There was something different about this race. I could feel, coursing through my veins, a confidence that surpassed all fear. I knew I could win.
It was the day of the cirrostratus race, the third competition in the Stratus Cup. Two days prior I had won by a nose in the nimbostratus race. The rain was colder than usual, but I completed it in record time. If it wasn’t for Storm Chaser’s blunder, I would have lost that race. Fate had a different plan and I moved on, fueled by my confidence, to win the altostratus race. High speed was my specialty, and I was able to keep myself several lengths ahead of my competition.
I suppose those two successive victories gave me the knowledge that I could win once more and claim the envied Stratus Cup.
Before every one of my races I always take at least an hour of silence to prepare myself. Racing isn’t easy, as some may believe, and clearing my mind is the most important part to a race. Focus is key, and I wasn’t about to let some minor distractions pull me away from my chance at a third victory.
I could hear the crowds cheering, but I paid no attention to them. I needed to block myself out from the world, and I was doing just that. Every noise from the crowd to the group of gnats swarming my face were slowly becoming an afterthought. Today, however, I put one thing in my mind: an image of that cup. It was an afterthought like the rest of those distractions, but it was a thought nonetheless. I was ready to make history, and with that my adrenaline began to surge.
I don’t remember much after that until the porters opened the doors to the grand spectacle outside. I felt a cool breeze of air drift past me as the higher pressure cabin the racers had stayed in slowly vented it’s precious oxygen into the atmosphere. It was time for the high-altitude cirrostratus race. This was the final, and most dangerous race of them all. While the nimbostratus race brings it’s challenges of hypothermia and the altostratus with high speed collisions an ever present risk, they paled in comparison to the cirrostratus race.
There had been many fatalities on the track, not because of a collision, but because the racers would simply pass out from the thin air. I had trained in these conditions for months prior, but it still made me quite nervous.
I ran my hoof through my mane once more, ensuring it was entirely controlled by the cap I wore. The goggles over my eyes blurred as puffs of fog drifted from my calmed lungs. It was time, and I was ready.
“Racers, to your gates!”
The words that had been shouted around me throughout my life were so familiar I didn’t even recognize them. I simply did as I always did: I went to my gate and waited for the staring pistol. The announcer went through the formalities, but I paid no attention to them. For me, it was simply about putting one hoof in front of the other.
“Take your marks!”
Every muscle in my body twitched, as though they were all giving my mind the all clear for launch. I steadied my breath and perked my ears. It was time.
I don’t even remember the gunshot, all I know is that I broke free of that gate and it quickly disappeared behind me. I was only subconsciously aware of the other pegasi beside me, I was focused on the track and my actions. My mind was very much alive, sending information to each and every part of my body in a well orchestrated symphony of speed. The first turn was coming up, and I had only taken two powerstrokes from my wings.
I banked slightly to my left as I let my wings catch the air. It felt as though I could control every single feather on my wings. Everything was going according to plan.
I pulled out of the turn, took another downbeat with my wings, and then something strange happened. The wind changed direction, not much mind you, but rather suddenly and it caught me off guard. I felt my wing brush one of the other pegasi that was flying alongside me. It was then that I realized that my trancelike state was slowly slipping away, and that realization was accelerating it further.
It took all of my willpower to keep myself alongside of those racers, but I was slowly beginning to slip behind. I no longer felt like I was in control.
The next turn was approaching, and I sloppily pulled myself into it, giving up a nose to the other racer on the inside track. The race was nearly over, but I still had one more chance to pull off a victory.
In every cirrostratus race there is something called a strut. The racers are forced to fold their wings and run the rest of the way to the finish line. It was added nearly fifty years ago after several racers all plummeted from the skies on the final stretch. Now they simply landed on the cloud. If there was one thing I was ready for, it was the strut.
The other racers began to engulf me, closing me into a pocket and clipping my wings. There were only a few seconds before the strut was to begin, but I was already a length behind the front runner, and I was loosing pace quickly.
As we neared the edge of the cloud for the strut, my vision began to tunnel. The effects of the thin air were starting to get to me. On most days, that would have been a curse, but today it did something inexplicable.
Every noise, from the buffeting wind to the screaming onlookers was completely muted. Only the sound of my beating heart registered in my mind. I was, once more, in full control. I steadied my breathing and pulled my wings to my side. As they folded, my hooves started to move as though they were on the ground. I was going to literally hit the ground running, and timing my pace was the most important part of strut. Just a little slow, or a little fast, and I would stumble. It was something every racer trained for out of fear. If a racer fell, it could cause a career ending injury.
I braced myself as the clouds drew close to my hooves.
Contact.
My front left hoof hit first. Then my right front. The rear took hold and I could feel the power from my legs as I rocketed forward. I paid no attention to the stallion in front of me that was slowly approaching, I cared not for my ever blackening vision, all I was focused on was the pattern my hooves were taking.
Front left...
Front right...
Back left...
Back right…
Front left...
Front right...
Back left...
Back right…
Front right…
And then disaster.
Completely blinded by the lack of oxygen I had dropped to the ground as an uneven piece of the terrain had caught my hoof. I wasn’t disappointed, I wasn’t upset, I simply couldn’t comprehend what had happened. All I knew was that image of the cup vanished from my mind, and I could no longer hold onto reality.
“We are now waiting to see if Monarch will recover from her collapse,” the announcer’s voice shouted through the speakers.
“What,” I whispered as I tried to blink my vision into focus.
“She’s alright!” a medic shouted from just beyond my sight.
“I can’t believe it! History has just been made, folks!” the announcer howled as I came to. “Monarch has won the Stratus Cup! We are reviewing the images now, but it seems like only a fraction of a second after she crossed the finish line, she collapsed. What a feat!”
I looked over to the medic who was holding a plastic mask to my face. “Did I win?”
The excitement of the crowd drowned out my question with a deafening answer, I had.
“Some say these races can be won with the best equipment, the greatest skill, or simply a desire to win, but it has little more to do than putting one hoof in front of the other.”
-Monarch right after her victory of the Stratus Cup
