Bart was the last of a golden generation and there’ll never be another like him.
So it’s Tuesday morning, the sun is shining and I’m heading to Flemington.
Furthermore, I’m donning the suit and knotting the tie. I have a press badge. Access to hallowed areas.
My first Melbourne Cup.
The previous year, same time, I am cramming for HSC exams.
From 1968 to ’70 I am at boarding school in Geelong, where Cup day is no holiday. Just a few minutes’ respite from class to listen to the race.
Until now, Cup days are for sweeps and barbies at home.
This is 1974.
Anthony Cummings, my age, is a student in Adelaide.
Gabriel Smith (Gai Waterhouse) is a 20 year-old budding actress (you wouldn’t say actor in those days).
David Hayes is a 12-year-old, just finishing his first year of secondary school in Adelaide.
At Flemington, there is no sign of a sheikh, a horse from further away than New Zealand or any early-morning watering.
It is a typical — and pretty impressive — field.
The favourite is the outstanding mare Leilani, winner of the Caulfield Cup and Mackinnon Stakes, form to be respected. Peter Cook is the rider.
Against her are Kiwi Battle Heights, Cox Plate hero and runner-up in the Mackinnon, reigning Cup champion Gala Supreme, 1972 winner Piping Lane, Moonee Valley Cup winner Lord Metric; highly credentialled stayers Igloo and Turfcutter, and Leilani’s emerging stablemate Think Big, winner of the Hotham Handicap on Derby day.
Roughie High Sail goes hard from the get-go, opens up a big break and ensures a truly run race.
Cook is masterful early, getting Leilani into an ideal crusing position, fifth on the fence.
Harry White, on Think Big, eases back and rides patiently, as is his trademark.
Always have a race won. Never be in a hurry to win it.
Coming to the home turn, Home Sail is spent. Igloo, Battle Heights and Turfcutter are challenging. Leilani is poised, just needing some clear space for her light frame.
Think Big is third last, White beginning to advance, staying near the inside, picking gaps.
Past the clock tower, Leilani bursts through and finds the lead. The crowd is cheering. The favourite looks the winner.
Until White extricates Think Big, who surges down the outside and scores at 12-1 ($13).
It is Harry’s first Melbourne Cup victory, the fourth for trainer Bart Cummings and, with Leilani second, remarkably his third quinella.
It’s been seven years since the Melbourne Cup “first” of three in a row from 1965 to ’67.
He is now just one away from equalling Etienne de Mestre’s five Melbourne Cup wins as a trainer.
Even being there live for the first time, surrounded by buzzing media, I am oblivious to the significance, to the future.
The success, the striking big dark hair and eyebrows, the engaging smile. It’s Elvis like.
Think Big wins again in 1975. Stablemate Holiday Waggon runs second. Five Cups, four quinellas.
Bart aims for another threepeat with Gold And Black in ’76. The horse is robbed by a freak storm, a bog and a mudlark called Van Der Hum.
He quickly atones by beating Reckless in 1977. Cummings again with Hyperno in 1979.
By the end of the decade Bart is the trainer of seven Melbourne Cup winners.
Now it’s not just watching from afar and marvelling.
I am interviewing, writing about him and the secret to his success, his horses, and learning from him.
Like the time he insists I come to his Flemington stables for a visual of what he is trying to explain about the latest phenomenon, the imported horses from Europe.
“They have different shaped hooves,” he says, as he lifts the leg of an example. “See, diamond shaped.”
Not the large oval prototypes of the colonial bred. Not the shock absorbers.
“That’s why they can’t handle the hard tracks of Australia.”
Death always prompts reflection.
The passing of a legend demands more.
There are stories galore of Bart’s wit and insight. The achievements, not confined to the amazing 12 Melbourne Cups.
The honour roll of greats who have benefited from his personal, unique scrutiny and conditioning.
The pearls of wisdom such as: “Champions deserve to be recognised, not compared.”
Which is why we should simply acknowledge that an era is now at an end. Bart, Tommy and Colin all laid to rest.
Every generation sometimes feels envious of those before.
Sure, it would have been nice to see and write about and commentate on Phar Lap, Tulloch, Bradman and Coleman.
But, just in racing, a package of Cummings, Smith, Hayes, Higgins, Makybe Diva and Black Caviar is quite impressive.
So somewhere in the future, with technology so far advanced that tablets are once again for swallowing, purists will understand how lucky we were.
Because just like Bradman, there will never be another Bart.