There are some voices in racing that evoke another age – the crackle of the tannoy, the haze of cigar smoke over the betting ring, tic-tac in full flow, and a world that feels almost unimaginable today.
Ron Atkins is one of them.
As he answers the phone, his wife Elaine is on hand to fill in the odd forgotten name or complete a story tucked away for decades, before Ron is off again, bringing to life the people, places and hard-earned stories that were passed on rather than posted — the memories that colour a lifetime in racing.
With more than 400 winners to his name, having ridden against Red Rum in the Grand National, and a career alongside the likes of John Francome and Fred Winter — all during what many regard as racing’s golden era.
You’ve seen the IJF from every angle — as a jockey, a fundraiser and, eventually, a beneficiary. That must give you a unique appreciation of what the charity does?
“Very much so. The IJF means everything to me because I was there at the very beginning of the fundraising, back in the 1960s. I remember organising football matches between the jockeys and the press. I trained horses for a while, so I had a bit of land, and I’d put on a Donkey Derby and even a Donkey Grand National. The only difference was that, for the Grand National, I’d put hay bales up for them to jump!
Most of the village would turn up. We held it on a Sunday because there was no racing then, and people would come from miles around. All the jockeys of the day — people like Gary Moore and Lorna Vincent — would be there. That was the thing: as soon as people knew it was for the IJF, everybody turned up to support it. Even in those early days, people wanted to get behind it.
To see what it has become now… it’s everything we dreamt of back then. But even in our wildest dreams, I don’t think we could have imagined just how much it would grow.”
If you could take someone who rides today back to the 1970s for a day, what would shock them most about riding then?
“The whole shebang was a completely different ballgame. When we were riding, there was a man from St John Ambulance who followed us round on a pushbike. Now there’s an army of people with the field — not only looking after the jockeys, but the horses as well.
The fences were built like brick outhouses. The changes that have been made are all for the good of racing, and they work. If you came off, you’d see the doctor — or the doctor would see you — and that was the end of it. You rode in the next race.
I came off at Hereford — this was before mobile phones — and I was completely out cold. I hadn’t a clue where I was. When I came round, racing had finished. The doctors had gone home, the stewards had gone home, and I was left with my clothes in the car and had to find my own way home. I ended up in a motel in Oxford, and to this day I’ve no idea how I got there.
My wife didn’t even know I’d had a fall until the press were calling her on the landline to ask if I was okay. Whereas these days it’s all sorted for you. Your car, your riding stuff — you don’t have to think about it.
I had concussion. I had no idea where I was, but I got up in the morning and drove home. No two‑week ban from riding until passing a concussion test like there is nowadays. I probably rode the next day. These days you have everybody at your fingertips, ready to spring into action.”
Was there a particular incident that made you think, ‘We’ve got to make this sport safer’?
“It goes back a long time. I was very pally with Joe Mercer — he used to ride for Mr Les Hall, where I was an apprentice. This is going way, way back, to the early ’60s. Joe lost his brother, Emmanuel “Manny” Mercer, who was unshipped while cantering down to the post at Ascot. As he fell, he hit a concrete post, and then a horse kicked him in the head. It killed him instantly.
That was a big wake‑up call that things needed to change. We needed something, and John Oaksey, who rode as an amateur but could see how dangerous the sport was, did something about it. He was looking after all of us professionals. Because all we had in those days was a mesh cap on our heads. No chin strap. It was just like an eggshell stuck on your head. Likewise with the body protectors — some of the first attempts made us look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. So we had to keep pushing for change until everything was right.”
It must be quite amazing to watch it grow from how it started to what it is now?
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I went to Oaksey House. I’d heard a lot about it, but these days I’m more on the touchline than in the thick of things. So when I was invited there after my hip operation, I couldn’t wait to see it for myself. To see all those old boys, either receiving help or giving it to others, was wonderful. I was made to feel so welcome, and I was genuinely chuffed with what I found.
I live in Sussex now, which is about 70‑odd miles away, and after having two hip operations, long car journeys aren’t easy. So when they offered for my wife, Elaine, and me to stay overnight, I jumped at it. It made such a difference and really helped me get back going again.
Every day I was there, I had three sessions: hydrotherapy, strength and conditioning in the gym, and physiotherapy. I couldn’t have been better looked after, and it played a huge part in my rehabilitation. It was brilliant.
The facilities are fantastic, but so are the people. From the receptionist, Penny — whose grandfather I knew well from my riding days — everyone made us feel at home. Little moments like that remind you what the IJF is all about.
I was determined to get back on a horse — and I did, although it was a pony belonging to some lovely people in our village. The funny thing was, I couldn’t get off him. My hips just wouldn’t let me, so I was stuck there for a while, which gave everyone a good laugh. I’ve got to go back and get on him again — that’s in the pipeline.
I think, as a jockey, you have to be determined because, if you’re not, the job will swallow you up. To cope with the day‑to‑day demands of the job, you’ve got to be resilient, and that never really leaves you. I had a very good innings, and I survived all my injuries thanks to the IJF.”
What did being a racecourse safety officer look like in 1978?
“It was about pushing to get rid of concrete posts and wooden running rails, changing the position of fences and hurdles, and looking at where they were placed on the track. Those were the sorts of things we focused on.
Back then, you couldn’t really get insured. Well, you could, but the premiums were astronomical. I think my real legacy is the pension fund for the Jockeys’ Association. At the time, we never believed we could make it happen because nothing like it existed. All we knew was that we needed something to look after us. The Injured Jockeys Fund has come up trumps every time.”
So, for people who don’t know, Goodwood has a tie-only policy. If people turn up without one, you’re there to supply them, and the money is donated to the IJF. How did that come about?
“I worked at Goodwood, front of house, meeting and greeting owners, trainers and members. While I was there, I became friends with a chap from Poole who runs a wholesale business. From time to time, he gives me end-of-line ties, so we’ve always got a fresh supply each season.
If you’re in the Richmond Enclosure, a tie is part of the dress code. So, if someone turns up without one, all we ask for is a donation. You get the odd person who doesn’t actually need a tie but knows what we’re’re raising money for and will still come over to make a contribution. I’ve even had people hand me a couple of £50 notes. It varies from meeting to meeting, but we’ll usually hand out at least a dozen ties.
The dress code has been part of Goodwood since racing began there over 200 years ago. At the end of each season, I total up the donations from every meeting — usually around £2,500 — and every penny goes to the IJF.”
And you received an MBE for your services to horse racing safety in 2020?
“I couldn’t believe it. I was so proud. It was originally going to be at Buckingham Palace with the Queen, but she wasn’t very well, and then Covid came along, so I received it from Prince William instead. Before you go in, the equerry gives you a very serious briefing. He tells you exactly what to do, what to say, where to stand and how long you’ve got — all that sort of thing. Well, the minute I walked in, all of that went straight out of the window.
The first thing that struck both of us was our height difference. I looked up at him and said, “God, you’re tall.” He looked down at me and said, “I know this is for horse racing, so I’m guessing you were a jockey?” We both had a good laugh.
Then I told him I’d been lucky enough to ride with his father, Charles, when he had horses with Nicky Henderson. I reminded him that one of the horses Charles had with Nicky ran five times. He either fell or pulled up in three of them and only got round twice William laughed and said, “Well, no wonder Papa doesn’t say much about his racing career.” I said, “Well, it was very short and very sharp!”
This article was kindly written for the Injured Jockeys Fund by Georgia Cox.
