Aaaaah, to feel the cool, cool air rushing through your hair on a hot summer's day. There's nothing quite like it, running in front of several thousand people, to get a round of applause, a standing ovation even which reduces one to tears, to take a bow, to feel at one with nature.
Even Royalty were summoned to their feet, pointing, gesticulating, laughing even, with unrestrained joy.
No wonder I used to admire Zola Budd, running in those bare feet, or Sandie Shaw, warbling barefoot on Top of the Pops. Erica Roe, where are you now?
I think we made mincemeat of the oppos. Overbearing, not to mention overdressed, lardy sweaty old age pensioners trundling after us muttering about dresscode while we ran freeeee, free as a bird, alongside the glistening steeds. I thought as one overtook me I was going to be thwacked with the polo stick but I suspect we were in receipt of tacit support, an appreciation of our humour, good spirits in tune with the celebration of summer we were there to enjoy.
I'm sure Emily Watson and her friends giggled just that little bit louder - I know Christopher Biggins certainly did - I could hear her all the way from the Royal Box where she sat with Prince Charles and the attendant aides - let's call them stiffies for the moment, if you'll excuse the terminology - and I just know the entire Australian diaspora, turned out in regimental kit of Oz flag draped over the shoulder and Fosters tinny in hand, were right behind us.
When I grabbed the ball and leapt over the boundary fence I could hear the crowd roar it's approval, I felt giddy with success as I ran and ran and ran, straight into the arms of the man with the dayglo vest who held me, preventing me from falling to my knees. And then a second roar, as Henry took a Royal Bow towards HRH, which involved bending over in front of the entire North Stand. Not once, but thrice.
Yes, there's nothing like the feel of fresh air coarsing through one's hair. Especially if it's one's pubic hair.