A phrase came to mind: "Life hurts a lot more than death." The words were from singer Jim Morrison of The Doors in trying to explain the meaning of the band's song The End. Two people I knew died prematurely this week and the anguish of the bereaved has been awful. Even if we're older and have seen a fair share of death among friends and family, the sense of irreversible loss always shocks.Racehorse trainer Lance Wiid enjoyed quoting witticisms and might even have trotted out this one, being a fan of the music.Lance died yesterday at his farm at Henley-on-Klip of a heart attack after a lengthy illness of the liver. He was 47. He trained horses for me over a period of eight years and became something of a friend.I liked that he was off-beat and eccentric in a racing world that's rather conventional and mundane. But he was also a good horseman, as his colleagues confirmed to me."Lance was one of the most underrated trainers in Joburg," said one. "He achieved success with very limited stock at his disposal."Racing is all about money and the firepower it buys in terms of horseflesh. Sadly for Lance, he never quite cracked the nod from uber-wealthy owners. It might have had something to do with his non-conformity and forthrightness, which was often the result of a liberal enjoyment of "Captain and Coke".In the end, Lance was a battler, craftily eking out wins here and there for small-time owners like me. He and I loved a game we couldn't really afford.Lance's guiding principle was never to push a horse to fitness if it was young or injured. Time and natural process were watchwords - which might be another reason he didn't click with the impatient rich.His crowning glory was winning two Grade 1 legs of the Triple Crown - the Classic and the Derby - with the brilliant King's Gambit.This horse was boxed beside the trainer's office, with a single bar across the door, and was the most amiable creature in the place, greeting all who passed by. Proving that the best racehorses are the brightest ones, he'd engage in games of "fetch" with one of Lance's many stoepkakers, kicking a stone across the yard for the dog to race after, pick up, return to the stable and await the next kick. The game would go on for ages.One of the horses I shared in was called The Manchild, which lived up to its name by lulling riders into complacency with meekness before bucking them off and haring across the veld in the direction of the Suikerbosrand.On one such caper, The Manchild ran into a pylon and smashed his cheekbone. The trainer, fearing the onset of infection before a vet could get there, performed the required surgery himself. As bits of bone were being removed with pliers, The Manchild chomped away at his lunch, planning his next mischief.These are my fond memories of Lance Wiid . along with the time his horses landed a 1000-1 treble at Turfies and we lost our names.RIP Lance. RIP Rebecca...