Alan Lee in The Times
It was foul at Huntingdon on Friday. Glowering skies, teeming rain and hock-deep mud. The track was barely raceable and many of the drenched and desolate present were praying for a pragmatic abandonment. Not an auspicious stage, then, for the most astounding ride most of us will ever witness.
Tony McCoy wore his practised gloom with an extra grimace as he went out for the 1.20 race. It was a low-grade handicap chase and he had inherited an unappealing mount. Adare Prince was a disappointing horse, a maiden who had pulled up on his one previous attempt at fences. He started at 9-1 in a poor field and, for much of the race, that looked way too short.
Fence after fence saw Adare Prince obstinately declined to do McCoy's bidding. He would put in a needless extra stride, or drag his legs mulishly through the birch. Most jockeys would have given up.
This murky, miserable scene, however, was about to be illuminated by genius. McCoy did not bully with the whip - his terms of employment by McManus prohibit it. Instead, he engaged in a battle of will and determination that the horse was destined to lose.
Urging his reluctant mount to pass beaten animals, he turned into the straight sixth. More cajoling carried him to third approaching the final fence but the first two were five lengths clear and everyone knows you cannot make up such a deficit on heavy ground.
McCoy was not listening. He hurled Adare Prince at the last, then galvanised him to a sprint of which the horse doubtless considered himself incapable. The ground was clawed back thrillingly, McCoy's final, superhuman effort claiming the lead as the post flashed past.
He has ridden implausible winners before, of course, too frequently to count. But this was something else, a tour de force on an undeserving horse in a humble handicap on one of the most unpleasant afternoons of winter. Only McCoy could have contrived such a cocktail.
That he did it the day before suffering one of the worst - and most untimely - falls of his career was irony enough. But he also produced this ride on a day when whispering had begun about his future in the game.
Someone had noticed he was building stables at his Lambourn home and wondered if he might start training. From there, it was but a step to extended gossip over whether McCoy at 33, a husband and father, could possibly retain the appetite for race-riding that made him what he is. That one, stunning ride provided the answer.
McCoy will never train - he could not bear having to listen to so many owners imposing their own ideas on him - and nor will he ride into his dotage. One day he will get up and decide he doesn't relish his spartan routine any more, and he will stop. But not for a while yet.
This morning, he will be chafing with exasperation, absorbing the form of horses he cannot ride. Cheltenham will consume his thoughts. Some of us, though, want him back for different reasons, different venues. For only he can imbue the likes of Huntingdon on foulest Friday with an uplifting magic.