Alastair Down: The Man Who Made Racing Sing

This year, by pure chance, I met Alastair Down—the man who could turn a muddy day at the races into poetry, a legend whose words galloped off the page as vividly as any horse on the track.

Over a pint in our local pub, he recounted a few tales from his days covering the turf, his voice carrying the same warmth and cadence as his columns. After that day I picked up a copy of his book, feeling as if I’d been handed a small piece of racing history. I only wish I’d had more moments with him, as even in that brief exchange, it was clear he was both a wonderful man, a loveable rogue, and an inspirational journalist.

No other racing writer in recent memory connected so deeply with the sport and its followers. Alastair understood, as few others did, that racing is not just about horses and winnings but about people, tradition, and the thrill that unites everyone from the betting shop regulars to racing’s upper echelons. He once called Cheltenham a place where “the fences and that long climb to the gods at the end strip everything to the bone.” He didn’t just write; he captured the soul of the sport, his prose winding and soaring with the intensity of the races themselves.

In a poignant twist, just a week ago, his beloved Cheltenham honoured him by renaming the press room in his memory and holding a race in his name. For a man who never missed a Festival, it’s a fitting tribute, though it adds an ache to his passing. His name now etched in the very place he cherished, it feels as though a part of him will always remain at Cheltenham, where his words so often brought the magic to life.

Alastair’s genius lay in his ability to make readers feel like they were there, leaning over the rail, feeling the earth shake as the horses thundered by. His sentences had a spine-tingling rhythm, like a race with all its twists and turns. Long, breathless sentences that swept you up, tugging at the heart, peppered with humour and humanity.

But what struck me most from our encounter—and what everyone who knew him seems to agree on—was his sheer love for racing and for people. Whether he was in the press room, the bar, or the winner’s enclosure, Alastair was the life of the gathering. He was a generational talent. A storyteller through and through, a man whose presence brought light to any day at the races.

The racing world will never be the same without Alastair Down. His words, though, will continue to resonate, full of that same love, humour, and humanity he brought to every sentence and every story.

Here’s to you, Alastair. Thank you for the stories—and for reminding us why we love this sport and the art of writing, quite so much.