Bay, chesnut, grey, black – a kaleidoscope of equine colours shifts and reassembles as the race approaches the end. Tiny men in rainbow silks urge them on.
A solitary grey breaks forward, accelerating and stretching low.
Trackside bookies chew their pencils and fan their depreciating takings. This wasn’t supposed to happen. A rank outsider with a mid-range saloon’s chassis but what now appears to be a Ferrari engine.
They said she was a nice little runner.