THE record has been achieved but no market will be formed on what Anthony Peter McCoy does next.

The racing certainty is that he will continue to ride winners.

It is what the 39-year-old obsessive does next, when time finally unseats him from the back of racehorses, that fascinates the outsider and perhaps consumes the jockey in reflective moments.

McCoy once said: "Before you get a ride all you want is a ride, then you get one or two of them and all you want is a winner." He has now 4000 of them. He will want more.

He achieved the most extraordinary record in sport in the humble surroundings of Towcester when Mountain Tunes, trained by Jonjo O'Neill and in the colours of JP McManus, won the Weatherbys Novice Hurdle .

"It is the greatest sense of relief. In some ways, it's the first time in my life when I feel proud of what I've achieved. I don't want to sound arrogant," he said, though no such accusation has ever been levelled at the great jump jockey.

The record is astonishing, probably unrepeatable, not least because National Hunt racing is a merciless sport. It breaks bones, smashes teeth and stretches nerves to the limit.

McCoy, who has been champion jockey every year he has raced as a professional in an extraordinary run stretching back to 1995, faces a further challenge. His lanky, 5ft 10ins frame has meant he has had to diet constantly to maintain a riding weight.

He has pushed past these mental and physical barriers with a will that is so superhuman it could only be diminished by kryptonite.

McCoy's figures need to be savoured. John Francome, the brilliant stylist, Peter Scudamore, the relentless winner, and Richard Dunwoody, who matched obsession with technique, won 1138, 1678 and 1699 races respectively.

McCoy has not only broken these records but rendered them quaint, even insubstantial. He has taken talent, longevity, spirit, commitment, bravery, an aptitude for physical recovery that would embarrass Lazarus and the services of an astute agent in Dave Roberts to amass rides and winners. He has also taken cars, helicopters, and private jets to travel wherever there might be a winner.

His search for winners has been exhaustive and exhausting. He has committed his life to it.

Born on May 4, 1974, in Moneyglass, County Antrim, to Claire and Peadar, the latter a carpenter with an interest in horses, McCoy was given a pony when he was eight. He was thrown off regularly. "I never thought of stopping," he said. This has been the motif for a career that has included wins in all the big races and most of the smaller ones. He has been criticised for his style, suffering in comparison to such as Francome and Ruby Walsh, but McCoy is an excellent horseman and has been employed by the hardest taskmasters.

His greatest ability, though, is simply and effectively to place the nose of a horse over the finishing line first. The most conspicuous example of that lucrative facility was evidenced at the Cheltenham Festival of 2009 when he drove Wichita Lineman to victory. His victory yesterday, too, was traditional McCoy.

This unstinting effort has made demands on the jockey beyond visits to doctors and surgeons. His brilliant autobiography, ghosted by Donn McClean, shows McCoy as flawed, driven, selfish in his early days and almost impossible to live with or talk to after a day's racing. His wife, Chanelle, would come home to find the jockey sitting on the kitchen floor crying in frustration or anger at a missed opportunity to add to his tally of winners. He rode five winners at Market Rasen once and almost wore out his remote control reviewing why he had not won the sixth. He has mellowed slightly, lifting that cloud from a home invigorated by two children. But McCoy still demands victory, still obsesses over where and how he can notch up another winner.

The question - and he surely is asking it quietly now - is what he does when he finally bows to the certainties of fading power and the possibility of diminished will.

McClean, an intimate friend as well as the jockey's chronicler, believes McCoy will find it difficult to become a trainer. "He has said he does not have the diplomacy to train horses," said McClean. "But he has also said that if he did take up training it would be Flat horses."

This would be a task that requires more than talent and will but luck, huge financial backing and patience.

It also assumes that McCoy would derive as much pleasure from training winners as riding them. It is more probable that the Irishman knows that the adrenaline can only be kept at extraordinary levels by throwing thoroughbreds at fences at speed and with a bravery that can never stray into recklessness.

McCoy has made some concession to a life beyond the saddle by appearing on BBC radio as a clever, witty and affable pundit. But would a life with words replace the thrill of an existence in thrilling action?

The answer is a resounding no. McCoy knows this and will continue to target just another visit to the winner's enclosure.

Of his future, McCoy would only say yesterday: "If it ever happens that I don't love it, I won't be doing it any more. Someone might have to tell me to give up and get off. I hope that I think I'm losing it a little bit, I'll be sensible enough to give up."

He added: " I'm ambitious. The biggest problem I have in my life is that I enjoy what I do. It would be so much easier if I didn't get a buzz from it."

In his moment of satisfaction, he said: "I dream, all of my life I've been a dreamer."

He faces the reality that he is in a race against time and must accept inevitable defeat. The ultimate winner is only human after all, though this heresy would only be whispered at Towcester yesterday.