Twenty-five years later, Lester is still out in front, on his own

Twenty-five years since Rodrigo De Triano? Twenty-five years since I climbed into a taxi at Cambridge railway station, made some anodyne remark to my unknown ride-sharer and received a response that still resonates. "I have come here today," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, which worked, "to see Lester Piggott win his 30th Classic."

He had, and he did. Twenty-five years? Lester was older than I am now, slightly bulkier in the saddle than in his salad-only days but lethal enough to drive home a Guineas winner, last to first, the ghost from the past still well capable of sending a shiver up the spine. Racing history played out before us, which doesn't happen as often as people like to think it does. If only Rivet were going for the Guineas this week, his part-owner going for Classic 31.

A quarter of a century on, it was good to read Peter Thomas's affectionate portrait of the great man in Sunday's Post, Lester's fate to be forever feted, to be annually anchored to anniversary, but bearing up well under the pressure of expectation and amused rather than vexed by it. The old stories had an airing – some of them, for the myth around Piggott is mighty, barely sufficient Arabian Nights to get the job done.