It Was Back to the Future at Cheltenham

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It Was Back to the Future at Cheltenham

By Sean Clancy

Four years. Four long years. Different this year. Very different. A tear or two welled into my eyes as I hugged Candida Baker. And then George Baker. Outside Terminal 2 at Heathrow on a tranquil sun-filled Sunday morning. Four raucous days at the Cheltenham Festival in the books (the liver and the bank, too).

They were off and jumping at Cheltenham.

“You have made such a difference in my life…”

We squeezed a final “it’ll-be-anotheryear” embrace and Candida turned to the passenger door of her Range Rover.

“You’re going to make me cry…”

We have made the journey to see the greatest steeplechase racing in the world for 20 years. Or so. Not quite consecutively. But certainly thoroughly. And from all over the map. Empty houses, friends’ homes and a few early hostels, trying to fall asleep before the snorers.

Four years ago, I hugged George and Candida in front of a different terminal, rain pelting off our shoulders as we hugged one last time. Wondering if it could be the last time, should we be hugging, should we have gone racing, should I be flying? Covid – declared a pandemic during the 2020 Cheltenham Festival – was descending, had descended. I had a few tears that day, too. Tears of gloom. Tears of dread. Tears of fears.

The airports were somber, sad, chaotic and confused. A few wore masks, laughable, ludicrous, I thought. The world as we once knew it was over, at least for a while.

I boarded a plane home, watched any reality-deflecting comedy I could find on the plane ride, landed at Dulles Airport and was fed like scraps down a disposal into a line at customs. The man next to me had been to France and Italy. The woman behind me, Japan. Another guy, Germany, as he coughed, and we winced. An older woman’s suitcase fell over, three of us reached to grab it and then we stopped and stared. She struggled to pick it up and was more comfortable with her hands on her luggage than any of ours. I knew we were in trouble.

I called an Uber for the 45-minute drive home. We drove in silence; I wondered if I was giving him this crazy thing that none of us understood. I was hoping it wasn’t his last fare. I arrived at the farm, to my family, miffed that I went and manic that I was coming home. It wasn’t much of a homecoming. I dropped my luggage at the door.

Back then, there weren’t tests, weren’t vaccines, certainly wasn’t a roadmap on what to do. I quarantined in the guest room for two weeks. We waited. I checked my temperature. Texted George and Candida to see if they were OK. I was fine. We were fine. I worked in the garden, walked around the farm, went for a run or two. It was a staycation of a lifetime. Other than the closing cloud of the unknown.

We survived that. Nobody got Covid. Of course, we’ve had it since. Once or twice, but who’s counting any more?

I watched a limited-attended Cheltenham from our Middleburg couch the following year. A more-attended one in 2022 and a packed one in 2023. It was brutal to watch.

Actually, there was no fear, I was missing out. George and Candida and my other Cotswolds friends texting, calling and WhatsApping me after every big jump, big score, big finish. We Zoomed a round of Guinness, talked about our picks, dissected the races. Golfers have Augusta. Tennis players, Wimbledon. And steeplechase diehards have Cheltenham.

Four years. Four long years. And I was back. A lot of water under the bridge. Masks, lockdowns, tests, sanitizers, quarantines under Cleeve Hill, too.

This time, we once again celebrated the sport. Twenty-seven races over four days. In the rain and wind, the sun and splash, over hurdles and fences, on the old course and the new course.

Irish trainer Willie Mullins dominated with nine wins, including his 100th career victory at Cheltenham, a record up there with Beamon and Ripken. Galop Des Champs joined the few and brave with his second Cheltenham Gold Cup triumph. Mullins’ first-call Paul Townsend was crowned leading jockey, the pressure ricocheting off his soft hands and long hold through four days in a cauldron. A few little guys – trainers Jeremy Scott and Fiona Needham – punched over their weight and defined their careers.

Friday night, after four days of sport, we drank the last drops of champagne and talked about the years after Covid. Mandatory lockdowns and mindless quarantines. Life in Paris. Life in Rio. Life in London. Life in Middleburg.

Four years. Four long years.