Running
By Alaborn
Standard disclaimer: This is a not for profit fan work. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is copyright Hasbro, Inc. I make no claim to any copyrighted material mentioned herein.
The Running – First Year
Each night, as Big McIntosh dreamed, he would dream of the same world. A world where he couldn’t speak, but these strange bipeds could. He understood them; they spoke his language, even if he couldn’t speak in return.
And then there were the bipeds. Most treated them the way he would treat his pigs, speaking in simple words, though with no expectation that he would understand. He was fed simple food, hay and oats. He longed for more, such that when he was offered an apple, even though he knew it was far inferior to the apples he grew each day, he pushed to the fore to claim the sweet treat.
This was his alternate world: bland food, running, and rest. There were many of these bipedal creatures. There were many who rode him, and though they were different, he grew to recognize the similarity of their commands. The same physical cues would direct his movement, would alter his speed. He grew to recognize that the bipeds shared his desire to win the race. They positioned him to take a clear lead in one race, and then placed him pacing the leader in another race, waiting for the leader to tire before making his move. It was a lesson learned anew, a lesson once learned running against other colts around the schoolyard.
Other bipeds would care for him, brushing his coat, tending to his hooves. He didn’t enjoy being cared for like a little foal, but looking at the equines next to him, their dull expressions, he understood that he wasn’t expected to care for himself. He imagined himself at the Ponyville spa that Fluttershy raved about. These bipeds understood his needs. Their farrier ensured his hooves were protected against the running he did, and their doctors tended to even the slightest muscle strain.
There was one biped in particular who was different, an older specimen if gray coloring in the hair was an indicator of age like it was for ponies. He spoke to him, praised him, complimented his running form. The way he spoke, it was almost as if he expected that he would understand him. But then he would depart, and speak to others as if Big McIntosh weren’t there.
Each night, when he would turn in to sleep in his stable, Big McIntosh would then awake to the first light of Celestia’s sun and the familiar fragrance of Sweet Apple Acres apple trees. He would recall the feelings, remember what it was like to spend all day working to develop his special talent. Then he would put those thoughts behind him. Sweet Apple Acres needed him.
One day, things were different. Rather than being taken to the familiar dirt track, Big McIntosh was led into a metal container, maybe a little smaller than a train carriage. The interior was bare, unadorned stalls with little but loose hay on the floor. That was something he had noticed; here, the equines saw no need to sit, instead laying on the ground or even resting while standing with legs locked.
Big McIntosh stepped into a stall, seeing glimpses of his other home through the narrow slats on the container. There were no proper windows, either. Then, the entire container shook, vibrating as he heard and felt something far louder than a train engine. His nostrils were assaulted by a foul stench, one that always seemed to linger in the background of this world, but which now overwhelmed every other smell. Then, he started to move.
The vehicle moved as fast as a train, maybe faster, even though he couldn’t spot any rails. They traveled for hours. How long it was, Big McIntosh didn’t know, as he dozed off and on through the journey. Finally, they stopped, and he was eager to get out, to move, to run.
Big McIntosh saw some of the familiar bipeds—the farrier, the doctor, the smaller one who had often ridden him. But everything else smelled different, was different. The equines were ones he hadn’t met. They looked like the stallions he knew, with the same build and obvious strength in their muscular frames, but he had build up a familiarity, a camaraderie, with the equines he knew from his other home.
It reminded Big McIntosh of being introduced to the other ponies on the first day of school. He began to get nervous.
As he was led out to the track, he focused on that, the familiar act of running, that which he was born to do. But once there, he couldn’t help but hear the noise. While he was used to seeing these bipeds watch him run, here there were so many more. Too many bipeds to count, too many to even estimate a count. The noise they made was deafening. His ears folded back, but it did little to quell the sound.
“Here. Let me get this,” one of the bipeds said. And something was put on Big McIntosh’s head. It covered his ears, muting the noise somewhat, but it also restricted his vision. Having gotten used to the freakishly wide angle of vision of this equine body, being restricted to looking forward only worsened his panic.
The familiar weight of the rider on his back calmed him slightly. “Calm down, boy,” the rider said, patting his flank. “It’s your first real race, but you’ll do great.”
First real race?
He tried again to focus on the familiar, the line of stalls, each holding an equine, with a door that would open to signal the start of the race. But he was not prepared for the noise that came when the race started. The enormous crowd of bipeds roared louder than a manticore, and Big McIntosh jumped. He had trouble finding his hoofing in the dirt, and wasted several strides before he rose to a gallop. His rider didn’t help, giving conflicting signals that failed to help him build his rhythm. He strained to reach full speed, and while he was able to get there with only one other equine ahead of him, he already felt winded. It was the most basic lesson of running, and he had forgotten it.
Big McIntosh was further distracted by not being able to see. He could feel and faintly hear the equines around him, but he wanted to see them, to know how to react. The biped riding him had forward-facing eyes like a pony, but he could see behind them without turning his head. Except, now he couldn’t. He slipped further and further behind the leader, as other equines outpaced him.
In a longer race, like the Running of the Leaves, Big McIntosh was sure he could have caught up to the equines in front of him. But the race was short, and he crossed the finish line after four others.
Big McIntosh bowed his head in shame.
Back at his other home, Big McIntosh returned to his daily training. One such day was interrupted by an argument among several of the bipeds, which he picked up with his keen ears.
“You never should have used the blinder,” one said. It sounded like the older biped.
“He was obviously bothered by the noise,” another replied.
“He was still bothered while wearing the blinder! And you. You didn’t work with your mount!”
“I did my best, but he was excited.”
“This colt is the greatest runner I’ve ever seen. He moves with grace and precision. I need a jockey who can work with him.” That was the same older biped.
Later that day, Big McIntosh was ridden by a different one of the smaller bipeds. They looked similar, with the same dull skin color, the same dark tuft of hair atop their head, but he picked up on the different scent. As they raced, he realized this one felt right.
For a second time, Big McIntosh boarded the plain metal container, and endured a long trip to somewhere familiar yet unfamiliar. Here again there were unfamiliar equines, a loud crowd of bipeds, and a dirt race track. This time, his caretakers stuffed something soft in his ears. Cotton, he realized. The cotton effectively muted the sound of the crowd, and he was noticeably calmer as he lined up on the track.
He felt a comforting pat on the withers. “Let’s prove the boss right,” his rider said.
This time, Big McIntosh was ready when the gates opened. He charged forward, taking an early lead. He ate up the length of the track with his graceful strides. With a clear sense of the equines behind him, he sped up when they did, and shifted lanes to stop their attempts to overtake him. His rider shared his awareness of the track and was giving him the same signals, but he anticipated these commands.
This time, Big McIntosh finished the race with a commanding victory, just as he imagined his ten year old self would have done at the Running of the Leaves.
For the rest of the year, Big McIntosh raced, always with the same rider. He won his races. When he injured his hoof, the bipeds took care of him, putting a thin layer of some unknown metal on his hoof to protect it and his frog before nailing on his horseshoe.
Even with the protective horseshoe, his hoof pained him any time he tried to run. And that was it for the year. He raced no more. It was good timing, as they were approaching harvest and cider season, and Big McIntosh needed to focus on his life, his original life. His injury didn’t cross back to his original body, but he felt twinges of phantom pain as he bucked trees and ran the treadmill to power the cider press.
Back in the other world, the world of strange equines and bipeds, they worked to treat his injured hoof. The bipeds were positive, particularly the older biped. “You need to heal for next year,” he said. “Then, we will show the world how great a runner you are.”