Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori. Frankie Dettori

over me, as I lay cursing on the ground, as if to say what are you doing down there? He did it out of high spirits, rather than malice, and even when I couldn’t cling on to the reins he didn’t run away. All the bruises and embarrassment seemed worthwhile when he won the Cambridgeshire ridden by Ray Cochrane.

      By then I was preparing to resume my riding career in Italy. Luca Cumani wasn’t keen on the idea because he preferred to have me working in the yard over the winter. Also he was anxious to make use of the weight allowance inexperienced apprentices like myself can claim until they have ridden a certain number of winners. He saw no point in wasting that allowance in Mickey Mouse races in Italy, but my dad was determined that I should further my racing education. So, early in November 1986 I flew to Milan once more.

      I had a couple of rides straight away, then set off on 16 November to Turin for a race where I was to partner a horse called Rif, which had been bought by my father to give me some much-needed experience. Rif was no great shakes. I remember that he had big floppy ears and was one of those horses that went best in bottomless ground. It was a typically miserable winter’s race day in Turin, horribly cold and wet with heavy going—ideal for Rif. The place had the atmosphere of a graveyard with a massive, deserted grandstand and a handful of frozen punters—but for a few unforgettable minutes it felt like Royal Ascot in June as I squelched home on Rif to record my first win as a jockey.

      We started well, sat handy, pulled out in the straight and won tidily without my needing to attempt too much with the whip. I have the photograph to this day in the snooker room at home. Afterwards I was exhausted and ecstatic. When I caught up with my dad I wanted to rush up, hug him and shout about my great achievement. But I’d been brought up so strictly that I was almost subdued as I described my precious first triumph to him. People always say winners breed confidence and I tend to agree. The next day I doubled my score with another success in an apprentice race at Livorno for the young trainer Andrea Picorarro, who’d spent a bit of time with Luca at Newmarket. I made the running on this one and thought I gave it a decent ride.

      When I was a small boy my father once took me with him to a church in the mountains near Livorno to pray to the Madonna di Montenaro. It was something he tried to do every year to ask for a safe passage through the season, and it left a lasting impression on me. My trip to Italy as an apprentice gave me the opportunity to visit the church again and collect a medallion to protect me while I was racing. I tried to follow my dad’s example because I believe in God but, as I became busier in England, it became harder to find the time. Since Italy is a very superstitious nation it seemed natural to put my faith in positive omens, but eventually I was carrying so many bits and pieces round my neck and in my boots it was getting silly. So I took them all off and now I rely on one normal crucifix.

      Soon I moved to Naples for the rest of the winter to work in a satellite yard run for Aldo Botti by his wily assistant trainer Peo Perlante. It was to prove quite an education in more senses than one. Naples is only a few miles along the coast from the brooding monster of Mount Vesuvius, which erupted in AD 79 sealing Pompeii in a ten-foot blanket of ash, lava and mud.

      Naples racecourse at Henano is in the bowl of another, much smaller volcano, long extinct. The public sauna baths we used almost daily to lose unwanted pounds were pretty basic. It was little more than a cave in the mountain rock with hot tubs of water. The centre of the sauna was so hot you could only last a minute there at a time. It contained a small, round hole, covered with wood. If you were brave enough to lift the cover you found yourself staring down hundreds of feet into infinity. The whole place stank of sulphur, a bit like rotten eggs.

      It was during hours spent in that sauna that I first became friendly with Bruce Raymond, a vastly experienced jockey who was on his way home from a riding stint in Hong Kong. He is a gentleman and I respect him because he had to work extremely hard to make it as a jockey. He was always immaculate, on or off a horse, never swore, and conducted himself in an old-fashioned way. I came to respect his judgement and have often turned to him for advice.

      Another fine jockey in Naples that winter was Marco Paganini, the shining new star of Italian racing. I was average, at best, in those days and tried to learn from him and Bruce by watching them in their races. I stayed at the home of Tonino Cantante, one of the yard men, on a small council estate. Most of the lads working alongside me were apprentices, too, and since they were more established they tended to get the rides when racing took place once or twice a week. I wasn’t flavour of the month with Peo Perlante, who always left me last in the queue when it came to riding for the stable. He did me no favours at all. Maybe it was to do with an old feud with my father. Whatever the reason, I had to rely on other stables for spare rides.

      Obviously it helped that I was light and that my claimer’s allowance would reduce a horse’s weight even further. The racing was as low-key as you could find, but I was gaining valuable experience away from the glare of publicity and over the course of four months I managed fifteen more winners. I was doing all right, though deep down I was aware that I rode like an Italian. I badly needed to add some polish.

      People often ask whether I would have been as successful spending my entire apprenticeship in Italy. I’ve no doubt about that one. Staying in my own country would not have been a great idea. Because of my dad, life would have been too easy for me, and that’s the last thing you need if you want to fight your way to the top. Perhaps my dad sensed this. Yes, I’d have ridden plenty of winners because doors would have been opened for me, but how much further would I have gone?

      If you are faced with a harsh challenge, self-pride takes over. By sending me away to England, Dad was dropping me in the ocean with a lot of sharks circling. When they first let me loose I was nothing because I was too young to know my limits. Just to prove that I could survive, I eventually became bigger than all the other fish. If I’d stayed in Italy I’d have lacked the motivation that being in England provided. Most of all I forced myself to be successful for my father. He was the one I wanted to please above all others, although it was unbelievably difficult in the first few months in Newmarket. Once I moved to Naples that winter I began to flourish. There were other delights, too.

      After racing on Sunday a gang of us would go for a meal together, then end up watching blue movies in a seedy, backstreet cinema. Some of them would then set off for a liaison with the local call girls. At this stage of my teens I’d had a few girlfriends but was still pretty innocent and several furlongs behind the others. One night they all decided it was time for my sexual initiation. All the boys were eager to take me to their favourite prostitute who plied her trade in the back of a big car parked at the top of the hill in the red-light district.

      They decided that I should take my turn first, issued their instructions, then bundled me into the back with the waiting girl. She removed her skirt and skilfully helped me wriggle out of my trousers, before producing a giant pink condom that looked more like a balloon or a Michelin tyre, slipped it on and asked me if I was ready. As if I would have known! What followed was a blur, a bit like my first ride in a race. Again I was hopelessly nervous and everything happened much too rapidly. I was definitely not in charge and I remember wondering what all the fuss was about.

      Aware that it was my first time, she tried to help me as best she could but for me the earth didn’t move—though the car certainly did. The boys were all standing on the pavement, peering through the back window, cheering me on, and when they saw me moving they immediately began rocking the car violently up and down. When it was all over, or I thought it was all over, I grabbed my trousers and opened the back door, ready to escape. I was immediately seized by several pairs of arms and propelled into the middle of the road as three of my pals fought for the right to be next to continue the contract with the hooker who’d just got rid of me. I thought it was hilarious.

      Another encounter was not so funny. Each night on my way into work on my moped I passed through the area where most prostitutes touted for business. Every lamp-post at night had a call girl underneath it, and one of their pimps used to deliver bundles of wood to them from a three-wheeled cycle to fuel the bonfires that kept them warm. As I sped past, my eye was caught by a gorgeous, tall blonde wrapped in a fur coat. She wore fishnet tights and stiletto heels and was just like one of those girls from Charlie’s Angels. The first few days I just looked at her then, gaining in confidence, I’d wave and beep