Ill wind blows a power of good

Wimbledon might have labelled it People's Thursday. Such a tag somehow does scant justice to the sense of renewed anticipation and excitement at 10 races, including seven thrilling chases and a historic hurdle, being packed into a unique sporting occasion.

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Even Sir Peter O'Sullevan, who gave his name to the opening race, had not seen the like. The 90-year-old did, however, remember nine-race cards prior to the advent of the Festival and, as if to prove his antiquity, he plucked from his inside pocket a racecard from 1941, the year of his first runner at Cheltenham.

'Sundange was the name of the horse,' racing's most venerable knight recalled. 'He's still running. Ridden by a Belgium jockey. We knew him as Nobby. It was just another meeting in those days. I am going for a drink now.'

Quite right, too. He had done his work in presenting the trophies for the first race, a four-miler that when he first commentated went three times round the grandstand. Imagine the potential for skulduggery with a combination of black and white pictures and the late winter gloom.

Sir Peter led where the other great names of jump racing followed. On to the presentation podium trotted jockeys like Tony McCoy and Ruby Walsh, trainers of the calibre of Paul Nicholls, Jonjo O'Neill, David Pipe and Tom Taaffe and some of the richest owners like Trevor Hemmings, Clive Smith and David Johnson.

It was almost as if on such a day only those and such as those were being honoured by the Gods of the turf.

If ever a horse deserved to put four hooves on to the dais, it was Inglis Drever. A roof had exploded in the gusts on Wednesday, giving rise to yesterday's extravaganza. The metaphorical roof was raised when the Howard Johnson-trained horse crossed the line.

Neither man nor beast received such a reception, though Her Majesty the Queen might have gone close had her first Festival runner, Barbers Shop (no apostrophe, tut tut), not been beaten by a neck. Off with Taaffe's head.

Not even the incomparable McCoy was more ecstatically welcomed into the winner's circle as he rode his first winner since — let's not beat about the bush — recovering from a broken back in just eight weeks.

His smile, raised-arm salute and several punches of the air spoke of it meaning more than usual, as if vindicating his fight to regain fitness, some of it spent undergoing kriotherapy at minus-140 degrees.

He spoke otherwise. 'I think my smile is always pretty big when winning at Cheltenham,' he said. 'It should be the same as having a winner any other day.'

At least he'll never again feel the cold. 'Cold is the least of my worries,' he pretended to grump. It was almost as if he knew what was coming, namely a warning for excess use of the whip and a bad fall on the well-backed Don't Push It for his employer JP McManus.

But the abiding impression of the day was of joy and enthusiasm almost enhanced by the disappointment of the previous day. Scarcely a whine or a whinge in the air. And to think, according to that weekend survey, we are supposed to be a bunch of miserable pessimists.

Spirits remained high even when the short-priced winners started to dry up and the queues lengthened outside the cash machines. They put an extra £1.5million into them in anticipation of the betting bonanza. That would have appealed to the Hole in the Wall gang.

It was an ill wind that blew Cheltenham the greatest day in the history of National Hunt racing.

Until Friday, that is.