agency with Willie Ryan as his first client.

After a winter tightening up my style in the warmer climate of California, I felt stronger and more confident than before and was determined to make a quick start in my second season. Once again rides were scarce in the opening weeks, until I was given a crucial opportunity on Heroes Sash for Luca Cumani in a valuable race at Haydock at the end of April. Ray Cochrane, by then our stable jockey, was at Newmarket for the 2,000 Guineas that day. When he heard Luca was struggling to find a suitable rider for Heroes Sash, he suggested ‘Give the kid a chance.’ Heroes Sash didn’t win but I did nothing wrong and from that point I started to pick up some decent spare rides.

Nineteen eighty-eight was the year of Kahyasi who gave Luca his first Derby success. The horse was owned by the Aga Khan and looked after by my pal Andy Keates, who’d been telling us all winter that his charge was Derby material. Most of the lads were on at nice prices. I remember watching on TV in my tracksuit as Ray brought him through to win at Epsom, before setting off for a run to try to lose some weight as I had a light ride at Carlisle the next day. I put it all back on and more at a mother and a father of a Derby victory party that night which carried on until the early hours.

There was a price to pay the following morning as, with thumping heads, Colin and I set off on the four-hour journey to Carlisle, wearing tracksuits, with the heating turned full up on a boiling hot summer day. We both felt terrible—which probably explains why, between us, we failed to tack up his mount Expound securely for the opening race. As a result his saddle began to slip after a furlong and Expound was beaten in a photo finish with Colin perched precariously on his back.

Five minutes later, his work completed for the afternoon, Colin came swanning into the weighing room clutching a large ice-cream. It was too much for me as I struggled to boil away excess pounds for my single, lightweight ride which I knew had little chance. I seized the ice-cream, spread it all over Colin’s face and fled into the sauna before he could retaliate.

Things began to pick up later in June with my first double win on Norman Invader and Mischievous Miss at Redcar, swiftly followed by the success of Follow The Drum at Folkestone. Andy was unable to lead up Norman Invader as he was recovering at home from serious injuries sustained when the horse kicked him in the face. He was found unconscious in Norman Invader’s box with his face in bits, and countless broken bones in his jaw and cheek which caused him to be off work for almost three months.

Early in July I won on a nice horse of Luca’s called Casey at Catterick. We were hacking up until I complicated matters by easing him so heavily in the closing stages that we only just scraped home by a neck from the fast-finishing runner-up Kirsheda. Some of the Yorkshire punters shouted abuse at me as I returned to unsaddle, but I was certain that we’d held on. I was smiling when I came back, but only with relief, and the stewards gave me a telling-off for being too confident. If I’d been caught on Casey, they warned, I would have been suspended and heavily fined. The next morning I stole the headlines for all the wrong reasons. The Racing Post declared ‘Frankie Lives Dangerously’.

Worse followed when Luca called me in and watched the video with me before delivering an almighty rocket. A few days later Casey’s owner, Gerald Leigh, sent me a photograph of the win with a cryptic note which read ‘Too much attention to the camera and not enough to the finish!’

I’d been waiting for the chance to gain my revenge on Norman Invader for almost killing Andy and finally got the chance when I was booked to ride him in the Magnet Cup at York. I taped a piece of lead into the flap of my whip, then started to hit Norman Invader with it as soon as we moved into contention about three furlongs from home. I am ashamed to admit that I really wanted to hurt the horse, to punish him for what he had done to Andy. I gave him a good hiding. It was madness, of course, a horrible thing to do. The chief sufferer, apart from the horse, was my greatest friend Colin Rate who was making a move up my inner on Chartino. In a sense I killed two birds with one stone. As Norman Invader hung left-handed away from the whip he almost put Colin over the rails. I heard a lot of cursing and shouting just behind me in a familiar Geordie accent, but by then the damage had been done and both of us finished towards the rear. Somehow the stewards missed what happened—but Luca didn’t and we were both on the carpet in his office once more. If he’d known about my whip I suspect I would have been looking for alternative employment.

A stormy July reached its climax ten days later when I returned to Catterick to ride Torkabar, owned by the Aga Khan. The horse was a red-hot favourite to win an uncompetitive maiden, but he was a monkey and had thrown away victory in our previous race at York by veering violently in the closing stages. Once again he was determined not to put his best foot forward. The more I asked, the more he resisted.

Just after we passed the line a well beaten third I lashed out with my whip in temper and struck him over the head. It was done out of frustration after losing my rag, and I knew immediately I was in the wrong because hitting horses on the head is unacceptable. It was a childish thing to do. Once again I was marched before the Catterick stewards and this time they weren’t so lenient. I made up some story about giving him a tap to prevent him ducking through a gate towards the paddock. The panel listened in stony silence before banning me for three days for improper riding. That wasn’t the end of the matter.

The following morning I was standing in the doorway of a stable in the bottom yard, facing inwards, half-heartedly scratching around in the straw with a pitchfork when I received a painful kick up the backside which sent me sprawling head first in the far corner of the box. I almost ended up in the feed manger. The next moment Ray Cochrane was leaning over me, going absolutely mad, shouting and screaming that I’d let the side down by my treatment of Torkabar. It was bad enough, he suggested, to strike any horse over the head. But to do it to one belonging to the stable’s principal owner, the Aga Khan, was idiotic. I quickly got the message and started mucking out the stable with new vigour, then slowed down again as soon as Ray disappeared out of sight.

Luca was away in America at the sales, but when he returned he let me have it with both barrels and promptly suspended me from riding for a further two weeks. A fortnight on the sidelines at that stage seemed like a lifetime, but I knew I was in the wrong so I had to take it on the chin.

The second head lad Stuart Jackson was also keen to keep my feet firmly on the floor. He always seemed to be waiting for me when I bounced into the yard after a good day at the races. Some days he’d hide behind a door, then kick me in the backside for the hell of it. On other occasions he’d ask how the race had gone, listen to my description of how clever I’d been, then wait until my back had turned before kicking me. When I protested he’d reply mysteriously ‘You know what that’s for.’ It was all part of Luca’s strategy to keep my head from swelling.

I picked up the winning thread again on Burnt Fingers at Haydock on 5 August and completed my second double at Yarmouth later in the month. I also collected a fine of £200 on the same afternoon for giving one of Luca’s a ‘quiet run’. Since Allez Au Bon wasn’t fit enough to do himself justice in the race, Luca was keen that I looked after him and didn’t finish too close to the red-hot favourite, Pure Genius, who won easily. Unfortunately I overdid the waiting tactics.

August ended with a significant breakthrough with my first winners for the multiple champion trainer Henry Cecil—who was still the King and had shared two victories in the 2,000 Guineas with my father. I was thrilled that Henry turned to me when Steve Cauthen was injured. My first success for him came in a maiden race at Newmarket on Opening Verse, who eventually won the Breeders’ Cup mile in America. Two days later I rode my second winner for Henry as part of another double at Wolverhampton.

It had been an eventful season and the best was yet to come. Late in September Luca called me into his office to say that the Aga Khan would be running two pacemakers for our Derby winner Kahyasi in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, the highlight of the season in Paris, and I would be on one of them—Roushayd. It was a fantastic opportunity for someone with such limited experience. The Aga must have forgiven me for my behaviour on Torkabar.

The weekend went like a dream. At the age of seventeen I found myself climbing aboard a private jet at Cambridge late on Saturday with a group of trainers, jockeys and racing managers all heading for Paris. Anthony Stroud was in charge of the party, who all seemed to be staying at the Ritz. As I hadn’t booked a room, I had to bed down on a couch in a massive sitting room in Anthony’s suite. I was still living in digs at the time and had never seen anything like it. When everyone else headed off for a night out, I was left on my own with the newspapers, a vast television, a bowl of fruit and a big cocktail bar which I didn’t dare touch. Within minutes I was on the phone to mother saying guess where I am? I can still remember my excitement at such luxury.

The plan the next day was for Rae Guest to tow the field along for the first mile on Taboushkan before I took over on Roushayd, with Kahyasi waiting to pounce late. But just as I made my move Tony Ives arrived alongside on Emmson, said ‘Where are you going, son’ and squashed me on to the rails. Tony killed me, the rascal, and that was the end of my pacemaking duties. Every time I tried to get out someone else would come and hold me in.

At least it didn’t make any difference because Kahyasi ran well below his form, finishing sixth to the Italian winner Tony Bin, ridden by John Reid. Two weeks later my dad managed to get beaten on Tony Bin in a five-horse race in Milan!

That first ride in the Arc was the highlight of my season which had produced twenty-two winners. I’ve ridden in the race every year since. I love the track and the special atmosphere that crackles with excitement on Arc day. For me it is one of the great races in the world.

Once the season was over early in November I headed for California again to continue my racing education at Santa Anita. This time I had the correct documents so was able to move around the course without looking over my shoulder like a criminal. At home in England I was beginning to build a bit of a profile, with the occasional interview and report on my winners, but in America I remained an anonymous figure, just one of the legions of foreign workers drawn together by a shared love of racing. That way, at least, nobody noticed my mistakes.

I even picked up a couple of race rides, but any danger of becoming over-confident was swiftly ended during a brief discussion with the record-breaking trainer Wayne Lukas. After completing four lots for Richard, I sought out Lukas one morning, introduced myself, and offered to ride out for him at any time. I was trying to drum up some business and he was the best trainer in America.

He looked me up and down, then replied with a devastating put-down: ‘We’re in good shape right now’, the short interview clearly at an end. Since then I’ve ridden in the mornings for all the biggest trainers in the game in America, including the legendary Charlie Whittingham and Bobby Frankel. But you can be sure I will not be offering my services to Wayne Lukas again.

Soon it was time to return to England for the 1989 flat season for which I’d been installed as 3-1 favourite to be champion apprentice, but when I caught up with Cliff Woof he hinted that I should look for a new agent. This suited me because now he had several more jockeys on his books and was developing other business interests in racing. I wanted someone who could work full-time trying to get me rides. Once again I turned to Mattie Cowing. This time, with a bit of encouragement from Bruce Raymond, he agreed to take me on. Mattie still suspected that I was a scallywag but he’d seen me ride enough winners in 1988 to know that I could do the business and Bruce wasn’t quite as busy as before. It was the start of a brilliant partnership. What began as a commercial arrangement soon developed into a close friendship. Mattie was a star and treated me a bit like an uncle looking after his favourite nephew.