Training for the celestial race proved to be more of the same, with refinements of what Whistlebutt called my "biomechanics."
It took me days to understand what he meant about not twisting the stifle joint near my hip or reaching properly with the postern of my right foreleg. He even positioned me like one of those wooden pony dolls with bulbous joints that you pose when you're practicing figure sketching. The speed of my trot improved the instant I got what he meant. When he threatened to swat my flank when I didn't gallop in my sprints, I found myself less exhausted and less achy when I galloped.
He left me to my own recognizance except to have me occasionally loop around the block so he could appraise my approach and me heading away. The more I increased my workout, the less he could keep up.
Oh, yeah. One other thing. He insisted I rest every third day, and on my day off from the grocery. Rest was as important as exercise, he insisted, and the mornings I decided his idea was daft, I found him waiting outside Mobtown reading a book or talking sports with the early-risers. One day, I found him there two hours before sunrise when it was still cold. I promised to abide, not because he'd convinced me but because I didn't want to be accused of elder abuse!
That got me to the race exactly four weeks after Winter Wrap-up on a sunny too-hot day. The race promoters had water available all along the course. I put my double-brown-sugar oat energy bars in a fabric purse around my neck in case I started dragging half-way, thus I carried as little weigh as possible. That I sweated up my silken tank top and trunks, making it stick in cracks and ride up didn't make me happy, but Bit O'Kale sponsored me and he paid the bills.
I decided the dark stains made my efforts look more dramatic. Lemonade from lemons!
With pegasi in the race, even with their wings bound, there was no chance I could win. Pound for pound, pegasi are the lightest of the three tribes and often the fastest. Yes, an earth pony mare won first place that day, but the six at her flank were pegasi.
No way was I trying for first. No training could have enabled that possibility. It would take stupidity on the part of a non-unicorn athlete to let a much less strong unicorn beat them. I did try my best, especially when breezes from the docks conspired to keep me from overheating every so often. My throat and lungs burned, no matter how much water I drank. Sometimes, even going downhill, it felt like I couldn't lift another hoof and that I was climbing a vertical wall despite what my eyes told me.
Whistlebutt had taught me to expect this, and to ignore it. The Wall was an "illusion." I had trouble with illusion spells, so what he said seemed reasonable. Reality proved hard as a brick wall. Each time I broke through, the illusion returned. I felt like I slogged through molasses, or that my horseshoes had turned to gold. (Gold is denser than lead or iron.) Regardless, I did my sprints on the downhill and kept on keeping on, knowing that Bite of Kale was counting on me in his enthusiastic old stallion way.
Of course, with a nod toward the historical significance of the race—undoubtedly to honor Sprinter's poor little exploded heart—the last half-league was uphill. I groaned. Compared to the steep red brick switchbacks of Ponyville Way that I descended last year, this was a gentle slope—though a slope by any name was still a slog!
By the time I turned a corner and saw the yellow finish line banner fluttering in the breeze, with my heart thudding in my chest and the blood pounding in my head, the celestial race felt way too historically authentic.
Sprinter had felt this.
No wonder she'd died.
A racer bumped my flank. I responded with an instant push spell and a, "Back off!"
Suddenly, I went from being lodged in my misery to an almost out-of-body sense of euphoria. Details flooded into my eyes, ears, and nose. I saw rows upon rows of cheering ponies lined up along the road and waving, newly leafed out trees behind them sporting sweet smelling pink and white flowers. I smelled my own sweat and the salt scent of the obviously staggering unicorn stallion that plodded beside me. The black-maned red fellow hadn't even felt my shove. He was as dazed as I'd been. I heard the clatter of hooves all around me, barely keeping a rhythm.
Last, I saw the magic counter beside the finish line. The big red neon digits—in black cubes suspended in a clear globe of blue nebulosity—read, 97.
Right, you thought I might possibly win or place somewhere in the race? Not happening. Unicorn, like I said. I completely ignored the ticking time clock on the opposite side of the course as it was completely meaningless. Yet, in that instant, 100 felt like a nicely round number that would please my sponsor very nicely, might prove fodder for an additional raise or bonus, and thus became insanely desirable.
My brain on endorphins!
I picked up my trot as, by the rhythm change behind me, did the other ponies. I quickly left the red unicorn behind me, while a blue pegasus found the reserve to leap over the finish line, then unceremoniously face plant on the cobblestones. He'd probably forgotten his wings were tied.
98.
Five pony lengths ahead of me, a green earth pony with a lilac-striped blue mane kept pace with a purple unicorn with a white mane.
Ahead of them trotted a perfectly proportioned golden-maned long-legged palomino model. She wore a pink silk headband and custom rose-decorated tube socks that accentuated the pricy brass Manticore-brand athletic horseshoes she wore. Earth pony though she may have been, her long-legged stride demonstrated she was not pushing herself.
Nevertheless, she crossed the finish line next.
99.
Without announcing my intent, I slowly closed on the two remaining runners in front of me. My throat burned like a desert and I could hardly quiet the loud huffing sounds I made. I didn't know how much juice I had left, but I reserved it for the final sprint. I discarded any thought of pushing aside either opponent. It wasn't a fight, after all. I'd be disqualified for cheating. I really didn't want to disappoint Bite of Kale.
That didn't mean I didn't keep a eye on the purple stallion's horn. I spared a few brain cells to think about the targeting distance to his left rear leg, so if he tried something I could retaliate. I pushed little magic into my horn, keeping it unlit, just enough that I wouldn't have to approximate the vectors while stumbling or being levitated.
I did have to dodge a lilac-striped blue tail that snapped toward my nose, maybe not by accident, but it did point out an error on my part. I had been trying to worm between two ponies on the two-lane highway out of the city heading toward Woodberry.
I purposely lost a step in my rhythm, fell back and drifted to the left so it sounded, I hoped, like I was falling back quickly while staying out of their peripheral vision. As the pair began their final sprint, their sights on each other, I kept up.
They forgot me and sped up in increments, trying to keep together with each other without wasting the very last of their energy with a burst of speed that might conversely cause them to lose.
At ten pony lengths from the yellow-striped black line that marked the finish, I lowered my head and broke into my bio-mechanically perfect gallop. The green mare and purple stallion noticed...
Too late. I had two pony lengths on them before they adjusted their gait. I didn't make the mistake of leaping that final distance as the pegasus had, but kept galloping.
A good thing, too. The red unicorn that had stumbled into me before had copied my strategy. I saw his head bob close to my withers as the two of us placed 100 and 101 ahead of the preoccupied duo just behind us.
The both of us fell into a canter, but like me, he knew better than to stop. Whistlebutt had warned me not to stop, but to cool down. He'd insisted Sprinter's exploding heart had been not the result of the run but her sudden stopping.
"Congrats!" huffed the stallion, falling to a three-legged trot that I matched as he offered a hoof-bump. I began giggling outrageously, but gave him that bump.
Whistlebutt trotted up with a water bottle in his magic, while a race official in a white hat came by and said, "100—" that was me "—follow me!"
I followed the official as Whistlebutt transferred the bottle to my magic and shouted over the cheering crowd, "Good job, Gelding!"
I popped the bottle top and poured the iced water over my face and mane. The cold shock somehow sent my heart speeding more. Barely walking now, I felt like I was stiffening with impending rigor mortis. I asked the official, "Where are you leading me?"
I thought, Wait, did I get disqualified?
The stallion glanced back. "Gelding, is it? Interesting name."
"That's a verb. And it's Starlight Starbright." I'd registered under that name. I glanced back at Whistlebutt.
My coach said, "I knew that."
"Of course you knew that. Don't use it."
He made a zipping motion across his lips.
The race official laughed and said, "You were the first unicorn to cross the finish line. Where do you think we're going?"
I gasped, which was pretty difficult considering I was still breathing hard. "Pictures?"
"Yep. And a medal."
"Celestia on Roller-skates!" Whispering, I said, "No, no, no, no..." I glanced back at my flank. My trunks were dark green from the sweat. Worse, yellow from my right cutie mark had actually started to bleed through the fabric. Hair spray lacquer could withstand only so much rubbing and moisture. It looked like a spreading buttermilk spill. I'd tied my tail and mane into a bun, as I usually did, pushing in the green stripes to hide them.
The whole 'do had frayed. Green hairs made it look like my tail was a pot from which grass had started to sprout. My peripheral vision showed me that my mane was no better.
Pictures.
In a major Baltimare newspaper.
Did any deliver to Sire's Hollow? Might the local paper cover sporting events? I had never followed sports, so I didn't know.
I didn't know!