Saddle Up in the Laundrette: British Racing’s War on Clean Exercise

When the Peloton Meets Persil

There is a particular kind of British madness that arises when two institutions collide—one of sport, the other of squalor—and somehow neither emerges victorious. This week, that madness was filmed in glorious technicolour as top jockey Tom Marquand, fresh off a 14-hour sardine tin from Hong Kong, attempted to shake off the existential dread of economy class by pedalling an exercise bike next to a puddle of fabric softener in what appeared to be a Victorian scullery moonlighting as a weighing room.

Yes, in Redcar—glorious Redcar, that stalwart bastion of northern racing austerity where the scent of equine liniment wafts gently into your Yorkshire pudding—the only available warm-up zone for a man controlling a half-tonne racehorse at 35mph was a corner of the laundrette with an open gutter and a faint whiff of urinal cake.

Marquand, who I’m fairly sure once graced a Hugo Boss campaign and can read at least three entire broadsheets without moving his lips, now finds himself straddling a bicycle placed between a leaky Zanussi and the sort of industrial mop that once featured in the Crimean War.

This is not what Des Lynam promised us during Grandstand.

"It’s Not the Ritz, It’s Redcar"

Let’s be clear: jockeys are athletes. They train like athletes, diet like sadistic monks, and regularly throw themselves at the mercy of a galloping missile with hooves. So it is, frankly, barking that Britain’s billion-pound racing industry can’t provide them with anything more advanced than a yoga mat wedged between a fire extinguisher and some abandoned Lynx Africa gift sets.

Redcar’s clerk, Jonjo Sanderson, meanwhile, has managed the remarkable feat of issuing a statement so bureaucratically polite and unintentionally insulting that it could win a BAFTA for passive-aggressive footnoting. According to him, the exercise bike starts in the jockeys' changing room—like some sort of Dickensian spirit of cardiovascular fitness—and is then ritually schlepped to the washroom by “the valets or jockeys” like a sacrificial offering to the gods of ergonomic absurdity.

Apparently, the real villain here isn’t poor planning or lack of investment, but Tom Marquand’s desire not to sweat in a communal lavatory.

Redcar: The Ikea of Indifference

And really, why would Redcar care? It’s not just the jockeys who are treated like medieval peasants with a protein shake addiction. Redcar doesn’t give a toss about jockeys, or owners, or punters, or any of its customers. That would imply an interest in customer service, or indeed customers at all. This is a track that, when not running a third-world spa experience for athletes, moonlights as a management consultancy.

Yes—Redcar Racecourse, bastion of innovation and damp floor tiles, is also the proud parent of IRM Limited, a consultancy so jarringly ironic it’s like discovering your Uber driver also runs a pothole advocacy group. Imagine being lectured on organisational efficiency by the people who made “bike next to bog” their core athletic philosophy.

It’s like Ryanair offering meditation retreats.

The BHA’s “Accelerated Schedule” (Otherwise Known as: Sometime Before the Sun Dies)

Of course, in gallops the British Horseracing Authority (BHA), which in true regulatory fashion has offered its version of an “accelerated” timeline that will see real improvements by July 2027, just in time for society to be mostly underwater or replaced by AI holograms of jockeys doing squats in virtual reality.

To distract from this dazzling display of inaction, the BHA has issued a directive: racecourses can, and should, use temporary structures if they don’t yet have proper facilities. The solution, then, is to give world-class athletes a caravan.

This is Britain’s answer to everything, by the way. Don’t have a surgery? Here's a portacabin in a field. Need a school? Let’s call it a “mobile classroom” and pretend the ceiling isn't held up by chewing gum and optimism. Now, apparently, it's the jockeys’ turn to warm up in a glorified catering tent while next door some hens are being judged for fluffiness in the county show.

“They Know What the Targets Are” – Yes, And So Did Admiral Nelson

Marquand’s frustration is well-placed. When he points out that weighing room upgrades have been “on the cards for two years plus,” he’s not being hyperbolic. These cards, one assumes, have been shuffled, dropped behind a radiator, and possibly eaten by a retired steward.

But more damning is the phrase he uses to describe Sanderson’s defence: “insulting”. Because in a rare twist, this isn't hyperbole, either. It is insulting—to him, to his colleagues, and to the basic principle that people who risk life and limb should not have to warm up next to a bottle of Comfort and a mop bucket.

It’s as if Formula 1 drivers were told to do their pre-race stretching in a Travelodge lift or Premier League footballers had to limber up in the janitor’s cupboard behind the away end.

The Horse in the Room

The wider scandal here, of course, isn’t just a bike in a loo. It’s the age-old British knack for pretending that logistical chaos is somehow quaint or character-building. The valiant amateurism of Redcar’s facilities is painted as something we should nod along to, like rationing or the M25.

But this isn’t Dad’s Army—it’s a professional sport, and a wealthy one at that. Billions are wagered annually on horses, trainers, and the very jockeys who are being asked to limber up in a puddle of Daz. The idea that there “isn’t a spare room” within Redcar’s weighing room area would be laughable if it weren’t so depressingly real. It’s racing’s version of “we can’t open the bank vault because the key’s in Mum’s handbag.”

Conclusion: Racing’s Image Is Pristine, Just Don’t Sniff It

So yes, there is now national attention on the matter, largely because one of Britain’s most prominent jockeys shared a video that makes Redcar’s facilities look like the backstage of a school play about hygiene.

But don’t worry. The BHA has committed to sorting it out. Just give them until 2026. Maybe 2027. Whenever the stars align and the heavens part and the funding arrives not in a briefcase but as an actual idea someone is allowed to execute without a 97-step approval process and six stakeholder consultations involving cheese sandwiches and post-it notes.

Until then, saddle up, scrub your cleats in the urinal, and remember: you're not just a jockey—you’re a cornerstone of British sporting heritage. Now please move the spin bike, someone needs to rinse the underpants.