Towards the end of the eighteenth century, some wise folk wandered to the top of a Surrey hill and surveyed a helter skelter landscape of downland turf. There are quite a lot of flat bits across this gilded island of ours, but the wise and worthy decided that this hilltop would make a fine spot to race horses. And thank the Lord, and Lord Derby, that they did. The climb from the mile and a half start. The crest of the hill, and then the madcap dash down to Tattenham Corner. Before the crazy camber of the home straight. Mad, but utterly brilliant.
The Derby. The ultimate test of the Classic generation. A day when lives are changed, and careers defined. The head bobbing urgency of the photo finish means a bit at Brighton on a wet and windy May afternoon. The head bob at the end of a mile and a half of the greatest Classic means everything. We can all recall the horses that have finished second in The Derby. For their connections, it will always be a case of what might have been. For on this day, it really is winner takes all.
