“Behind the silks and smiles lies a different picture of horse racing, one the cameras and bookmakers would prefer you didn’t see,” writes Whimsy columnist CLIVE WILLIAMS. 

“No horse can go as fast as the money you put on it.” –Earl Wilson

Horse racing is sometimes called “the sport of kings”. A vision of elegance and tradition: fashionable ladies, gents in fine suits, the pop of champagne corks, and a flutter on the favourite.

It’s all about style, excitement, and the romance of the turf – or so the marketing tells us. But behind the silks and smiles lies a different picture, one that the cameras and bookmakers would prefer you didn’t see.

The industry has spent decades perfecting its image. Events such as the Melbourne Cup, Royal Ascot, the Kentucky Derby – and here in Canberra, the Black Opal Stakes – are sold as high society at full gallop: celebrity, spectacle and sport all in one neat package.

We’re fed a story of devotion and partnership – the noble horse, the caring trainer, the thrilling finish. 

But away from the trackside glamour, the picture changes. The racing industry runs on numbers, and not all horses finish the race. Horses are bred in bulk to produce a handful of champions, and those that don’t measure up quietly disappear. In Australia, thousands of thoroughbreds vanish from official records each year.

Even the lucky ones pay a price. Training starts when they’re still very young – just 18 months old – long before their bones have finished hardening. Broken legs, bleeding lungs and sudden collapses aren’t freak accidents; they’re occupational hazards.

When a horse “breaks down” mid-race, the phrase “euthanised on track” translates to a bullet or injection behind a hastily raised screen. The show must go on.

Then there’s the chemical side of the business. Some trainers push the horses’ limits with cocktails of painkillers and stimulants designed to keep horses running when they shouldn’t be. The rules differ from state to state, and penalties can be light. A horse that ought to be resting can be patched up and sent out again.

And what happens when the racing stops? For most horses, there’s no lush, green retirement paddock. Rehoming programs exist, but they can’t absorb the sheer volume of unwanted horses. Once they stop making money, many find themselves at knackeries or abattoirs.

There are about 30 knackeries in Australia that slaughter horses for pet food, and two abattoirs that kill horses for human consumption. A conservative estimate is that 10,000 horses are slaughtered each year in Australia (although one estimate is as high as 32,000). Many are ex-racehorses.

Defenders of the sport point out the jobs it provides, the breeding traditions it sustains, and the supposed love horse owners have for their animals.

It’s true that track surfaces are safer, vets more vigilant, and welfare programs more visible than they once were. But these are Band-Aids on a deeper wound. The system still treats horses as expendable units in an industry built around gambling.

Still, the tide may be turning. Documentaries, protests, and social media campaigns have stripped some gloss from the “race that stops a nation”. Crowds are thinner, and more people are asking awkward questions about where the horses go when the cameras stop rolling. Calls for reform are growing louder: no whips, no underage training and lifetime traceability for every registered horse.

Such reforms might soften the edges, but they can’t fix the core contradiction: a sport that celebrates the beauty of the horse while profiting from its suffering. The “sport of kings” still has its champagne moments – but behind the hats, hooves and hype, the reality is rather different.

On a lighter note, an anecdote from Cambridge: “While working on the till in my local Oxfam for 19 years I always tried to elicit a smile. On one occasion, a young man bought a sex manual and a copy of Teach Yourself German. He then asked for a bag for his purchases.

‘A wise decision,’ I commented, ‘You don’t want everyone on the bus to know you’re learning German.’ Alas, I thought it was funnier than he did.”

Clive Williams is a Canberra columnist