Diary of a point to pointer: Passion and dejection in the racing field

They had just finished second in a photo finish at Carlisle when the horse had done his usual trick of idling half way round, making poor Harriet shed an ounce of flesh to push his head (almost) in front on the line.

Delight was mixed with disappointment as my syndicate stood in the winners' enclosure. One member's luck had expired early on. He ran out of petrol on the M6 on his way up from Stoke and had to listen to the race commentary on his mobile phone.

Maybe our luck will change when the quirky Winged Farasi runs over hurdles at Sedgefield on Tuesday.

Normally I would ride him. Harriet kindly stepped in after the Jockey Club doctor decided my baseline concussion test was now overdue and until I had another I wasn't able to ride. Jockeys need to take these tests every five years, or after any fall when suffering concussion. It's an excellent safety precaution introduced six years ago to ensure jockeys are fully recovered enough to resume race riding.

As I had a test four years ago (but there are no records on their files) and have been lucky enough to avoid a severe head-rattling for eight seasons, I couldn't work out the logic. However, when their computer says "no" you don't argue, so I am booked in this week.

Last week was the Bloodstock Sales. A friend was talking to a well-known trainer when a young chap approached. "Are you a respectable and honourable man?" he asked the trainer. Smelling the prospect of a new owner, the trainer replied: "Yes I am sir," shaking the chap's hand.

"Well, I've just bought one of your horses in the ring and it appears to be lame. Would you take it back?"

The trainer snorted. "I wouldn't have that ****** back in my yard if you paid me."

"But you just said you were an honourable man."

"I am... you should have seen its leg before you bid for it. Now go speak to the auctioneers they will sort

you out."

The chap trundled off in the direction of the sales office. The trainer turned to my friend and finished his drink. "I'd best be off now," he said, and tipping his cap turned to leave.

I watched the famous Siena horserace, the Palio, on TV this week and was reminded of a trip I'd taken to that Italian city visiting friends I'd met at the yearling sales.

They lived near the Piazzo del Campo where the race is held twice a year. On entering the square, I was struck by the incline of cambered cobbles sloping steeply towards the centre. I couldn't imagine trotting a horse, never mind galloping one round it.

The 300-year-old race attracts some 50,000 visitors. There is huge rivalry between the 17 contrada – the city's medieval districts. My hosts were proudly patriotic when explaining the significance of the race. "Siena would not exist without Il Palio, winning is everything to our contrada," said Paulo waving his hand.

Horses and riders are blessed by a priest before competing. Winners are instantly rich (some are losers, too). Preparations go on all year, neighbourhoods invest every spare euro in efforts to win.

Lately, there was outrage when one Italian Minister suggested banning the event. "The uproar was incredible. Italians value their traditions passionately," Paulo insisted. "Our history makes us who we are." The Italian enthusiasm for their culture is so incredibly intoxicating.

Jo Foster trains horses at Brookleigh Farm, Menston.