SPORTING ASPECTS
Grand Steeple-Chase de Paris
By C. H. BLACKER WHEN you go to watch flat-racing, you generally expect the weather to be at least tolerable, perhaps even warm. Your expectations are not always ful- filled, as anyone who went to Ascot this year will,tell you, but at least they are not unreasonable. Those who go steeple- chasing in these islands are however under no such illusions, and arrive well prepared for the normal conditions of rain, fog, a biting wind, and mud. It made a pleasant change therefore to go to Auteuil, where earlier this year, against a background of blazing sun, iced drinks, and picture hats, I watched the Grand Steeple-Chase de Paris. This race, the equivalent of our Grand National, is run over four miles and is worth, to quote my race- card, " 6,000,000 francs et un objet d'art."
My visit was in the nature of a return trip, for in 1945 I had taken part there in a contest known as the Steeple-Clzase des Allies. I had greatly enjoyed this experience, although there must be few sports which lend themselves so ill to inter- national competition. The race had been confined to Allied officers and sponsored by Le Club de Gentleman-Riders, which had in its innocence assumed that if you were an officer you were automatically an amateur. It had reckoned without the methodical processes of the British demobilisation pro- gramme, which enabled the cunning English to arrive with a team of six, two of whom were undeniably officers, gentlemen, riders—but none the less professionals. This had caused a mild crisis, but by far the most vexed question which had arisen on that occasion was the provision of horses. We had come to Paris on the understanding that the various French owners, in the interests both of inter-allied solidarity and of the large amonnt of stake-money involved; would rally round and provide us with adequate mounts. The attitude of these good men had however been, much influenced by a similar contest held previously at Marseilles. Here the riders had drawn their horses by lot, and the favourite, a valuable and mettlesome animal, had been secured by a large and not very competent Russian. The owner had at once scratched his horse, but the inter-Allied temperature had then risen so high that he had been forced to re-enter it. The ensuing race had not been the success that had been hoped, and afterwards it had been generally conceded that owners would in future select their own "gentleman-riders."
Thus the reserve displayed by Le Club towards our two professionals had been by no means shared by the owners, who fell upon them with cries of delight and quickly supplied them with such horses as had not already been claimed by the French competitors. At the same time it became painfully clear to our four amateurs that unless they looked after their own interests they were in danger "of being left out in the cold. For three days there was consequently a gentlemanly but none the less determined free-for-all, from which I emerged with an animal of modest ability but guaranteed to jump the course. I have forgotten its name but not its breeding, which was down on the race-card as Ginger Ale et Goody. Thus I made acquaintance with Auteuil.
French fences are built on a different principle from British. Ours are sloping, comparatively stiff and made of birch; theirs are upright, soft, and made mostly of privet hedge. British trainers and jockeys, devote much time and energy towards ensuring that their horses, when confronted by an obstacle, jump over the top; the French consider it absurd to do this when it is much quicker to go through the fence halfway up. So it is—over a French fence. This different approach explains why French and English steeplechasers do not visit each other's countries so frequently or so successfully as their flat-racing relations.
The authorities at Auteuil, however, are not so unenterprising as to restrict the hazards to mere privet hedges. There is Ia riviere, a forbidding-looking water-jump. There is what my newspaper called " le terrible rail-ditch and fence, enorme haie precedee d'un tronc d'arbre et d'un fosse." There is le bullfinch, a hedge about six feet tall through which the horses are expected to burst their way, and to add variety there are a great many little white posts and rails, arranged at odd intervals rather in the style of a Concours Hip pique.
There is a pleasantly lighthearted air about a French race- meeting. You pay very much less to go in than you do in England, and once inside you are not herded into separate enclosures according to the amount you have paid. It does not, apparently, in the least matter if the races start half an hour late, and the general public mills happily about amongst the horses, protesting volubly if a hoof whistles too close past their ears, but otherwise displaying the same indifference to peril es they do in the streets.
There were nine starters for the Grand Steeple-Chase this year. Most of them were small, full of quality, and would have looked far more at home at Ascot than Aintree. In particular did this apply to the favourite, Fifrelet, which was reputed to have won its last five races " avec une deconcertante facilite." Tournay, winner of the 1952 race, was more impos- ing, but the horse in which I was principally interested was the good English 'chaser Glen Fire, third favourite for our Grand National. He was ridden here by Michael Scudamore, a resolute and experienced jockey who led for much of the way at Aintree this year on Ordnance..
While the horses were walking out, my party was wafted up in a lift to a roomy balcony overlooking the course, where we found reserved seats, an attractive-looking bar and an air of spacious ease. The horses paraded below us, cantered down to the start and, after a pause, were " off." For a moment I was so enchanted by the scene that I forgot to notice what was happening in the race. The expanse of grass below us, well watered, was a vivid summer green, set off by the neat privet hedges, white rails and brilliant trees. The sun poured down on gay dresses, flowers, the colours of the jockeys and the glossy coats of the nine galloping thoroughbreds. When the field, tightly packed together, took off and hung poised at full stretch above the wide water-jump, it was perfection. When my attention returned to the race, I saw that Fifrelet was skimming along in front, apparently able to judge the exact height below which each fence became too stiff for safety. The rest followed in a bunch just behind him. Glen Fire did not appear to be enjoying himself much; the white rails, the white- washed mud wall and le bullfinch all surprised him con- siderably. He jumped higher and more deliberately at every fence, and gradually his attitude became one of undisguised suspicion. Fifrelet purred smoothly along in front, with the crowd beginning to shout him home. Then, at the second from last fence, he made his only error. For a moment he struggled valiantly to regain his feet, failed, and turned a somersault. As the winner, a horse named Pharamond, passed the post, I noticed that Glen Fire had decided against jumping le bullfinch for the second time.
I would have much liked to watch M. Auriol present the winning owner with the objet d'art, but I had to catch my aeroplane. Two hours later I was at London Airport, in a cold wind and driving rain. Steeplechasing weather, in fact.
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