Racing loses one of its greatest voices

Every death is a tragedy.

But perhaps the greatest tragedy from the news of Alastair Down's passing earlier this month is knowing that there is nobody capable of writing the obituary he truly deserves. For years, he has eloquently paid homage to some of the greatest personalities in racing with his peerless prose - but there is no voice that comes close to providing him with the same distinguished honour.

He was out on his own as a sportswriter, perhaps the most underrated of his time. Outside of racing, Down was almost anonymous. Inside the sport, he was a monument, capable of drawing images with his words no known 4k television could produce.

He entered the Fourth Estate as a writer for Sporting Life and the Racing Post, where his columns became essential reading for anyone with even a passing interest in the sport’s greatest occasions. He also served as a member of Channel 4’s racing team during its heyday, bringing both insight and wit to the screen.

In what was probably his final public appearance, he returned to Cheltenham to see the press room named in his honour - a fitting tribute in a familiar setting where he would have spent many long afternoons at Prestbury Park recounting the history he had just witnessed in his own unique style. Voted Racing Writer of the Year on five occasions, Down’s legacy as one of the sport’s most compelling voices is firmly etched into the history of racing.

His passion in racing was fermented from his very early years, and not by some lucky docket as he came of age. The Cheltenham Festival was perhaps his first true love that continued to burn bright until his death, but the sport also brought him and his quill around the globe. And when he travelled, the line between pleasure and work was hugely blurred.

After one particular beery trip to Longchamp in France, Down regaled his loyal readers in the Racing Post with tales of his escapade, capturing the indulgent spirit of the journey with his usual wit. "I just wish to be left alone with my thoughts and sincere hopes that my liver, which I mailed home by separate refrigerated container, will arrive soon," he quipped.

That was Down - blissfully candid and droll in a way that made racing a theatre of grandeur and absurdity.

But the man was by no means a pleasure merchant merely seeking out a free ticket to the next booze fest. Although his wit and reputation might have painted him as a man drawn by the revelry, one of his frequent and beloved visits to Ireland proved that he was just as equipped to paint evocative prose on the dry. After one visit to the Galway Races, he reflected: “Time was that I used to love my visits to Galway though fading stamina and sage advice from doctors result in me not loading for the trip these days. It is some party - and there’s seven days’ racing as well.”

And as you'd expect from somebody who delivered such short wit that spared few, he was no stranger to controversy. Among those he took aim at was Redcar racecourse on the northeast coast of England, with Down once stating that he'd be happy for the words “He never went to Redcar” to be inscribed on his gravestone. In response to the remarks, the racecourse renamed a race in his honour - the Alastair Down Gravestone Selling Stakes - and invited him as a special guest to present the prize to its winner. Down, of course, couldn't refuse, though he quipped that the prizemoney ($1,706) was “almost the exact same that it costs you in petrol to drive there”.

For all his quips and remarkable writing, he was also immensely self-deprecating. That's what perhaps made him such irresistible reading. His self-deprecation reached its peak in a tale of his own horseback adventures. Describing himself as a man who had just “lunched too well”, Down painted an unforgettable image of a well-fed reporter cantering across the countryside on a former chaser, wearing a bright yellow, old-fashioned motorcycle helmet, having found no conventional gear large enough to fit his head.

As he recounted his day out, his journey quickly evolved from a dignified trot to a clumsy struggle with the basics of riding. When the time came to “rise to the trot,” he revealed his earlier understanding of the term had been quite different: “I had previously understood [it] to refer to nocturnal dashes to the bathroom after a particularly virulent curry.” 

 His voice, however, remained one of warmth, despite the endless wit in his columns. Racing was more than just a sport to him. He saw the wider racing community as a family, as evidenced by the many tributes that have poured in to highlight his position within the fraternity. Irish champion trainer Willie Mullins called him a “Group 1 writer and a Grade 1 pal,” while Ted Walsh, who rarely finds himself lost for words, claimed that Down had a unique way of “saying what everyone would like to say but putting it on paper.” The British Horseracing Authority referred to his contribution to the sport as “immeasurable”.

Indeed.

Without his familiar, wry commentary, the biggest days in the racing calendar simply won't be the same as racing has lost a small piece of its soul. Fittingly though, his ashes will be scattered atop Cleeve Hill overlooking Cheltenham Racecourse, a place Down looked upon as the closest earth will ever come to heaven.

Though his voice may be gone, his words remain, capturing the essence of racing with a blend of humour, heart, and honesty no other writer could will ever replicate. And when the crowds gather every year in March and the horses thunder down the hill towards the final few furlongs, there will be a tangible sense that a spirit will be enjoying the spectacle from the top of Cleeve Hill without any of those pesky deadlines to meet.