The Prince of Rails

Sunday 21 November

Aintree, Liverpool

Ruby Walsh is lost in the confusing network of roads that surround Aintree. It is several u-turns and many expletives before the most-travelled jockey in National Hunt arrives at the racecourse, where not even the heavy rain can dampen his mood. Over a late and hasty breakfast of a cup of coffee he considers whether to walk the course or head straight for a sauna. He glances up at the sky. 'It's too fucking cold and wet today,' he says. 'Anyway, I could ride this course with my eyes closed.'

I take that to mean he's on his way to the sauna.

It was here at Aintree, on 8 April 2000, that the prematurely grey-haired Walsh, who at 5ft 10in is one of the tallest jockeys on the circuit, partnered Papillon to victory in the Grand National. He was, at 20, one of the youngest winners (the youngest was 17-year-old Bruce Hobbs, on Battleship in 1938). Walsh's father, Ted, had trained the horse. 'I never realised it would be such a big deal,' he says of the response to the family's success. 'Even the horse started getting fan mail. Returning to Aintree brings it all back.'

Walsh is in Liverpool to ride Eurotrek, who, the odds suggest, should win his three-horse race. Later, he will also ride in the main race of the day over the Grand National fences. The trainer to whom he is contracted, the Somerset-based Paul Nicholls, has two horses in the race. In his role as stable jockey for Nicholls, who is now challenging Martin's Pipe's dominance of National Hunt, Walsh had to choose between Silver Birch or Fasgo. His assessment is blunt. 'Aintree is the best place in the world if your horse is jumping well, but a nightmare if he isn't. I know Silver Birch, I know he jumps well, so I chose him.'

When he emerges two hours later to ride Eurotrek, Walsh's expression is grim. He looks tense, troubled even. In the event, Eurotrek fails to finish. Did he know something was wrong beforehand? 'No,' he says. 'But I knew he'd lost form halfwayround. I gave him a couple of smacks with the whip to show the punters I was trying, but they can't always win.'

The smile soon returns, however, when Silver Birch cruises to victory in the Becher Chase. In the winners' enclosure the pair are met with muffled cheers from the sparse crowd. 'That was unbelievable,' is all a mud-splattered Walsh has time to say in between smiling for photographs, having a BBC microphone thrust under his nose and rushing to catch an early-evening flight to Dublin.

Monday 22 November

Day off

Ruby Walsh has two phrases that he uses to end any conversation: 'that'll do' and 'not a bother'. Ask almost any question, or make any arrangement, and you receive one of the two.

'How is the weight today?'

'Not a bother'

'See you tomorrow at Warwick?'

'That'll do'

We speak again during the afternoon. Walsh, it turns out, missed his intended flight but still arrived back in Dublin in time to enjoy a few drinks with friends. This is, for him, a rare free day as Nicholls has no runners and his trainer in Ireland, Willie Mullins, doesn't require him. 'I've got two months worth of bills to sort out,' he says, 'but I'd be riding if I could. I can't plan a day off: they either happen like today or they come through suspension. I can't remember my last planned one.'

Born in Co Kildare in 1979, Walsh still lives in Ireland with his long-term girlfriend, Gillian. He recently bought a house in Calverstown, a 40-minute drive from Dublin. While jockeys travelling back and forth across the Irish Sea is nothing new, Walsh is the first to do so on such a regular basis. The travel, he says, is 'not a bother' because he can enjoy the best of both worlds: 'In one direction I'm going home, and in the other I'm going to ride top horses.'

Brought up in a racing family, he spent his childhood riding his father's horses after school and at weekends. Walsh was soon a regular at trainer Noel Meade's yard in Navan and, at 15, he spent his summer holiday working for Aidan O'Brien, one of the most successful trainers in the sport. He rode his first race at 16, on his brother's horse, Wild Irish, at Leopardstown. 'I was so excited that the whole thing almost passed me by,' he says. 'I finished fifth after challenging too late. Dad had a few good horses and I soon had my first winner.'

Walsh got even luckier when Mullins, then an amateur jockey as well as trainer, couldn't make the weight for a race. Walsh took over and won. It was the start of a partnership that remains strong - he is still retained by Mullins whenever he is in Ireland.

It takes madness and courage to want to be a National Hunt jockey. The obsessive pursuit of winners, present in all bar none, is accompanied by obstacles far greater than fences. Wasting a body comparable in size to that of a welterweight boxer down to less than 10st is, ludicrously, considered normal. It is not uncommon for a jockey to eat little more than a slice of toast and piece of chicken breast a day.

Champion jockey Tony McCoy is the most renowned for his dietary rigours. In his 2002 autobiography, he wrote that 'no matter how firmly you believe you are on top of the weight, it's there like your shadow... It was getting to me mentally and desperate times called for desperate measures. I decided that bulimia was the answer.' McCoy never did successfully stick his fingers down his throat, though. 'I tried two or three times but never had the knack, so there I was, head over the bowl with tears streaming from my eyes with nothing to show for it.'

As if that's not enough to ruin a body, there are the falls, which are often accompanied by horses' hooves rattling on or around your body. In my week with Walsh, top jockeys Jim Culloty, Richard Johnson, Graham Lee, and McCoy himself all missed racing because of broken bones or dislocations. And all this for far less financial reward than their Flat contemporaries, against whom they are comparative paupers. Kieren Fallon might travel in a private jet; Walsh usually flies Aer Lingus.

Tuesday 23 November

Warwick

Walsh is up at six to catch a flight to Heathrow. He is to partner Le Seychellois in the 1.50 in his only ride of the day. Many punters see the solitary ride as a tip in itself as Walsh has an impressive strike rate at Warwick, winning an extraordinary 67 per cent of his races there. Those who have done their homework are rewarded as Walsh guides Le Seychellois to an easy victory. 'That'll do,' he says, having changed out of his silks. 'The early starts don't seem so bad when you sit on a horse who wins like...'

'RUBY!' interrupts a man called Tom, whom Walsh appears to know. 'Top man,' he continues, playfully punching Walsh on the arm. 'But my daughter's gonna kill me, Ruby. She wanted me to back you but I fancied Val Du Don instead. I never had a penny on but... have a look at this.'

He shows Walsh a copy of the Racing Post . He circles two names, then gives a detailed analysis of the upcoming race.

'What do you think?'

'I wouldn't know,' Walsh says, 'but I think the McManus horse might not be good enough.'

Another punch on the arm and Tom is off to put his bet on.

'I haven't got a clue who that was,' he says, turning to me.

Walsh is spending the night at Tony McCoy's house in Lambourn, where he stays whenever he is in England. Indeed, McCoy's house has become something of a refuge for nomadic jockeys.

'Sometimes there will be a few of us there,' Walsh says, 'and it can be a good laugh. I think he likes the company.'

Even when he is injured, or worse, hasn't had a winner?

'He's fine after an hour or two. I want to watch Man United tonight, so I'll have to try to get him to turn the racing channels over.'

How strange is it to be so friendly with one of your greatest rivals, especially as McCoy's recent decision to abandon the winning factory of Martin Pipe looks misguided. Some are even whispering that this move is starting to make Walsh look the better jockey of the two. 'McCoy will be champion for as long as he wants to be,' he says. 'Only injury can stop him. He could ride three days a week between now and the end of the season and still be champion. I'm over here for a different reason. My ambition is to win a Cheltenham Gold Cup and, until I do, that will remain the dream.'

If the lack of championship ambition sounds like deference to McCoy, far from it. Champion amateur at 18, then champion jockey in Ireland in 1999, Walsh has added both Irish and Scottish Grand Nationals to his Aintree success. He has won six races at the Cheltenham Festival, including last year's Queen Mother Champion Chase on Azertyuiop, a horse now rated higher than triple Gold Cup winner Best Mate.

'Technically he's just about perfect,' former champion jockey and Channel 4 commentator John Francome says of Walsh. 'He's a pleasure to watch. If you look at him going into a fence, over it and on landing, he barely moves. He keeps his head still, sees a really good stride and keeps them well balanced. If I was a horse and I had to have someone ride me, it would be him.'

When I ask for a comparison between Walsh and McCoy, Francome says: 'Both have an amazing will to win. Both can win on horses any other jockey would be third or fourth on. In terms of what they get from a horse there is nothing between them.'

Wednesday 24 November

Chepstow

As he leaves Lambourn, Walsh phones his father to hear his view on the day's action. Ruby has five rides, including one on Blushing Bull, a horse he is particularly looking forward to riding. Walsh Sr, trainer and garrulous television pundit, is good for a second opinion. 'I'm always on the phone to him,' Ruby says. 'He is the best adviser I'll ever have. He'll always tell me if I've ridden a good or bad race. We rarely argue - he is not a man to be argued with too often.'

The afternoon starts well. After placing on Were In Touch, Blushing Bull wins comfortably. 'He's absolutely bolted up,' Walsh says, thrilled. 'He's one to look forward to.'

Unplaced on Kiwi Babe, his next ride is Robyn Alexander, which fell at Wincanton earlier in the month. Walsh wasn't on her that day and isn't concerned by the fall. 'Horses either jump the fence or they don't,' he says. 'There is no point in worrying about it. They are not trying to fall on purpose.'

Two fences in, Robyn Alexander unseats Walsh then kicks him for good measure. An unplaced ride on Silver Jewel later and he limps out of the weighing room.

'She kicked the shit out of me,' he says, wincing, and walks to his hire car.

Will you be racing tomorrow?

'Yeah, I'll be fine.'

How injured would you have to be not to race?

'Something would have to be broken.'

On the drive to Heathrow we talk more about falls and injuries. During a career, Walsh says, a jockey can expect to fall once in every eight races. It is not something that bothers him. 'I've broken my collarbone and my leg twice. The first thing that goes through your mind is wondering when you can race again. Not racing hurts a lot more than being injured. The most painful injury I've ever had was when I dislocated my hip in a fall at Listowel. That was agony.'

Has anything ever made him consider stopping?

'Not really... when Kieran Kelly died - that was devastating.'

Kelly, who was 25, had a fall at Kilbeggan. He was on a life-support machine for several days before he died from severe head injuries in Beaumont Hospital, Dublin.

'Kieran was a lovely lad,' Walsh says. 'None of us ever thought it would happen. This is racing. People don't die. Even on the life-support machine we always thought he would come through. I was racing with him the day it happened. I had spoken to him just minutes before the fall. I'll never forget [fellow jockey] Norman Williamson sitting me down at Gowran Park and telling me that he had passed away. A few of the lads stopped riding after that. Can you believe the stewards tried to make us ride in the race after it had happened? Fucking bastards. I see it as a freak accident. I have to. You can get killed in all sorts of ways and you shouldn't stop doing something you love.'

Thursday 25 November

Thurles

Walsh arrives at Willie Mullins's yard in Closutton, Co Carlow. He is there to exercise two horses, but his leg is still painful and he moves slowly, reluctantly. 'It's sore all right,' he says. 'Can you believe some punter ran over to call me a twat after the fall yesterday? It's unbelievable the way some people talk through their pockets. I've had worse, though. People think that because you are a jockey, you're going to be small and they can say whatever they want. I'm 5ft 10in and if I ride up to them and stare, you should see them shrink. I can't say anything to them but I can glare all right.'

I watch as he rides Royal Alphabet and Adamant Approach around the impressive gallops at Mullins's yard. Then we make our way to Thurles. On the way, we talk food or, more specifically, we talk about a lack of food. Yesterday Walsh ate only one sandwich and a packet of crisps he grabbed at the airport. 'What I eat depends on what weight I need to do,' he says. 'Today I have to do 10st 6lb, which is easy. I weighed 10st 3lb yesterday and had only that sandwich so I'll be fine. If I had to be lighter I wouldn't have eaten the crisps and would have scraped the filling out of the sandwich and thrown the bread away. I would naturally weigh about 11st 4lb but the lightest I can do is 10st 1lb, which means I have to weigh 9st 12lb because of the boots and silks. That is my absolute limit. If my horse is down to carry 10st, I ride overweight [supposedly a disadvantage to his horse]. That extra pound might not sound much but it's impossible for me to lose it.'

As we park at Thurles, Walsh says he'll meet me by the car once the racing is over. 'That's if you're not picking me up from the local hospital,' he adds, smiling.

The contrast with Aintree, or almost any other leading race track, is stark. There are no modern facilities, just a couple of concrete stands with corrugated roofs. The toilets are desperate, though not bad enough to stop the midday drinkers making room for another pint. Tens of people, rather than hundreds, huddle in the rain to watch Walsh win the last of his four rides, on Sunami Storm. There is little doubt that he was the difference between the 6-1 shot finishing first and second. 'Ruby was great,' Mullins offers afterwards. But the news isn't all good, because he has suffered another fall. Phantasos was brought down two hurdles from home in the third race and Walsh hit the ground with a thump. 'He wouldn't have won anyway,' he says, on the way home. 'But I'm sore all over.'

Friday 26 November

Wexford

Early in the morning I receive a call from Walsh: we are no longer going to Mullins's yard. He is too stiff from yesterday's fall and wants instead to have physiotherapy. His friend Ronan O'Gara, the Ireland rugby player, has suggested he spends two minutes in boiling hot bath water followed immediately by 30 seconds in a freezing cold one. Walsh has tried this before and, while it worked, he won't be doing it again. 'It's fucking agony,' he says.

Today he has enlisted his friend and minder, Bubba, to do the driving. On the way to Wexford, Walsh reads the Racing Post and discusses next day's racing at Newbury. He is due to ride Royal Auclair in the Hennessy Gold Cup, one of the biggest races of the season. The front page reports that three horses, two of them fancied, have been withdrawn.

He must be pleased, I say, as that surely increases his chances of winning?

'Not really; they weren't good enough anyway. All it means is that there are three fewer horses to get in the way. I'd have been more pleased if Celestial Gold [the Martin Pipe-trained favourite] or Nil Desperandum [Walsh's own fancy] had been missing out. I won't think about it until today is over. One bad fall and I might not even be there.'

Once at Wexford, Walsh takes me into the weighing room and shows me the sauna. 'I'll do 30 minutes in there, then shave, drink a glass of water and weigh myself. If I need to lose another pound, I'll go back in there. It's horrible but has to be done.'

How many jockeys will be crammed in there?

'Five or six,' he says. 'The most jockeys I've seen in a sauna at any one time is 18.'

Out on the track it is another successful day as Walsh, on Livingstonebramble, collects his fifth winner of the week. On the way home he does a crossword.

'Nuuk is the capital of where?'

Long pause.

'Er... Greenland,' says Bubba.

'Yes!' says Walsh. 'Talking of right answers, Fitzy [jockey Mick Fitzgerald] is the best. He just fires them off. He's so good I thought he was making the answers up. I actually went out and bought the next day's paper to check. He'd got them all right, though.'

Saturday 27 November

Newbury

The morning of the Hennessy Gold Cup. Walsh is due back in Ireland today and this is, as he puts it, his latest 'smash and grab' raid. After an early flight to Heathrow, he hires yet another car and drives briskly down the M4. Gold Cup day at Newbury is the real thing and the atmosphere is one of excited anticipation as the big crowd begins to build. Having won the Hennessy the previous year on Strong Flow, Walsh, characteristically relaxed, talks of his chances of following up on Royal Auclair. 'If he makes no mistakes and has all the luck he might do it,' he says, without real conviction.

Does he feel any extra pressure because the horse is tipped to win in several papers?

'Not at all. I missed the build-up, being in Ireland, but I wouldn't care if my horse is 1-3 or 33-1, it won't make me ride him any better. And it won't stop another horse falling in front of him.'

Walsh's winning streak continues as he guides the Nicholls-trained Great Travel to victory in his first ride. We speak on his way back to the weighing room. 'They're absolutely flying,' he says, grinning. 'The yard couldn't be in better form.'

Expectation, I sense, is rising. But in the parade ring before the Hennessy the grim expression that I first saw at Aintree has returned. Has the pressure finally got to him, or has something gone wrong?

After a quiet first circuit Royal Auclair has barely been mentioned by the commentator, but seems to be travelling well enough and is staying out of trouble. Five fences from home, Walsh begins to make his move. Three fences out, Auclair rates a mention from the commentator, who says: 'He's travelling as well as anything and has been foot-perfect throughout.' Two more good jumps might yet win Walsh the big race. Another fine leap and he is right on the pace, even if, ominously, he is being tracked by Celestial Gold as the pair pursue the leader, Ollie Magern .

Then the dream dies. Royal Auclair jumps the last well but only lands in third. He doesn't have the pace to go with the eventual winner, Celestial Gold, but still battles on to finish third. 'I'm delighted with him,' Walsh says, as we speak on the phone as he drives back to Heathrow.

'I thought he might win turning for home, but I couldn't have asked for more from him.'

He is due to ride in Ireland tomorrow.

'Good luck,' I say.

'That'll do,' comes the reply.

Postscript

December is an exacting month for Walsh. After nine wins in five days, 11 more meetings bring just five winners for him. Going into the Christmas period - a busy time for jockeys - one of the few positives for Walsh is returning unscathed from a reunion with Robyn Alexander at Newton Abbott. After Christmas dinner ('no pudding though') Walsh is due to ride Azertyuiop in the King George on Boxing Day. Having been committed to riding Le Roi Miguel in the big race, his decision to switch at the eleventh hour is controversial. Indeed, Le Roi Miguel's owner, Andy Stewart, publicly casts doubt that Walsh will ever ride for him again. To make matters worse Azertyuiop only finishes third, but he beats Le Roi Miguel into fourth. I phone Walsh to ask him whether he regrets his decision. 'Look,' he says, 'Azertyuiop is the best horse I've ever sat on. He had never been tried over three miles and I felt that if he got the trip, he'd win. It turned out he didn't, but I wanted to be the man who found that out.' Have recent events or the relative lack of winners affected his confidence? 'Not at all,' he says. 'Your luck can change at any time in racing.' These are prophetic words. Despite his lack of confidence in Silver Birch before the Welsh National at Chepstow on 28 December, the horse is backed on the morning of the race as though defeat is out of the question, which, in the event, it is as Silver Birch wins comfortably and, injury aside, will be at the Grand National in April. 'If I could tell you he'll win that, we'd all be millionaires,' Walsh says afterwards, 'but he must have a serious chance for the National.' That afternoon, he also partners Almost Broke and Le Passing to victory. Our time together ends as it began: with a microphone being forced under his nose in the winners' enclosure.

Jump leaders

Tony McCoy (1992- )

Known as 'the punter's pal' because of his masochistic pursuit of winners, McCoy became the first National Hunt jockey to reach 2,000 career wins when he rode Magical Bailiwick to victory at Wincanton last year. His reaction? 'I'd like to ride another 2,000.'

Fred Winter (1947-1964)

Four-time champion jockey, Winter won two Grand Nationals, two Cheltenham Gold Cups and three Champion Hurdles - not bad for a man who had no great love of jumping. He can also lay claim to the greatest ride of all time, when he partnered Mandarin to a photo-finish victory in the Grand Steeplechase de Paris in 1962, despite his horse's bit (which gives a jockey control over a horse) snapping at the fourth fence. He died last year having also been champion trainer eight times.

John Francome (1970-1985)

The most stylish man ever to jump a fence, Francome's background in showjumping set him apart from his contemporaries, in terms of aesthetics. The seven-time champion jockey spent his entire career riding for Fred Winter and the pair enjoyed their greatest success when Midnight Court won the Cheltenham Gold Cup in 1978.

Martin Molony (1939-1951)

The outstanding rider of the immediate post-war era, Molony won three Irish Classics on the Flat before turning to jumps where he won three Irish Grand Nationals and, on Silver Fame in 1951, a Cheltenham Gold Cup. Molony's Irish record of 94 winners in a season stood for 42 years until it was broken by Charlie Swan in 1992.