I will sorely miss Dick Francis.

Mr. Francis, who died this week at the age of 89, was a legendary British jockey turned sportswriter turned detective novelist. He wrote about the world he knew best, racetracks and horses and jockeys and trainers and grifters. I've been reading his books since I discovered them as a child.

They weren't high-minded tomes on weighty subjects but simply detective novels. I'm not a huge fan of the genre, but Mr. Francis' were different. His protagonists were usually modest, hardworking men with a penchant for understatement and a habit of getting the job done. Minimal gore, maximum thought and if the good guy wasn't exactly a superhero he still seemed like the kind of guy you'd want living next door.

If you haven't read one, you should.

Once each year, right before the running of a big race in Laurel Park, Maryland, my friend Susan and I would head down to the monied, storied villages of hunt country, Fauquier county, Virginia. We'd stroll the streets in Middleburg, haunt the discreetly expensive custom jewelry stores (Susan is a worldclass jewel collector) and brunch in one of the little cafes.

Then at some point we'd head over to the tiny bookshop, buy our copies of Mr. Francis' latest and get in the long line of fans waiting for his signature. We'd inch up to his table while I racked my brain for some novel way to thank him for years of enjoyment. "I just looooove your books," seemed trite.

We'd arrive, he'd look up expectantly, patting his wife's hand and smiling politely. Someone would open my book to the right page, he'd sign it and I'd say, dumbly, "Thank you," and that was that.

One of his characters once said that praise and plaudits were all very well, but what the artist really appreciates is cold, hard cash plonked down to buy his work. If that's the case, I suppose I gave him what he wanted most: I own every book he ever published.

I once read an interview with Dick Francis; the reporter, impressed with Mr. Francis' clockwork production of yearly novels, asked him how he worked. His response astonished me. I'm paraphrasing:

"I think about what I want to write, then I write out a sentence, longhand. I think some more, and write some more. When I've written enough sentences, I bundle up the pages and send them to the publisher."

No rewrites, no false starts, no edits. Writers know exactly how unusual that is. I'm not entirely sure I believe it; there were rumors for years that Mr. Francis' wife and researcher was the real author. Certainly the books lost a bit of fire and become more formulaic after her death, but that could also be the product of a man lost without his lifelong companion.

In the end, it doesn't really matter. Collaboration or ghostwriting or the author's own, he was very much worth the ride. Thank you, Mr. Francis.