FOur YEars

It’s been four years. Hard to believe. I brazenly went to Cheltenham in 2020. Well, it wasn’t brazen, I had heard about something called coronavirus, thought about the risk and went anyway. In seven days, while at Cheltenham, it was declared a pandemic. Then it felt brazen. Stupid. Selfish.

It was hard to come home. The pall at the airport was palpable, the fear, the stress, the dread. I got an Uber home. I felt guilty for getting in the car. I never got Covid, at least then. Others did. Some got really sick. A few from Cheltenham died. The texts and calls for the two weeks after Cheltenham were tepid at best. George Baker. Gary Murray. Matt Coleman.

“How you feeling?” “You OK?” “Did you hear about Tim?”

I survived. And wrote about it.

This year, I go back to Cheltenham for the first time. It’s been a long four years.