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While Hammond doesn’t like horses, he can’t deny that he is quite good with them, though that tends to be true for most animals. When between him, May, and Clarkson, he’s always the one asked to handle animals – mostly dogs – for the show. Shortly after being reintroduced to the horses they’re going to be riding for this segment – they did their practice laps about an hour before – Hammond gets bored of watching the other two fight with their respective steeds and lets the crew know he’s going to do one last lap of the track.
With plans to return in no more than five minutes, Hammond gently prods the horse – Beau – forward, urging her to pick up the pace until they’re out of view. It takes a couple minutes for him to adjust into a semi-comfortable position. Once he does, though, he pushes himself to try and enjoy it, being a bit risky with path choices and speed. While nothing compares to the power behind an engine, there is a sort of freedom and euphoria that comes with the experience of riding that one cannot perfectly replicate in a car. He would never admit that, though.
He urges her to slow around a gravel-y turn, which she does quite phenomenally. He can almost hear the ruckus of the film crew, signalling to him that he has almost completed the track when, suddenly, Beau screeches to a halt, rearing her front legs high with a frightened whinny. “No, no – Beau –” Hammond yelps, rushing to strengthen his grip on the reins but it’s too late and he falls directly on his arse. A gasp as the pain shoots through him, dizzying him for a moment. He squeezes his eyes closed, drawing in sharp breaths, muttering to himself to try and build the strength to stand again.
Movement across the track catches his attention. “Ah, nope, nope!” He’s pushed to his feet by the sight of what frightened his horse in the first place. A snake, long and thin, moving its way across the dusty path. He stumbles backwards, away from the snake and towards the uneasy horse. He stops to check himself over, searching for discomfort or pain in any of his joints which signals a deeper injury, but he concludes that his tailbone is the only source of pain. In fact, it’s quite a lot of pain, but he knows the crew will be looking for him soon and doesn’t want to make a fuss.
He brushes himself off, takes a deep breath, and makes gentle movements towards Beau, trying to ignore the deep aching pain. “Hey, girl, hey,” he holds out a friendly hand for her to move towards, calling it a success when her snout happily boops his hand. A smile, making a slow movement to rubbing down her neck. “Alright, I’m going to climb back on,” he explains as he flanks her, taking in a sharp gasp at the increase of pain as he puts a boot in a stirrup. “Fucking – bloody hellfire,” he grunts as he pushes himself up and onto the saddle, barely suppressing a pained whimper. “I think I did more than bruised it, Beau,” Hammond admits, considering telling the crew, but he’s torn out of his thoughts by a voice – James’.
“Hammond, hurry up!”
James is already upset, and Hammond doesn’t want to be the reason for that to get worse, so he coaxes Beau in towards the finish line, sitting in a way where he’s hovering over the saddle, similarly to how they do in horse racing but with much less practice and mediocre form. When he approaches the finish line, the pose is responded to with a chorus of laughter.
“One lap around the track and he’s trying to qualify for the Kentucky Derby,” Jeremy cackles to no one in particular. James has a look of puzzlement, eyebrows drawn together as if he’s trying to piece a jigsaw together. Richard looks away from his inspecting gaze, slowly lowering himself into the saddle.
“You might be laughing now, but not after our timed laps,” he chirps, pulling Beau up beside the other two, gritting his teeth in a way he’s sure isn’t completely hidden. Once he stills, he’s quick to pull his lips back into a smile. “Jockeys ride like that to let the horse achieve greater speeds,” he informs, happy with the quick response and, more than that, an excuse. “Beau and I are going to leave you in the dust! Aren’t we, girl?” He runs a hand down her neck.
Clarkson laughs beside him. “So much for hating horses, ey, Hamster?”
Richard shoots a look in Jeremy’s direction. “I can’t let her know that, though, can I? She’ll have it out for me the entire time!”
While Jeremy is laughing, struggling to stay upright on his own horse, May cuts in. “The horse can’t speak English, can it?”
Hammond rolls his eyes with a long-suffering look. “No, but –”
“Then she doesn’t give a crap, does she? Get on with it!” Clarkson and Hammond rid themselves of the rest of their laughter before the three begin filming. They already introduced the challenge – they are going to take horses around the track on a timed lap and then will each drive their chosen Lancia around the track to see a classic tale of car vs horse, as well as competing against each other’s times – and have decided that Hammond will go first, followed by Jeremy, and then James, deciding that would likely be the funniest lineup.
Hammond was hoping to go last, so he could have some time to let the pain subside, but he supposes first is better because then he’ll be the first to get off his horse. So, with a tight smile that he hopes looks like nerves rather than pain, he resumes his jockey-like stance, tightly grabbing the reins, and waiting for Clarkson’s countdown. A deep breath and go! Beau rears slightly before speeding off. Hammond’s successful at staying steady, although with every hoof into the earth, every gallop, he has to fight to not whimper out in pain, especially with cameras tracking him. He forces a heightened amount of elation, hoping to hide his pain through joyous whooping and shouting.
About halfway through, Hammond almost calls to stop, to quit, but he’s halfway there, he reminds himself, and urges Beau faster. The quicker this is finished, the quicker he can collapse in a warm bath. His legs are becoming unbelievably sore and strained, as well, unfamiliar with the tension and strength needed for the sport. While he may be the most athletic of the three and a frequent runner, he certainly hasn’t been training for years to be a jockey.
By the time he crosses the finish line, he’s gasping and dizzy, and he’s sure that he did a poor job of masking the pain, only capable of it for so long and up to a certain point, but he can’t find it within himself to care at the moment. He barely registers any sort of comment from May or Clarkson, speeding past the finish line far off the track to a quiet bit of a field near where one of the crew vans are parked before quickly removing himself from the horse. He falls against the vehicle, forehead resting against his forearms which are folded against the side of the van. He feels nauseous, like he might vomit.
“Hammond! Hammond! Mate, where are you going?” James calls from his horse, struggling to stay pointed in the right direction, craning his neck back and forth over each shoulder. Jeremy, impatient as always, is brushing off Hammond’s display and going ahead on a quick refresher lap. Hammond gives a thumbs up towards May while sparing a small glance in their direction. A moment later, he hears Jeremy roaring off.
“Hey, Hammond, here,” one of the crew holds out a bottle of water for him. He grimaces, says his thanks, and twists the lid off, sipping quietly as he begins to feel a bit better. The pain is still unbearable, disallowing him to think of much else, but his vision is now focused and the nausea is mostly gone. “You alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes, waving a dismissive hand in the other’s direction. “It’s just all a bit uncomfortable in the, uh, groyne region,” he lies, which seems to be good enough of an answer. He returns to his previous stance, closing his eyes and breathing deep through the pain. He’s not quite sure how long he is standing there before James walks up to him, horse abandoned with one of the animal handlers.
“Hammond, mate, we still need you over here for filming,” May starts, with an edge of concern in his voice most would miss. “What’s happened? Have you hurt yourself?” The second sentence is spoken with frustrated accusation, a hidden again at the end of the question.
Hammond moves from leaning on the vehicle to standing on his own, rubbing his hands together. “Right as rain, I’ll be over in a tick.” He musters up a reassuring smile, but from May’s expression, he’s assuming it isn’t as convincing as he thought.
“Hell, Hammond, you’re white as a sheet,” he steps forward. Beau whinnies in the background, aimlessly eating at some grass. “Seriously, now, what is going on?”
“I –” the words come out in a stammer, “um, I may have hurt myself a bit.” Almost a whisper, Hammond finishes his statement with an awkward, full-faced grin, spreading his hands out in a display of jazz hands. May sighs. He drops his hands.
“You are unbelievable, you know that, Hammond?” May casts a look over his shoulder as Clarkson finishes up his practice round. “How bad is it?”
Hammond thinks about it for a moment, considers what truth to tell. “I’ve had worse. If it’s still hurting when we finish shooting,” and it will, “I’ll go to the medic. Likely just a bad bruise.” May looks over him, almost like he’s checking for the injury himself, but after a moment he huffs, nodding.
“Come on, then. Clarkson isn’t exactly patient.”
The rest of the day goes by slowly with Richard taking as many opportunities to avoid horse riding in favour of standing. By the end of the day, he’s in a sour mood and prone to zoning out. Every cough, laugh, sneeze – it all prompts a burst of dull pain, like someone’s whacking him with a hammer. Adding to the irritation, Clarkson has been poking and prodding, purposefully riling him up. When they race the timed laps in their Lancias, Hammond is barely able to focus.
Clarkson announces their times and the winner. Hammond’s time on the horse lap is best by a significant margin, but Clarkson’s lap in his Lancia is best overall. Hammond argues that he also wins, having done the best in one category, but then Clarkson moans on and on, even doing his smug face at one point, and that’s when Hammond snaps. He’s fuming and shouting bitter jabs clearly aimed to hurt. May watches without comment, not wanting to get in the path of Hammond’s wrath nor wanting to enable Jeremy. Finally, Hammond exits, already beginning to feel a tinge of regret and embarrassment in response to his behaviour, but he stands firm and retreats to his Lancia Montecarlo.
The constant ache in his tailbone has given him a headache, taken his appetite, and truly exhausted him. He’s not looking forward to the long drive home, especially not in a car from 1978 with busted rear suspension. Mirroring his position from earlier that day, he folds his arms and rests them along the top of his car door, resting his head against his forearms, and focuses on the array of sounds around him: the stomping of hooves as the animal handler loads up the horses, the idle conversation between crew, the occasional start of an engine as people make their leave.
“So, doctor?” May pipes up, tone accusatory. Hammond startles, realising with embarrassment that’s the second time today May’s seemingly surprising appearance has spooked him. May comes to the same conclusion a moment later. “The word idiotic only begins to describe your behaviour.”
Hammond holds up a hand, index pointing. “Well, you –”
“Shut up, Hammond!” May sounds angry, properly angry, but Hammond listens, and he’s not quite sure why, but perhaps because he remembers the last time May yelled at him like this. When Hammond returned after his dragster crash, May and Clarkson knew he was still recovering, which led to the lowest point in many of his relationships, including those with them. Since then, he’s worked hard to improve both himself and his relationships with those important to him. He can feel the tension this incident is causing. “You have been in a sour mood ever since you hurt yourself, Hammond. Either you lied, and you more than badly bruised yourself, or you did only bruise yourself, and you’re a wimp.”
Hammond scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away for a moment. He bites at his lower lip, restraining himself from reacting without thought. “Okay,” he says, tone neutral if maybe a bit confident, turning back to face May. “Okay,” again, this time a bit less heated. “Fine, yes. Do you promise not to tell Clarkson?”
“Why do you not want him to know, and why should I?”
“Can you just – !” A frustrated, wordless yell into his hands. He looks back up, using hand movements for emphasis as he speaks. “Can you stop being so,” jaw clenches, “so,” a pause, “difficult?” He rubs his hands over his face. May goes silent. “I will go to a doctor if you promise to keep Clarkson out of it. I don’t think I can handle him right now.” May hums thoughtfully, seeming to understand the request. He nods.
“Alright, doctor it is. We can get someone from the crew to drive your car back.” Hammond opens his mouth to protest. “No, you are not driving yourself to hospital. You can tell me what’s wrong in the car.” He motions to his own vehicle a few metres away. “So, get in.” Hammond wants to be stubborn, wants to refuse the help, but the few times May has stepped in to doctor him, he’s always made the right decision. He breathes out a defeated sigh.
May pulls out of the field, Hammond groaning when they roughly bounce over a hole. May casts a glance but focuses on getting them out on the road, allowing Hammond to stew in the tension. Eventually, he caves. “Okay, okay, fine,” his hands are held up in defeat. “I think I’ve tweaked my back, um, a bit. Maybe more than a bit.”
“Christ, Hammond,” May responds, taking a moment to give Hammond a once over, looking for an injury that he can’t see. “How?”
“During the lap before my timed one, the horse was spooked by a snake, reared up, I.. fell off.” Voice quiets near the end, embarrassed, partly due to the injury itself and partly due to realising how childish his reaction has been. He’s just so tired of being babied, of others worrying about him, the constant concerned attention – it makes his skin crawl, and he was hoping to avoid it. “It hurts when I, um..” do much of anything, but he bites his tongue, reconstructing his thoughts. “I think it’s my tailbone. Nothing serious, but very annoying.”
The conversation drifts into absent-minded banter, bouncing from topic to topic, which makes the decently far drive feel much shorter, and once they arrive at A&E, he’s relieved when May stays with him. They spend a while in the waiting room; once Hammond sees a doctor – May stays in the waiting room, ringing Clarkson to fill him in on the situation – he is immediately queued for an x-ray. There’s another brief moment in the waiting room, and now Clarkson is ringing Hammond. He groans, turning to May and showing him his screen. May shows the slightest of smiles.
Answering the call and stepping away for a bit of quiet, Hammond immediately pulls the phone away from his ear when Clarkson begins yelling at him. He gives it a minute or two, occasionally listening in to see if the other is still ranting. When there’s an elongated silence, he holds the phone up to his ear. “Done?” Jeremy begins yelling again, and Hammond puts some distance between the device and his ear. Not for the first time that day, Richard finds himself feeling lucky.