Some hard labour and a great escape

THE accountant's race riding lessons are progressing well. His race is just over a month away and I had him cantering six laps of the mile gallop while crouching in jockey position throughout. Little surprise the poor guy ached for two days afterwards and couldn't pull his legs out of bed the next morning.

Cruel as it may sound, it indicated that his leg muscles need building up to be prepared for the rigours of a three-mile race. So we met at his gym for a session with personal trainer, Steve.

While we warmed up on the running machine, it soon became obvious Steve liked to spend more time staring in the mirror admiring his fake- tanned muscles in his skimpy vest than bother about his new client's dreams of being Tony McCoy.

In true Benny Hill style my apprentice, feeling slightly put out at the sight of Steve's rippling six-pack next to his pale wobbly bits, had determinedly turned his running speed up to maximum and ended up head butting the hand rail after losing his footing.

I couldn't help it, I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks as the accountant crossly rubbed his forehead. Steve realised he'd better get down to work before he got sued for disabling an irritated client. An hour later we had worked through a suitable fitness plan to prepare for the race, to which I added a few old fashioned agonies necessary to be fully ready for a single race ride. So there's cycling – with the seat removed; running – with two plastic bin liners under clothing; and leaning against a wall in the sitting position – legs at a ninety degree angle, not as easy as it sounds for more than 15 minutes. I am sure my protg thinks I am a perfect slave driver but even he has admitted he has never felt healthier or fitter.

At last my new wagon is ready to use. My super-lush, five-stall, white speedy Mercedes is finally converted, leaving my trusty old one redundantly parked out of the way until it finds a new home. I purchased the new run-around with the help of Sam Drake, a fellow jockey and ex-employee, who accompanied me one afternoon to the commercial vehicle sales at Doncaster.

We searched through road sweepers, diggers and ice cream vans before we found the wagon I wanted. Satisfied it was worth leaving a bid on, Sam and I went to make our way out of the vehicle park only to find everything locked and closed up.

We were on the wrong side of a 12ft perimeter fence with iron spikes along the top. Not worried yet, I rang the office number, sure someone would come to let us out. No answer. We walked round the fence searching for an exit. "I think we'll have to scale the fence, can't be that difficult," said Sam.

Somehow, 10 minutes later it was me stood on top of Sam's shoulders as she balanced on an upturned dustbin. I tried to claw my way over the spiked roller fence, ripping my jeans and scratching my face. I yanked myself up to straddle the sharp iron spikes angrily pointing my direction and looked down. The 12ft drop on to concrete didn't seem such a thrilling idea.

I contemplated the situation. "I'm stuck," I said.

It was fortunate we looked like burglars, otherwise I may have perched there all night. Eventually a car pulled up and the driver inquired as to our interest in sitting on the fence. Next minute, his shoulders were my safety net and our rescue finally got underway. My hair is not naturally blonde although sometimes it should be!

Yorkshire champion lady jockey Jo Foster trains horses at Brookleigh Farm, Menston, West Yorkshire.