Adam Kirby

The through-line Everything he says circles back to horses and to a single professional habit: staying aware of what is happening around you and being ready to change the plan. Whether the subject is a cavalry-charge handicap, a young horse that has never had tack on, or the winter grind of all-weather racing, the answer is the same, that you do the homework, read the situation as it unfolds, and think for yourself when it goes wrong [1]. Asked where he sees himself in ten years, he will not name a job, only the constant: whatever he is doing, "it will be involving horses" [1].

The other steady note is contentment with a demanding routine rather than complaint about it. The dieting, the winter fixtures, the travel, the early start riding out, all of it is treated as the price of a life he chose after a family holiday in France where watching racing at a track made him take riding seriously [1].

On riding at the weight He is taller than the average jockey and says he never panicked about it, though he did not expect to last as long as he has [1]. The weight crept up after about three years and he has held it since, riding at nine stone and describing himself as pretty comfortable there [1]. The method is not a diet in the ordinary sense: when you are racing every day "you wouldn't be eating all that much" and the pattern is snacking rather than meals, something he has lived with for years and now simply deals with [1]. He is candid that going to his lowest weight takes real effort, and that he will not do it unless he thinks the horse has a live chance, which is a way of telling punters that seeing him at his minimum is information in itself [1]. He considered riding over jumps once or twice, rode in a flat jockeys' race over hurdles, and concluded quickly that he would not enjoy it [1].

On big-field handicaps and thinking on your feet The advice he gives young riders in big handicaps is not about bullying or intimidation, which he plays down, but about processing speed: "you have to think very quickly and be aware of what's happening around you", because watching it on television is nothing like having it happen around you [1]. His preparation model is that you do your homework beforehand and go out with about ninety per cent of an idea of the shape of the race, where the pace is and who will make it, while accepting that this can go wrong very quickly, and that when it does, "no matter what your orders are sometimes you have to think for yourself and change things around" [1]. The moment he singles out as most dangerous is when you have led, run out of petrol, and the field starts coming past with horses switching around in front of you, where a bad position can go from bad to worse in a stride [1]. He rejects the outsider's idea that a big-field charge is terrifying or deafening, saying you hear very little and cannot talk to each other, though there is hollering when it gets tight because it is a dangerous game and you need to make everyone aware of where you are [1]. The crowd registers only at the finish, when you are trying to get a horse to the line and the noise arrives [1].

On turf, all-weather and the winter He has no problem with all-weather racing and likes to keep going through the winter, partly because he is an active person who loves riding and partly because there is a living to be earned [1]. He frames the surface difference tactically rather than aesthetically: on certain turf tracks you can be cool and relaxed, take your time and let the race open up, whereas other tracks demand you think quickly, secure a good position and follow the right horse through [1]. Asked to choose, he prefers grass [1]. He would happily ride abroad in the winter and has had winners in Dubai, but says the chances have not really materialised, and he will go when one presents itself [1].

On nerves, first winners and status He denies stage fright altogether. The only edge comes in the paddock beforehand, and once he is on the horse it is over to him [1]. He credits the trainers he rides for, particularly Clive Cox, with letting him take races as they come [1]. His first winner, in 2004, he says he remembers just like yesterday, a settled, relaxed ride where the horse took him into the race and all he had to do was give a little click [1]. On the first Group 1, he resists the idea that it changes your standing in the weighing room, describing it instead as a massive relief that you have finally got there [1]. The weighing room itself he describes as variable rather than uniformly serious or uniformly full of banter, different every day, with some days serious and others full of laughter [1].

On priorities away from the racecourse He is unapologetic about riding profitable in the 2016 King's Stand at Royal Ascot on the day his child was born, saying he and his partner had already had the conversation, that the horse was a live contender, and that he knew two hours before the first race, with Clive Cox the first person he told [1]. He describes it as never a question of being forgiven, because that was simply where he was going, and notes he was there for the second birth [1]. Outside racing his interests are narrow by his own account, mainly greyhound racing, which he attributes to his mother's successful involvement in training dogs at Hall Green, Yarmouth and elsewhere [1].

On breaking young horses The farm work he does in the winter is described as a specialist job rather than a sideline. He is careful to explain what breaking actually means, getting a young horse used to having a rider on its back, to having tack on, and to being driven with a rein either side so it will walk on, turn left and right, and stop and start while understanding what is being asked [1]. His argument for treating it seriously is that a horse can be ruined from the start, and his summary of the skill is the same one that governs his race riding: "it's all about communicating with them and understanding them" [1].

On the cost of the life The best part of the job he describes plainly as riding winners and the buzz they give [1]. The worst is the road: "I hate traveling", and the one thing he would change about the life is to have a helicopter [1]. In practice, he says, shared helicopters are very rare, but four or five riders going a long way north will jump in together and take a small plane for the day [1]. The test he applies to continuing is enjoyment, saying that the day he stops enjoying it is the day he stops [1].

Takeaways

• Preparation gets you about ninety per cent of the way in a big handicap; the rest is reading the race live and overriding your orders when the shape changes [1].
• Seeing him declared at his minimum weight is a signal, because he will not make the effort unless he believes the horse has a live chance [1].
• Weight management for a daily rider is a permanent pattern of snacking rather than meals, not a periodic diet [1].
• Turf and all-weather differ tactically as much as physically: some tracks let you relax, others demand you take a position early and follow the right horse [1].
• A first Group 1 brings relief rather than a change of status in the weighing room [1].
• Breaking a young horse is specialist work because a horse can be ruined at the start; the skill is communication and understanding [1].
• The worst part of the job is travel, and the enjoyment test is the one he applies to knowing when to stop [1].