Sometimes, I tell the reporters I don’t even see the other runners. From the starting line to the end of the race, all I see are the blurs as I go by. That’s only half the truth, though. Before the race starts, I see the ones who stare.
There are less of them every year--ones who stare, I mean. You’d have to be living under a rock not to know about the one-winged pegasus runner who’s broken records from Vanhoover to Baltimare. But every time I race, even here at the Running of the Leaves, there are a couple of fresh young things who have no clue who I am. I think they make them in a factory in Fillydelphia or something.
Most of the time, I avoid them--the ones who pity me, the ones who think I’ll be easy to beat, and especially the ones who think I’m “inspiring.” (Celestia, I hate that word.) But Ponyville’s my turf, and they can’t bring me down here, so this time, I figure I’ll bring them down instead.
I trot right over, easy-like, and stare as hard at them as they do at me. Two of them cut and run--I bet they can’t run half that fast when they’re racing! The third stares right back at me, not blinking at all.
As earth ponies go, she’s a wiry thing, lean-muscled like she doesn’t do a lot of lifting. Her dark blue mane looks messier than a bird’s nest, and she’s got these big horn-rimmed glasses perched on her muzzle, the kind your granny might wear. She’s either gonna be a pushover or one of the best runners in the race.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you,” she says, all formal-like. “You’re Rainbow Dash, aren’t you? I’ve heard many things about you, and I felt I had to meet you in person.”
“See the freak for yourself?” I say, joking like it doesn’t hurt. “The amazing one-winged pegasus?”
“Until five years ago, you were one of Equestria’s best fliers,” she says, “and now, at your age, you’re one of Equestria’s best runners. I’ve read all your interviews with reporters, but I still don’t feel that I truly understand you. I feel that doing so might help with my . . . condition.”
“I don’t do platitudes,” I tell her. “That’s what I tell reporters, right before I drop a platitude or two on them. Seriously, if you really wanted to get me, one hundred percent get me, you’d have to lose something big. It’s not worth it, trust me.”
She looks at me like I’ve just called her a mule or something. Which I kind of have, actually. “You’re not the only one who’s--”
“Rainbow!” Applejack calls. “We’re startin’ in five minutes!”
The fancy talker heads straight for the starting line, and I finally get a look at her flanks. A water droplet. That’s not an earth pony cutie mark.
“That mare,” I ask Applejack, “do you know her?”
Not the first thing you’d normally say to somepony you haven’t seen in months, but me and Applejack have what you’d call an understanding, only it’s about how we don’t understand each other. She’s happy here in Ponyville, and I’m happy racing all over Equestria, and both of us are really happy when those interests meet.
“Just a little,” Applejack says. “She’s new around here. Her name’s Slack Tide.”
No earth pony would have a name like that. Which means . . .
“There’s a broken horn under that messy mane, isn’t there?” I ask. “Applejack, am I a huge jerk?”
“Yep and yep, sugarcube,” she says sweetly. “But you can tell her you’re sorry after we race.”
Everything around me is a blur. Blurs of trees, and blurs of runners. Both of them might as well be standing still.
I feel my muscles moving, nice and even. No pain, just exertion. My wing rises into the air--
“Why aren’t you pacing yourself?”
It’s Slack Tide again, somehow keeping pace with me. How the hay does she have the energy to talk while running this fast?
“Steady and even, that’s how you run in every other race,” she says. “If you keep this pace, you’ll tire. Why?”
“Ponyville,” I say, conserving my breath. “Not a big race. Don’t have to win.”
“That’s not an answer,” she says. “Why--”
I stop bothering to conserve any energy, and I leave her in the dust.
My wing rises again, and I feel the wind rush under it. I’m getting older, slowing down. I may never run this fast again. All I can do is savor it while it lasts.
I don’t realize Applejack passed me until I hit the finish line. No surprise there--she always beats me at this race. Slack Tide beat me, too, but there’s no shame in a bronze.
I duck away from the crowd at the finish line. Applejack moves to follow me, but stops when she sees Slack coming my way. I motion the unicorn towards me, and we walk off into the trees, where nopony will hear us.
“I run that fast because I have to,” I say. “Just once a year, I need to not pace myself. To go so fast I hardly touch the ground. Just once a year . . . I need to feel like I’m flying.”
“There’s still a hole in your heart, isn’t there?” Slack asks. “Just like there’s a hole in mine.”
“I thought I could make the pain stop,” I tell her. “I guess I was mostly right. But it never really stops twinging.”
“Then . . . what hope do I have?” she asks, looking down at the fallen leaves.
“You said there was a hole in your heart,” I say. “Find something that fits it, and work your flank off ‘til you fill it. That’s my platitude for you. That’s my easy, stupid answer.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then your life will suck until you die. Seriously, I can’t be your cheat sheet here. I can tell you what worked for me, but you have to figure out what works for you.”
She meets my eyes again. “I have one more question, but I fear it may be impertinent. That orange mare . . . Applejack . . . there seems to be something between you. What has she lost, to let her understand you?”
“She doesn’t get me at all,” I say. “She has no clue why I let her win these races. She just knows they mean something to me.”
“Is that . . . really something you’re happy with?” she asks.
“She wants me to be happy. That’s good enough for me.”
I turn and walk back towards the post-race party. I don’t look to see if she follows.
Author's Note
Edited by m2pt5 and Daedelean.
Inspired by Tough Little Pony by Isseus. I'm afraid he'll think it's stupid, but I feel like I had to write it.
