All of a sudden, Dad did only thing he could do under circumstances; he bailed. He just plain jumped out of saddle on to ground still holding reins and it was funniest thing you ever saw; my crazy father running alongside this horse, which he somehow managed to pull away from that lethal looking piece of wire across track. Don’t ask me how he did it. It was all so fast, but he did it. I sighed in total exasperation and relief, leaning against rails. Dad walked over leading horse behind him. “Well.” he said, trying to catch his breath, his expression giving away nothing, “That was hairy.” I said nothing, thinking that his words were a huge understatement and also knowing full well if I even opened my mouth Dad would be right in my face, justifying his actions. I decided then and there to just shut up and agree with him. I decided leave this task to my mother. Mum would and did lock horns with him later, she literally had him for breakfast and then some. As for ‘no show’ jockey, well did he cop a well deserved dressing-down from both Mum and Dad. I don’t recall him ever riding for us again after that day. I assume my father had to go before turf club officials over that incident and furthermore, he probably got into an abundance of trouble over it. I’m not really sure, I was only about twelve at time, so I don’t recollect all that eventuated after that day. However, when I witness that determined, stubborn, cantankerous expression on Dad’s face, I know ever -dependable hissy fit is just around corner and to hell with consequences. As far as I know, after events of that morning my father never again attempted to ride a horse.