Mother of Wisdom

Chapters

Lap 1
Lap 2
Final Lap

Lap 1

Buttons grabbed his balm, scraped out a little and rubbed it between his hooves. He pulled it through his mane, making sure he reached his wispy hairs, which stuck out otherwise. Soon he achieved a clean, kempt quiff, and he rinsed his hooves in warm water and patted them dry with a towel. He had to look his best that day. Rainbow Dash was the kind of pony you made an effort for.

Buttons couldn’t believe his luck. For months she had refused to show her face to the media. Nopony had even glimpsed her in public for nearly as long. What had happened? Was she ill? Was she depressed? He and everypony else could merely speculate. Then, out of the blue, she had answered his letter – which he’d sent with a sigh and the certainty of an assistant’s automatic reply – and had agreed to sit down with him for three hours to talk about her life. ‘Why me?’ he’d been asking himself since he’d realised it hadn’t been a joke. What did he have to offer her? This pony was one of Equestria’s most famous heroines. She needed only to step out her door to speak to any of the largest organisations in the world. Instead she had chosen to grace the podcast of a nopony, a show on which activists and conspiracy theorists broadcasted their wacky views.

He would host her in his shed. He had transformed the gloomy room stuffed with boxes and tools into a sterile yet comfortable studio with seats for an interviewer (him) and up to five guests. Cameras enclosed the set, managed by one of his two employees, Red Nose, who seemed as excited as Buttons should have been. Buttons’s stomach was squirming; his jaw was sore from clenching. He had been farting periodically to boot. He had eaten too much for breakfast, having intended to skip lunch. He couldn’t fart in front of Rainbow Dash. What an embarrassment that would be.

She was due to arrive in the next hour. He sprayed some air-freshener and slipped another mint into his mouth. In the mirror he checked that his clothes were lint-free and presentable. He combed his tail once more and examined his teeth. Then he paced on the gravel outside. Rainbow Dash couldn’t step on gravel. She was used to polished floors, red carpets and clouds.

‘Everything’s ready,’ said Red Nose, poking his head out the door. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ answered Buttons, though he was lying through his teeth. He wanted to be fine, and he wasn’t. He was nervous. He was more nervous than he’d ever been. He should have been excited and delighted – honoured, even. Instead he was trying not to fart and not to vomit.

It felt as if only a few minutes had passed, and he spotted a car in the distance. His stomach sank. She was coming. This was it. What would he say? He panicked. He felt as though he hadn’t prepared anything. He hadn’t so much as a clipboard of questions – not even a pony to make them a cup of tea. He felt like an idiot. ‘Play it cool,’ he’d been thinking instead of getting organised. ‘This is it, Buttons,’ he thought. ‘You’re for it, so you may as well go down in style.’ He would be welcoming. He would be kind. This wasn’t about him; it was about her. His job was to love his guest, to ask for truth, to listen with empathy. ‘Love my guest,’ he thought.

The car pulled in. He swallowed, closed his eyes, sighed and opened them, smiling sincerely.

Rainbow Dash, that old bore – she was on the telly again, was she? Half a year of build-up had led to what? A fourth-rate talk-show and an old mare’s fantasies. And ponies looked up to her as a role model for racing. Sure, she’d done good things elsewhere, but what flying had she achieved to rival Raffia’s? He’d been breaking the sound barrier since he’d spoken his first words – more or less. The world was choking on so much mediocrity that, when somepony competent did her job, she was hailed as a genius. Yes, he respected Rainbow Dash, but he respected himself more. When it came to flying, he was the best. He’d always known he could be the best, and everypony he raced told him that he was – better than any of the Wonderbolts had been at his age, at any rate.

‘But I remember you as one of the great practicers,’ Buttons, the dull host, was saying as Rainbow Dash nodded along. ‘What’s the rationale behind returning to the game if you haven’t been practising?’

‘Well, at the end of the day, it’s an experiment,’ replied Rainbow Dash. ‘I know that, back in the day, I was constantly on it. But maybe I was better than everypony anyway. Maybe I didn’t need to put in all those hours.’

‘So, you haven’t been practising.’

‘No, not really,’ said Rainbow, ‘but that’s my point – how much better can you get? I don’t think you can teach old dogs new tricks. I’m not going to get any faster; that’s just nature. So, what would I be practising? I know all the moves. I can still pull them off.’

‘But isn’t that – and forgive me for saying – I’m not pretending to be an expert or anything – isn’t that a bit contradictory?’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you’ve admitted you aren’t practising and you’ve lost speed – and it’s racing, where the margins between one pony and the next are so fine –’

‘It’s not all about speed.’

‘It’s not?’

‘It’s not. And let’s be clear: I’m older, not old. And I was – and I’m not trying to brag or to be boastful or anything – I’m just saying that I was the fastest ever in my prime. You know, that’s just a fact. They clocked me. So, I get it: obviously, you get too old and your body packs in and you lose it. And that’s why, ultimately, I have to do this now. It’s my last chance to do what I fell in love doing – while I’m young enough that I still feel up to it and while I still have the physical ability to keep up.’

‘So,’ said Buttons slowly, ‘if you aren’t practising, what do you do in the spare time?’

‘I am flying a lot.’

‘But wouldn’t that count as practice?’

Rainbow Dash grimaced. ‘Not really. I mean, when I say “practice”, I mean drills and diets and all sorts of nitty-gritty things, and I’m not interested in going back to that. Instead I’m focused on feeling good up there again, in the air. I think that ninety percent of your performance comes from how good you’re feeling. I think that’s the key. When I was winning, I felt great, fantastic, as good as you can feel. It’s when you start getting fed up that the problems come. You get fed up with flying. I’ll put it this way: you’ve sacrificed so much, and then you go and do something else that you like, and you think, “Oh, this is fun.” But if you’re doing something else, you aren’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing. And that feeds back, and things go wrong, and you start doubting yourself, your commitment, and you beat yourself up. It’s horrible. It’s a horrible place to be as a racer. You have to feel good about yourself to win, so that’s why I’m making it all about that. I want to get into the air and to enjoy myself as much as possible when I’m up there. And that can involve a few drills here and there, but the moment they become boring or mentally taxing, I move on to something else.’

She was wasting her time so far as Raffia was concerned. It was a nice idea, the old war-horse chasing her last hurrah, but ultimately, it distracted from the real talent. He got annoyed when these has-beens poked their snouts back into the business, where they no longer belonged. Punditry was about the furthest he could stretch for them. Once they started talking about comebacks and rolling back the years, he was rolling his eyes.

‘It’s been great having you on,’ said Buttons, ‘and before we close, I have to ask you: You’ve steered clear of the media for months. You could’ve given anypony an interview, and you chose to come to me. I know a lot of ponies will be thinking, “Why’s she sitting here, with this bloke?” And, to be honest, I’m thinking it too.’ He chuckled and Rainbow Dash grinned.

‘Well, first, about the media,’ began Rainbow Dash, ‘isn’t it funny? You know, for me it’s been some time off. But then somepony picks up on it, and they want a story, and it gets blown into whatever – you know, that’s just the way it is. But I’ll tell you: I’m on this show because I’ve – in my time off, that is – I’ve been enjoying watching it.’

‘You’ve been watching?’ said Buttons, sounding astonished.

‘Yeah, of course I have,’ said Rainbow Dash, smiling. ‘I think you’re really good. The way you do things – I think that’s what the media sphere needs just now. I don’t want to point hooves or name names or anything, but you know what it’s like. They’ll get somepony on, and it’s something like five against one, and they all take turns poking at you until you’re, you know – the fire comes on, and it just becomes, well, dissolves into nonsense, really. I like that you don’t do that, so I’ve been watching you, your show.’

And didn’t he look utterly delighted about it. Raffia turned off the screen and tossed aside the remote. Rainbow Dash got the praise, and she passed it on to ponies like Buttons, who’d never done a big thing in their lives. Raffia was the one she should have been praising. He bet she didn’t even know his name, and he’d finished last season ranked thirty-sixth, and he was technically still a colt! Well, it would all change soon. An ‘honorary tour-card’ – what was that but a free stall in races you didn’t deserve to be near? Racing didn’t ‘owe’ Rainbow Dash; Rainbow Dash owed racing. And she owed it to Raffia to shove off and let the future come to pass. If she had been him, she would have asked for the same. He smiled to himself. This year was the year it changed. He had his wildcard to the Masters, and they would see him then – all of them, including Rainbow Dash. ‘Keep up’, could she? Her tune would change as quickly as he would fly.

Racing was hard. Once it had been so easy. Rainbow Dash was glad she was OK for speed, and her course-play was as strong as ever, but you never knew for sure how you’d rank until you tried against opponents. This was tougher than she’d thought. The younger, nippier racers took the corners as if they were nothing. She grimaced at the stretch in her wings as the force of each turn ripped into them. Seventh place, would it be? She had time. ‘Let’s make a fight of it,’ she thought.

She dipped under an obstacle and took the cloud-hoops efficiently. She smiled. She still had it in the locker. She cleared the last one with a bit of flair and winked to the tiny crowd – not that they saw her. She landed gracefully to finish. ‘Eighth,’ read the board. She sighed. Racing wasn’t hard; accepting that she wasn’t what she had been was. Eggshell, her new coach, clapped her on her sweaty back.

‘Eighth! Excellent!’

‘Eighth out of twenty,’ Rainbow Dash gasped, grimacing again. ‘I wouldn’t write home.’

‘Think positive. You’ve beaten the bookies and the world number eighty.’

She snorted. ‘Yay, the world number eighty – well done, me.’

‘Baby steps.’

‘Whatever.’ She puffed out her cheeks, panting. ‘Eighth. I can work with eighth.’

‘There you go,’ said Eggshell, beaming, and he passed her a towel and bottle of water. She swallowed a mouthful and trickled some across her face. Once the stragglers landed, many of the racers came over to congratulate her. Rainbow Dash smiled and bumped hooves with them. She swelled with pride as the winner, Horizon, pulled her in for a hug and called her an inspiration. He was the world number thirty-three, and Rainbow Dash tipped him to reach the top sixteen within two years. It felt good to know there was respect for her and from the big-time racers to boot. Sometimes that was what she missed most: knowing for certain that the rest of the world saw her as somepony special.

‘Ms Dash! Ms Dash!’ The press were never far away. Rainbow Dash stepped forward to greet them and to get it over with.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘That was some performance.’ Journalists, cameras and microphones appeared in front of her more quickly than she’d raced. ‘Can you tell us how you feel?’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘For a first race back, that probably went as well as it could have.’

‘You came in eighth against a relatively tough line-up. What are your thoughts on how you did up there?’

‘I felt good. Not much went wrong; it’s just that top speed, isn’t it, that’s a miss. And these young ones, they’re so mobile. I felt it in the wings, I can’t lie. But I’m pleased with how I went about it. I’m moving well, if a little slowly, and my experience is a big advantage on any course. So, even though I wasn’t the quickest, I beat the odds.’

‘You certainly did! I have some stats with me that I’d like to share with you,’ said the journalist. ‘You made fifteen out of sixteen clean-throughs on all hoops. The average was ten out of sixteen.’

Rainbow Dash grinned. ‘Well, that’s the advantage of moving more slowly; you get a bit more time to think.’

‘And those clean passes all add up!’ continued the journalist. ‘Here’s another stat: you also kept the most consistent speed on the course.’

Rainbow Dash smirked. ‘Great, I’m glad. I’ve got to be the best at something.’ The journalist chuckled sycophantically.

‘And what do you make of the bookies putting you odds-on to finish in the bottom five?’

‘I’m with that. Hopefully, there are ponies out there who’ve just made a tidy sum of money.’

‘So, you do think ponies will bet on you?’

Her smile twitched. Journalists really were the cheekiest berks. ‘That’s their business,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘I can only back myself, so when I’m done here, I’m off to collect my winnings.’

The journalist laughed and Rainbow Dash nodded. ‘Rainbow Dash,’ he said, ‘thank you.’

‘Thanks,’ she replied and turned away. Eggshell was waiting for her.

‘Would you like to stay and watch the other races?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’ It wasn’t as though she had anything better to do. The Wonderbolts had been inactive since racing had replaced demonstrations; Twilight didn’t need her for anything more than a catch-up.

The next race was Group C’s. A pony called Slate won with an ugly display; against a twenty of near-amateurs, however, it was enough. Things became more interesting once the higher-ranked racers flew. Her friend Peanut, also on her last wings, battled bravely against three of the top twenty. Rainbow Dash was half-pleased she had managed to avoid a brutal draw, and she was half-disappointed that, to stand a chance of facing the day’s best, she had to get out of the groups and into the knockout stages.

‘What do you think when you watch them?’ asked Eggshell. He had been watching her. Rainbow Dash smiled. Eggshell was a very holistic coach. One of the first things he’d had her do was look at recordings of herself in her prime. He had hoped to inspire her. The plan had backfired when it had depressed her to remember how good she’d been.

‘I’m thinking it’s a second-rate tournament that nopony really cares about,’ said Rainbow Dash honestly, shrugging. It was true.

‘But what do you think of the racers?’

‘They’re mostly mediocre.’

‘And how do you feel about that?’

‘Sad.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because nopony likes mediocre racing, and I can’t even beat them anymore. Now I’m really sad.’

‘You’re being sarcastic.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘But you mean it too.’

Rainbow Dash smiled. A good coach meant a good friend, and the longer she spent with Eggshell the more she liked him. He read between the lines. ‘If you’re sad,’ he said, ‘how do you make yourself happy?’

‘Gee, Egg, I don’t know,’ she mock-sang, sighing. ‘You know how it is. I half-want to keep going, and I half-want to pack it in. Love-hate, what a recipe for disaster.’ She snorted and shook her head.

‘But you do love it more than you hate it.’

‘I don’t know anymore.’

‘You do. I’ve seen how happy you are in the air. I’m going to quote you to you: “Ninety percent of your performance comes from how good you’re feeling.”’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Feel good, and you’ll be fine.’

She snorted again. ‘Great! Sorted!’

Eggshell smiled. ‘Thanks.’

Rainbow Dash did feel better after that. It was just as well. When she was down, she watched ponies win and felt worse. When she was happy, she watched the same ponies fly and couldn’t wait to get up there herself.

‘Hey, hey! That’s some speed!’ she said, pointing at a small, mud-coated racer. ‘Not much in his head, though, by the looks of it!’ He clattered through hoops like a cudgel. Rainbow Dash couldn’t recall a more graceless performance, not even Slate’s. She frowned. ‘What’s he doing?’ Mud-Coat took a corner so widely that the two chasing overtook him. When the course straightened, he whooshed past them like a dart. Rainbow Dash realised she was on her hooves. Eggshell watched her closely.

‘What do you think?’ he asked her as Mud-Coat came in first by a full four seconds.

‘He’s an absolute natural, and his head’s emptier than a – I don’t know, something. That turn was criminal.’ Rainbow Dash tossed her mane angrily. ‘He could have won by six. Six seconds! That’s as fast as I was!’

‘“Mediocre”,’ quoted Eggshell.

‘He must be a new racer,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘Nopony on tour butchers a turn like that.’

‘His name’s Raffia. He’s had his card for little more than a year. He’s ranked as highly as twenty-eighth, and he’s still a colt – at least so far as racing is concerned.’

‘Why are you wasting your time coaching me?’ said Rainbow Dash, snorting. ‘There’s your future!’

Eggshell looked taken aback. He raised a brow. ‘Do you think he’s that good?’

‘What?’ said Rainbow Dash, aghast at his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Don’t you see how fast he is?’

‘Racing isn’t all about speed. You said it yourself.’

‘It’s not about speed when you’re a snail like me! How come we’ve never heard of him?’

‘I have. He’s as quick as a bolt, no doubt, but he’s the sloppiest racer on tour. You worked that out in seconds. And he’s arrogant, a real enfant terrible. Ponies want little to do with him. Most don’t consider him a serious prospect.’

Rainbow Dash couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘But what’s his record like?’ she burst out. ‘Isn’t he winning races?’

‘No more than anypony else by the looks of things. I think he’s won a tournament, minor-ranking – and there was a good run in the Grand Prix. Otherwise –’ He shrugged.

Rainbow Dash watched Raffia ignore whoever approached him. His face was small and ratty. His eyes flicked to and fro, sharp and angry. It was a manner better suited to a fighter than a racer, yet he was so young that it inspired dislike far more than fear. Still, she had seen him best both the course and the race while flying like a plane crash. That was an achievement, whatever Eggshell or anypony else said.

‘Should I speak to him?’ Rainbow Dash had said this aloud. Eggshell seemed surprised.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. It just seems like such a waste of talent.’

‘Do you mean you want to give him some advice?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Rainbow Dash, watching him glower. ‘He wouldn’t take it, would he? Nah, he wouldn’t take it.’ She grimaced. ‘What an utter waste of talent he’ll be if he doesn’t get over himself. That’s arrogance for you, Egg. They say I was arrogant,’ she chuckled, ‘and I was. But looking at him, I see I never came close.’ She couldn’t stop shaking her head. ‘What a shame.’

The showers brought back memories. They had been a great spot for reflection and for banter. Once Rainbow Dash had argued with Fleetfoot about the weight of their uniforms, claiming that the fabric took time off her turns. They had taken so long to wash that Spitfire had fined them both for delaying the janitor. Rainbow Dash grinned as she recalled their many pranks and arguments. The janitor had surely hated them, or might he have been quietly pleased to see the camaraderie? She smiled at the thought. Ponies these days weren’t the same. Except for a nod and a few words of greeting, they kept to themselves.

She turned off the water, grabbed her towel and patted her face and her mane with it. She shuffled to the lockers for her hair dryer, paused, sighed and shook her head. She had left her goggles on the floor beside the taps. The Wonderbolts would have teased her, called her old and senile. Sadly, she probably was. She turned and traipsed back. As she re-entered the showers, she heard running water. She’d thought she’d been the last to wash, so she’d taken ages. Somepony must have been waiting for her to finish. She hoped it wasn’t another janitor whose time she’d wasted.

It was Raffia. He stopped as soon as he noticed her. The drain gurgled and left an uncomfortable silence. His soapy mane coupled with his scowl made him look stupid. Rainbow Dash resisted the urge to snigger. She understood. Rapidfire had hated communal showers too. Some ponies just weren’t sociable like that.

‘Sorry. Came for these,’ she said, picking up her wet goggles and shaking them. Raffia glared. Something in Rainbow Dash rebelled at the sight. He was laying down a challenge. Old or not, she wasn’t one to turn down a challenge – especially not his. She could see why ponies disliked him. He was so up himself he couldn’t even shower without provoking irritation.

Eventually, her silent staring crossed a line. ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ grunted Raffia, spitting slightly.

‘I’m –’ Rainbow Dash shrugged. She couldn’t be bothered. The truth was easy. ‘I’m looking at you,’ she began, ‘because I see talent that you’re wasting.’

Raffia’s brow furrowed further and his mouth opened to deliver a rejoinder, but his mind wasn’t sharp enough. ‘Well, you can stop looking.’ He said it awkwardly, as though he hadn’t expected her to be so forthright. Clearly, he was uncomfortable, which came as no surprise to Rainbow Dash. Raffia was young and in the showers with an older mare who happened to be very famous, and she had just called him out. His bravado was waning visibly, youthful arrogance crumbling under the pressure of the unknown. Rainbow Dash could sense an opportunity, so she seized it.

‘I saw you race, and you’re as fast as I was. But you’re sloppy. I know you didn’t ask, but since I’m here, why not? I just think it’s a crime, actually, for somepony like you to be given this talent and squander it.’ She was picking up steam. Anger and shame reared their heads as she thought of her own complacency. ‘You have a gift, and because you’re used to getting by on it, you haven’t tried for anything in your life. I said it today: you could be the future. But unless you pull the hoof out and try – and when I say “try”, I mean really try. You have to make flying a routine. You have to get up in the air and onto the course and hone your craft. Get busy. There are too many professionals who are too clever for you, and you’ll never beat them flying like that. They’re too smart. They work too hard.’ She trailed off and sighed. The impulse had passed. She looked at Raffia. Even if she had rocked him, his armour had returned. The scowl was firm; the glare was steady. She waited – silence. He wasn’t nearly as confident as he wanted her to believe. That was why he had nothing to say. What did she want him to remember? That was the most important thing. ‘I think you could be brilliant,’ she said. ‘Please – make an effort. You’ll regret it more than anything if you don’t. Do one thing before your next race: practise flying through hoops. Do it at cruising speed. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it isn’t. Do it calmly, twenty times. Then speed up, seventy percent, another twenty times, and that’s it.’

She decided to leave. Any more from her and it became a lecture. She turned without waiting for a response, half-expecting to hear one shouted at her as she walked away. Instead came the sound of the water running again. Would Raffia listen? It was likely he wouldn’t, but at least she had challenged him. Somepony had to. She nodded to herself. He was young. Expecting from him the discipline she had learned was like expecting an infant to best a leaver in arithmetic. He had to learn how to succeed. Perhaps she had just helped him take a step in the right direction. Up swam the memory of Applejack, scowling, jaw clenched, as she and Rainbow Dash wrestled hooves. With this in mind she passed, grinning, at the doors the incoming janitor.

Lap 2

‘Let me through!’

‘Grounds are closed, sorry. I can’t let you in.’

Raffia couldn’t believe it. They’d told him the wrong day. How could they have been so sloppy? He grew less surprised the longer he thought about it. The sport had been tumbling downhill for years. To emerge in an era of decline was just his luck. The grounds rotted. The courses creaked in the wind. It was small wonder that they struggled to schedule a race. ‘At least let me in to practise!’ he snarled.

‘I can’t let you in.’

‘Then I’m flying in.’

‘I can’t allow that.’

‘What are you going to do about it – chase me?’ snorted Raffia. He could finish a lap before this flabby fool so much as took off from the ground. He flew without warning, soared above the stadium and descended into the course. Gritting his teeth, he bolted through rusty hoops. Having to compete in a dump like this was nothing short of a disgrace.

Raffia grunted as the force of the turn hit. He was wide again, much too wide. He’d won by four, but the stupid corner had crippled him. Corners were a joke. They’d been put there to equalise, which defeated the purpose. The fastest pony was meant to win, deserved to win. Hoops and turns and dips and zips – they were all distractions, impediments, concealments. They should have flown in a straight line, no gimmicks, no ambiguity, and Raffia would have won everything.

He winced when he clipped the iron. ‘Gah!’ His eyes screwed up and began to water. He slowed and landed, panting, among the seats. He squinted at his flank. A shallow scratch decorated the space beside his cutie mark, the palm tree that so aptly matched his name. His parents often said that ‘Raffia’ had felt right, and time appeared to have proven their instincts correct. Raffia thought it was nonsense. What did a raffia signify? He knew who he was. He was the best. All he needed was to prove it, and he couldn’t do that stuck at home. He’d had to leave.

Raffia snarled, landed and stamped in frustration – the stupid, stupid hoops! He rubbed his flank, glaring at a fresh cut. That they still tolerated iron was a crime. Any course worth its salt used cloud. Did they want him to risk injury? The image of Rainbow Dash saying, ‘Fly better, and you’ll be fine,’ swam into his mind. He gritted his teeth. That mad old mare, she’d had the gall to advise him. Who did she think she was, giving advice when she couldn’t even pass the round of sixteen? She wanted to help? She should have done it in her prime, not snail-slow and podgy. Raffia couldn’t abide arrogance, the most repellant trait in a pony. Still, perhaps she hadn’t been totally wrong when she’d suggested it was in his interest to brush up. These hoops had held him back long enough.

Gently he flew into the turn. He took it at an agonising pace, so slowly that its force displaced barely a hair. He snorted and shook his head. Next came the hoops. He dipped in and out. It was absurdly easy at the speed. What had she said? Try it twenty times. OK, he would give it a go. Besides, if it failed to produce an effect, then he’d know just how spot on he was about Rainbow Dash and her so-called coaching. He slipped through them again and again, yawning by the sixth lap, sighing by the fourteenth, looking at clouds by the last. What else had she said? Try it another twenty times, faster; that was it. He accelerated. He’d grown used to the sight of the hoops and found himself focusing on the course ahead. He slid through them swiftly without a nick. By the fifteenth, he was grinning. He burst into full speed and smacked straight into the metal.

‘Gh—!’

He floundered forward and down, winded, flapping erratically, and landed with a thud. He rolled over, retched and groaned. He lay there, gasping, gathering his thoughts. It was as he’d suspected. The routine was a flop. How could flying slowly make him faster? The moment he’d lost the brakes, he’d stumbled. It was a good job the race had been postponed; otherwise, he’d have fallen to the floor in front of a crowd. In three days he’d be facing the course once more. How would he do it? He supposed he hadn’t crashed at seventy percent, just as Rainbow Dash had predicted – and moving more carefully and succeeding certainly beat flying at full speed and getting hurt. He got to his hooves and decided he’d return before the race for another forty laps.

It was the sinking feeling in her stomach that got to her more than anything – the heavy, enduring certitude that it wouldn’t be her day. No matter how swiftly she beat her wings, no matter how cannily she cut corners, the ponies beside her soon swooped past as though she was little more than an obstacle. She was reduced to pottering along behind them, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t catch up. It left a horrible hollowness, as though nothing mattered anymore. It made Rainbow Dash wonder why she’d bothered in the first place.

She landed neatly and looked anywhere but the board. She hadn’t finished last, but badly enough. What was the point when she offered no competition? Likely, she brought nothing to a race but publicity and nostalgia. Eggshell nudged her sympathetically. ‘Eighteenth,’ he said. ‘Hard lines.’ Rainbow Dash ripped off her goggles and tossed them aside in disgust. (Eggshell caught them.) It was useless. What was she doing there?

‘Not an iota of enjoyment,’ she breathed, chest rising and falling. She tossed her mane and drank water greedily. ‘What am I doing, Egg? What am I doing?’

‘You tell me,’ replied Eggshell, passing her a fresh bottle. ‘How do you feel?’

‘It’s just debilitating,’ she panted, stretching and wincing. She rubbed her wings. ‘I’m thinking to myself, “You’ve got this,” and then a moment later, “Forget about this; it’s going nowhere.”’ She licked her lips and sighed. ‘For years and years, I used to blast a course in practice. And now, under pressure, when things are going wrong –’ She trailed off. ‘You put in a bit more effort, and somehow that makes everything worse. My sprint isn’t straight. It’s my left wing – it’s slightly out of sync with my right, and that kills your speed. When you’re young,’ she snorted, ‘it’s fine; you fly through it. But now –’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘And the young ones, they’re alright. Their coaching pays attention to that sort of thing. So, there’s another disadvantage.’ She sniffed.

‘Your technique’s off?’

‘Off. Gone. Never there.’ Rainbow Dash shrugged. ‘It’s the effort. Somehow I just veer off to the left a fraction. And it – it’s – well, it’s debilitating,’ she repeated. ‘My bad sprint is accidental left-wing slant, so I’m slower on the straights. And I’m fighting against that, but in the meantime everypony’s beating me anyway. And the moment I try to stop slanting, I slant even more.’

‘So, it’s a technical issue,’ said Eggshell.

‘Yeah, but there’s no point, Egg; don’t bother. “What am I doing wrong that I used to do right?”’ But Rainbow Dash knew full well that, perhaps, it wasn’t just about her. There were ponies who flew to a higher standard. But still she beat herself up trying to work out how to get better than she was. And how could she? She’d been flying for too long. Could she jump up another level? What was she supposed to do? Go to the gym? Practise more after all? What was she supposed to practise? She’d worked on technique before, changing this feather’s position and that one’s. Had it ever really made a difference?

Eggshell was watching her again. ‘How does it feel?’ he asked. ‘No longer being “the special one”?’ Rainbow Dash grinned. He was no sycophant and appreciated the silliness of the situation, the bizarre dilemma, her love-hate-hate relationship with racing.

‘I used to enjoy being special, ponies talking about me being the favourite. Took it for granted.’

‘Because you were special from the moment you started.’

‘But then it’s gone,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘I was used to ponies saying, “Oh, Rainbow Dash’ll win this, and she’ll win that. Rainbow Dash is the best in Equestria. Rainbow Dash is world champion. She’s number one.” All of a sudden it becomes, “Oh, Rainbow Dash, she’s – oh, she can’t fly anymore. She isn’t the same pony anymore. She’ll never win another tournament. She’s slipping down the rankings.” All that positive feedback for so much of your life. And, suddenly, it’s all negative. Constantly.’ She chuckled. ‘And then you lose another race, and it’s, “Oh, she’s gone.” You realise how that positivity – it feeds you. It builds your confidence. But you eat the negative too, like it or not, and it’s keeping me down.’ She sighed. Eggshell nodded approvingly.

‘Let it out,’ he said. ‘That’s the way. Don’t let it fester.’ Rainbow Dash smiled. He was right. It was funny – he never presumed to coach her, just listened and held her to account. And that helped her feel so much better about it all. The weight had passed already, and but for the pain across her body, she almost felt ready to race again. ‘Heads up,’ he added, stepping backward. ‘Press.’

The lights, mics and cameras had caught up with her. ‘Ms Dash! Ms Dash!’ She stretched her neck, cracked her hooves and faced them.

Eggshell enjoyed watching racing with Rainbow Dash. For a coach (for anypony, really) it was something of a treat. Every now and then he got to hear the insight, the knowledge that only a professional who’d done it at the highest level possessed – tiny, seemingly insignificant details that, after a long time in the game, you realised could make all the difference. The moment the latest race finished, she leaned over and said, ‘Horizon’s looking great on the turn. It’s the stretch he gets from those big wings of his; he slides through the air like an eagle. The control that ponies have these days, it’s another level entirely.’

That was another thing he liked about her. In the right mood, she spoke so generously about her rivals – even though she was struggling and losing. Plainly, it hurt. It was a unique position: to have been the best one day and to have woken up the next with what, by comparison, must have felt like nothing. She dealt with the situation better than he thought he could have. But that was the point. Rainbow Dash was an exceptional pony, and whatever they did, they always took you by surprise.

‘How does it feel watching the next generation?’ asked Eggshell. He asked a lot about her feelings. He thought it was important, even vital in her case. For the most part, coaching was four things: skill, physicality, mentality and reality. When Eggshell took on a prospect, they had to be either fit as a fiddle or prepared to become so. Only afterward did he hone their craft. With Rainbow Dash, the first two didn’t apply. Likely, she had forgotten more about flying than he would ever know. As to her conditioning, he couldn’t ask more of a middle-aged mare except for a spot of weight loss. But Rainbow Dash didn’t want to train as she had. Normally, he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, but this wasn’t some lazy up-and-comer; this was an ex-number-one gone to seed who couldn’t put it down. The goals were different.

That was where mentality came in. What were Rainbow Dash’s goals? Why did she do it? What did she expect from herself? What could she reasonably expect? Eggshell questioned her, even pestered her for answers. Usually, he got them, and the picture they painted he found touching; he felt a lot of affection for her. Here was this once-mighty titan of the sport, a winner in every sense of the word, with talent, wealth, fame and happiness, and then time had played its trick. She had aged. She had slowed. She couldn’t compete with the best, not anymore, and nature was cruel: though the body changed, the heart stayed the same. Behind the rounding face remained a champion, and the world was telling her, ‘No.’ His job, if he had any, was to be there for her, to lend an ear, to show her the streets remembered and to remind her that she was worth something. That, for all the pain she’d shown, seemed to keep her going. And perhaps it was enough. Reality, after all, meant taking into account the bigger picture, recognising the can and can’ts. If he had helped bring her closer to making peace with herself, then he considered their time together not only a success but wonderfully spent.

‘It’s hard sometimes,’ replied Rainbow Dash.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I just think –’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I just wasn’t that good.’

‘Don’t say that; I watched you. You were dominant.’

‘I was,’ she admitted, ‘but there wasn’t anypony around to challenge me. No disrespect to Soarin, Fleetfoot and Spitfire,’ she continued, ‘but the general standard wasn’t as high as you might think. It’s always improved; it’s gone up.’

‘You were winning by six.’

‘Well, obviously, I was head and shoulders above the rest as a racer,’ she said. ‘But timing’s important.’ She shrugged. ‘Right place, right time?’

‘Come on, give yourself more credit than that. You said it yourself. You were clocked the fastest ever.’ But he knew Rainbow Dash didn’t care about what she’d done. She cared about what she would do, never resting on her laurels. Eggshell respected that. What a shame she’d fallen in no-mare’s land, trapped between the pony she was and the pony she had been. If he could have convinced her to try something else, he would have. Instead, he felt compelled to talk to her about it. She carried a lot of baggage that needed unpacking. ‘What was more disappointing?’ he asked, changing tack. ‘The final with Spitfire or the one with Lightning Dust? Which hurt you more?’

‘Well,’ said Rainbow Dash, ‘looking at how I dealt with it, the fact that I was no longer the best racer in the world, losing to Lightning Dust was by far the worse. Because I then had to deal with –’ She stopped and pondered. ‘Well, put it this way,’ she began. ‘At one time in my career, I had all the cookies locked up in my own little jar. Next minute they were spilled on the floor, and Lightning Dust had them all.’ She paused. ‘So for most of my life I haven’t liked her at all – hated her. Hated the thought of her being better than me. Didn’t even want to acknowledge she existed.’ She sighed. ‘Losing to Spitfire was a shock and awful, but I got over it because I probably thought I was better than her. But Lightning Dust? All of a sudden I had massive problems. Because I thought she was better than me,’ she finished.

‘Let’s say she was. Does that devalue what you achieved?’

Rainbow Dash grimaced. ‘No, but –’

‘But?’

She sighed again. ‘It feels bad. Heavy. It weighs on you. I don’t know.’

The next race brightened her up. She seemed keen to see Raffia fly, the troublemaker from the Canterlot Open, who entered his stall with a scowl. ‘Oh, here we go!’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘Bet you a coffee that he finishes in the top five!’

‘Of who’s racing, he’s ranked fifth-highest.’

‘OK, then, the top three.’

‘You’re on.’ Eggshell presumed that she saw a bit of herself in him. She must have related to his talent. But even at the peak of her powers, Rainbow Dash had never been rude or dismissive; she had welcomed every challenger. Raffia, on the other hoof, struck him as a poser – bags of ability but no hunger.

The starting horn blared, and the racers exploded into the sky. The first section of the course pointed straight as an arrow, and Eggshell saw at once why Rainbow Dash felt so excited. Raffia’s horsepower had propelled him to the front in a flash. At the corner he flew wide, and two ponies zipped past. He caught them quickly enough and, as the hoops loomed, sneaked ahead. ‘He’s in for a flankful of iron,’ predicted Eggshell. Only he was wrong. Raffia slowed slightly and passed them without incident. Rainbow Dash grinned.

‘I think he might actually have practised!’ she said enthusiastically. It took another lap to convince Eggshell. Sure enough, Raffia whooshed through them cleanly, still in the lead. ‘Final lap!’ cried Rainbow Dash, on her hooves again, eyes wider than her grin, like a filly at a fair. The sight made him feel warm inside. He smiled.

Come the final sprint, Raffia had pulled even farther ahead; but Eggshell was aware of the last corner, and if the pattern held, he’d slide widely enough for overtaking. It would be close. ‘Oh, top three for sure!’ Rainbow Dash was saying. Eggshell could imagine the scowl and the gritted teeth as Raffia careered sideways on the turn. One pony had caught him up. It was going to be very close. ‘That’s a joke, that,’ remarked Rainbow Dash a moment later, shaking her head. Raffia had finished in second place. ‘If you’re making your turns like that, it’s hopeless.’ She watched him throw away his goggles and stamp. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I can do one thing right, it’s cut a corner thinner than a slice of bread.’ She stepped toward the tunnel. Eggshell raised an eyebrow.

‘You’re going down to him?’

‘To the showers,’ replied Rainbow Dash. ‘He’ll be there.’

Raffia waited for the sound of water to stop, the sound of hoofsteps to pass, the sound of the door swinging shut. He kicked open his cubicle and marched into the showers, breathing heavily. He wasn’t tired, but he was angry. Stupid, stupid turn! He’d spent so much time worrying about the hoops that he’d been found out by the corner. Then a voice in his head said, ‘At least you never crashed.’ True, he’d avoided that humiliation; indeed, if he’d ignored Rainbow Dash, he’d’ve been fuming at a lot worse than second place. Simultaneously, he was glad he’d had the nous to recognise what was good for him. That was who he was, a clever racer – the best.

He stabbed the button and stepped into the hot water. Really, racing was a misnomer. ‘Sabotage’ suited better. He wondered whether they’d pull the same tricks at the Masters. Surely, they would. There’d be corners, hoops, tunnels and slaloms – dirty tricks. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let them ruin his chance to shine. But how would he stop them? Raffia liked to think of himself as a realist, and the truth was nothing would change just because he wished it. Still, having to race on their terms boiled the blood. After all, what authority should a cabal of promoters and sponsors have had over him? In a straight race he could beat anypony, and everypony wanted to see that. Certainly, nopony wanted to see obstacles that reduced speed and excitement. But such were the terms if he wanted a tour card, and no tour card meant no money. As much as he hated to admit it (because Raffia believed sport should be kept pure), racing was his source of income as much as it was his love. If he broke their rules or made a stand, they’d rob him. There was nothing for it but to race tough, tougher than ever, and hope for the best. Even with their schemes, they wouldn’t keep him down. He would fly into greatness one way or another. Just then it had to be the hard way.

The door swung open and, despite the temperature of the water, Raffia felt a shiver down his spine. He cursed inwardly the idiot who had thought shared showers a good idea. It wasn’t as though there’d be much talk, but even seeing another pony in the place he washed himself made him uncomfortable. That was why he waited for the others to finish. He blinked through the cascade at the newcomer, walking slowly into the room. It was Rainbow Dash. She set her goggles on the floor and chose a tap. Strangely, Raffia felt less bothered now that he knew it was her. He guessed that was due to gratitude. Although he’d done the work, she’d made him aware of the work that had needed doing. He caught her eye and saw she was smiling. Normally, he’d have scowled. He couldn’t let ponies think him weak or unfocused. But he’d taken a lecture from her already so knew what to expect if she got annoyed. Somehow, in light of this, he felt content to give her a curt nod in return.

‘Your corner game’s an absolute disgrace,’ said Rainbow Dash rather sweetly once her water was on. Raffia felt his brow furrow. He opened his mouth, prepared to snarl. Then he stopped. He nearly sniggered. She was absolutely right. It was a disgrace. It wasn’t his fault, of course; he was self-taught, for pony’s sake! What did his parents know about racing? So little that any contribution from them would have been a hindrance. No, all things considered, he was leagues above where he should have been – but since he’d just spent half-an-hour beating himself up about it, he could only agree. His corner game was an absolute disgrace.

‘Instead of flapping your wings like there’s no tomorrow,’ continued Rainbow Dash, her voice back to normal, ‘how about spreading them? You know how a bird does it? Glide and tilt. You shift your weight and turn like you’re in orbit. You put the speed before and after, never during – and,’ she added, ‘keep your head still.’

Why was she telling him this? What was she after? What was she doing there? He was trying to wash! Then he remembered she had just raced too. But that was twice in a row she’d stayed behind, and this time the goggles were no excuse.

‘I can show you if you like,’ suggested Rainbow Dash. She was looking at him expectantly. He felt his face grow warmer. What did she want from him? What was he supposed to say? By all appearances, she had just offered to help, but ponies didn’t offer help without expecting something in exchange. It clicked. She was trying to sabotage her competition. Of course. It all made sense. He opened his mouth to say so, then stopped a second time. Except it didn’t make sense. She wasn’t a racer; she was a has-been. She’d already achieved everything he wanted to and, in any case, was too old and too out-of-shape ever to threaten on a course again. Was this an attack by proxy? No, that was far-fetched. She had warned him about the hoops, and it had spared his blushes. But ponies, especially mares, didn’t just help for nothing. They just didn’t.

‘Come on, Raffia, I don’t bite.’

He had no idea what to say. He merely stared. He must have looked like an idiot. Raffia couldn’t let her think he was an idiot, but she didn’t seem to think ill of him at all. When she had called him out, there had been needle, anger, frustration. This time he could perceive only a smile and an offer to show him how to cut a corner. If it had been anypony else, he’d have left. But he felt he owed her. It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t sure he liked it very much.

‘Well, at least try and do what I said,’ finished Rainbow Dash. She busied herself with her mane. Raffia realised he hadn’t yet touched the soap. Instead of reaching for it, he said,

‘I did.’

‘Eh?’ grunted Rainbow Dash through a faceful of hair.

‘What you said. The hoops. It saved me today.’

Rainbow Dash grinned. ‘Yeah, I noticed. You see? And that’s such an easy routine, but it’s little things like that – they make a difference. And if you pile them up and work at it, what a difference it makes.’

Raffia liked the sound of that – clever, logical. He planned his races. He timed his accelerations and knew when to sprint. But he hadn’t thought of stacking practice routines to achieve a composite effect. He looked at her with fresh eyes. Fools, it seemed, didn’t become world champions. ‘You said you’d show me?’ he found he’d blurted. Fool! He would look needy. Rainbow Dash didn’t seem as though she thought he was needy. On the contrary, she lit up. With a full grin and fire in her gaze, the years receded a little.

‘I’d love to show you! Because, with respect, you need it,’ she added apologetically. Raffia’s eyes narrowed slightly. She was cheeky. ‘Your sprint? It’s –’ She chef’s-kissed. ‘I was watching, and you fly – well, as fast as I ever flew; there’s no doubt about it. But the corners. The corners. But don’t worry! I’ll show you.’

‘When?’

‘Whenever you like!’ She grinned. ‘I’m just delighted you’re up for it!’

Raffia couldn’t stop himself. ‘Because I’m “wasting my talent”.’ Rainbow Dash waved it away.

‘I was angry. I say things. Look.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I don’t really know you. I’m just saying what I see. And the racer at the Canterlot Open looked underprepared – and arrogant.’ She grimaced and nodded. ‘Sorry, but arrogant! And I know all about arrogance. Believe me, I was the same. So,’ she said, slowing down, ‘I know how it feels to think you’re the best.’ She paused. She smiled. ‘It so happened I was the best. You could be the best. Easily. Actually,’ she said, her grin replaced by a sincere, serious expression. ‘With your talent? I think you could be one of the best ever.’

Raffia couldn’t believe his ears. It was as though she knew everything he’d ever wanted to hear, and it was coming from the mouth of a pony who’d won all there was to win. He wouldn’t have cared if she’d been three times as fat. The notion that an ex-champion deemed him a serious prospect had taken him so strongly by surprise that, for one dreadful moment, he thought he could feel forming a tear. Thank goodness they were in the showers.

‘You have to work at it, though, because nothing comes overnight,’ Rainbow Dash was saying. ‘I think with some proper good coaching, you’d be astonishing.’

‘Coaching,’ muttered Raffia.

‘Your weakness is obvious,’ said Rainbow Dash. ‘You’re so used to that raw power that you rely on it for everything, but you have to learn the ins and outs of a course. What you need to do is get to grips with the way courses are set up. The hoops you’ve started. OK, great. Then you do the corners, then the tunnels, zips, bounces, all the rest of it. Racing evolved from what we did as Wonderbolts. It isn’t just flying as fast as you can in a straight line. It’s a spectacle. Ponies want to see something beautiful. As a racer, you’re as much an artist, a dancer, as you are a speedster. There’s a craft, a tradition. And what excites me about you is you’re still so young!’ She beamed at him. ‘You’ve got time to learn it all!’

She spoke so quickly and so earnestly that it was intoxicating. Images of himself winning races, lifting trophies and celebrating wildly whizzed through his mind – familiar, of course, but this time they instilled a trembling anticipation. Standing beside Rainbow Dash, so enthused, Raffia felt as though it was truly achievable. Hoops, corners, tricks – they wouldn’t stop him, because he would know exactly how to handle them! Then, as quickly as the feeling had arrived, it left. He shivered. It sounded like an awful lot of work.

If Rainbow Dash could sense his turmoil, she wasn’t letting on. ‘When’s your next race?’ she asked. Raffia blinked. When was his next race?

‘A week’s time. Then –’ His stomach sank. ‘Then it’s the Masters,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh, you’re in the Masters?’ said Rainbow Dash, surprised. ‘How come?’

‘Wildcard.’

‘Ah! Oh, good. Oh, great! Oh, that’s perfect!’ Rainbow Dash was almost dancing on the spot. ‘Oh, you lucky little –! The Masters, at your age? This is it, then; let me tell you! We’ll get your corners sorted and do a bit of everything. But that’s the main thing, your turns. We fix your turns, and you might – oh, imagine if you won it. Can you imagine? I mean, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but –’ She grinned into the distance (the changing rooms). ‘This is some lucky chance, our meeting, eh?’ She leaned across and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. He shuddered; his mind grew numb. It was too much.

But Rainbow Dash made it so very easy. As they showered, she asked him questions – small talk. He couldn’t abide small talk as a rule, but just then it was welcome; it kept the pressure at bay.

‘How long have you lived in Canterlot?’

‘About a year.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone.’

‘At your age! Your parents, do you see much of them?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Why?’

It was a good question. Why did Raffia avoid them? He supposed it was because he’d never thought them good enough, and since he was trying to be the best, he didn’t have time for ponies who weren’t good enough. It had sounded right at the time. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

‘I like doing things on my own.’

‘Yeah, that’s the way,’ said Rainbow Dash approvingly. ‘As a racer, you can’t be too pally. You have friends away from the game, of course, but when you’re working – you know, you’re there to do a job. Lightning Dust was the same. And Spitfire. When it came to racing we were the loners, if you will. Didn’t mingle. And you need that.’ She clapped her hooves together to underline the point. ‘You need to be constantly on it.’

Raffia looked at her. Could he ask her? ‘What do you think went wrong?’

Instead of eliciting a frown, it forced Rainbow Dash’s grin wider still. ‘What do I think went wrong? I blame myself that ponies started beating me, but it may have been the fact –’ She chuckled. ‘It may have been the fact that they were better than me and that it was always going to happen. But,’ she continued, ‘I blame my own technique. And coaches.’ She snorted. ‘Coaches are a bad thing. Not in the way you might think,’ she added, laughing at the look on Raffia’s face. ‘Because my sprint was so quick, I wasn’t paying enough attention to the way my wings moved. And my coach helped me; she brought good form in, proper posture, and for a while it worked.’ She tossed her wet mane. ‘But then you slip back or into something worse. And I went from Spinner, to Vortex, to Candles – and everypony’s changing me – and by the end, by the last few years of my career, I didn’t have a clue which way to fly. And then you develop what they call “the yips”, where you just don’t know anymore how to fly as you did.’ She shook her head and sighed, but she was smiling. ‘But you don’t need to worry about that,’ she went on. ‘Eggshell and me, we don’t sweat the details.’

‘Eggshell?’

‘My coach.’ She snorted again. ‘Yeah, another one. But he’s the right kind.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway,’ she said, looking at him. ‘You let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll get those corners sorted.’

Raffia had nothing to say as Rainbow Dash picked up her goggles and left. He was much too astonished by deep, foreign feelings of sadness, sympathy and gratitude.

Final Lap

Rainbow Dash hadn’t felt so good in a long time. She was buzzing. She couldn’t stop smiling. Suddenly, the world seemed richer, brighter, with much more in it. She had a skip to her stride. Whenever a pony passed her, she nodded and grinned. It was a wonderful feeling, similar to how she’d lived in the days of old. When you won, it was bliss. Nothing could go wrong. Everypony liked you. The pieces were where they should’ve been. She hadn’t won in years, but this was a good second. It could well have been as close to that magical state as she would ever be again.

When she’d first laid eyes on Raffia, she hadn’t thought there’d be any mending of ways without a serious wake-up call. Now he wanted to train with her. He wanted to learn from her. It was as though he’d known everything she wanted to hear from him. Precocious ponies weren’t renowned for deciding to listen; they were infamous for throwing tantrums and moaning about how unfair their lives were. Yet Raffia’s tantrum had been short and had consisted of little more than scowling. He was ready, and she had such a good feeling about him. He radiated the potential for greatness. She could sense the heat and wanted to move closer. She smirked. That was talent for you. It was like the sun, and it pulled ponies into orbit. Raffia was lucky it had pulled her in first and not a vampire or a snake-oil salesmare. Capable young heads could be so swollen that they’d believe any old nonsense if you reaffirmed how good they thought they were. She laughed because she had reaffirmed how good he was – but she had also described his weaknesses, given him pointers. Once upon a time she’d have crowed about how honoured he was to have her in his corner. Instead, she simply felt happy – both for him and for herself. She had a purpose in racing again. All the effort she’d put in with Eggshell, all the toil, it was wasted on her. But if they could give it to Raffia and he listened, she’d have done something for everypony – and her return to the game, finally, would lead to something worthwhile.

Eggshell seemed less enthusiastic, thin-mouthed, watching her as their bus trundled toward the training park. Rainbow Dash could see he was bothered by it. Of course he was. A coach needed his pony to stay focused, to stay on track. He needed his pony to play by his rules, follow his plan. If your racer knew better, what was the point of you? But, at the end of the day, Eggshell didn’t play games like that. He could tell this was important to her. Although he clearly didn’t like the idea of jumping ship suddenly to Raffia just because she’d suggested it, he was also here as a friend. She was certain he saw the energy and hope it had given her.

‘We just show him the basics, Egg,’ she told him. ‘And then we go back.’

‘I think you’re getting distracted,’ said Eggshell.

‘Distracted? Well, yeah, but it’s for a good cause, isn’t it? This lad could be great, but he needs help.’

‘He could be great; he does need help,’ said Eggshell. ‘Why does it have to be your help?’

‘Well, it doesn’t have to be. I just think it’s good. It’s good for me to show him the right way. I think he knows he can learn something, and I hope I’ve shown him I’m in no way going to mess him about. I’m genuinely here to help.’

Eggshell watched her. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know about this. I think you’re getting distracted. You’re putting time into this now, which means you’re taking your head away from what you have to do to get better.’

He was right; she couldn’t deny it. But what did she have to do? Fly laps until she sighed and shook her head in disgust at how bad she was? Remember the pony, the animal, the winning machine she’d been and find herself to be a wreck, a shadow, a pretender in the same skin? There was more to life than this. She couldn’t waste any more time.

‘Just –’ She sighed. ‘Chuck it,’ she said. Eggshell frowned.

‘What?’

‘Bin it. Chuck it. It’s going nowhere. And it’s not a comeback. It never was, really. I wanted to play tournaments again because I miss the feeling of flying well, but I don’t think it’ll ever come back. Maybe you were right in the first place. Maybe it is time I move on.’

‘All this because you spoke to Raffia?’

‘Not just because of that,’ she said, ‘but that’s been the flashpoint. You know what’s in my head, Egg; none of this is new.’

‘No,’ said Eggshell. He sounded disappointed, but it didn’t last for long. He smiled. ‘If you’re happy,’ he began, ‘and you’re sure this is what you want to do –’

‘I’m sure.’

He nodded. ‘Then I’ll help you do it if you’ll have me.’

Rainbow Dash beamed at him. He was a good pony, a good friend. ‘Thanks, Egg. I appreciate it.’

The training grounds in Canterlot brought back memories. She had raced Soarin here, his favourite place to practise. It was a nice day, clear skies, sun shining down, slight breeze – warm and uplifting. She flexed her wings, still sore from the race. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking. Her body couldn’t take it anymore; that was obvious. It was funny: now that she’d opened herself to the idea of moving on to something else, the reasons to do so found themselves.

‘Let’s get a lap in,’ she said, taking off. Her back was stiff. Her hooves were sore too, but that was simply from walking. It was an awful shame that they all had to wither. You had to spend your youth in action, or you’d be kicking yourself later on. She was kicking herself anyway. The force of the turn rippled her muscles like a cramp. She winced, slowed and landed. She thought she’d better save it for when Raffia arrived.

But Raffia did not arrive. They waited for ten minutes, twenty minutes, half-an-hour. There was no sign of him. She paced on the grass as Eggshell sat in the sun and watched.

‘What’s taking him so long?’ she said eventually, frowning up at the empty sky.

‘Maybe he changed his mind,’ said Eggshell. She felt a lump curl into her stomach. No, that couldn’t be it. He’d grown interested, eager. But he was young, and there was nothing young ponies were better at than changing their minds. For a nasty moment, she felt like a failure again. Then it passed. She couldn’t jump the starting horn.

‘Maybe he’s late,’ she said.

‘He’d be very late.’

‘Shall we have a look around?’

‘Where?’

‘Check the changing rooms?’

‘If you want.’

‘I’ll go.’

Rainbow Dash wandered off past the toilets toward the parkie’s hut, inside which was a small pair of changing rooms. The doors weren’t locked. She pushed them open. She remembered this place. She’d gone there once, cursing herself for losing, kicking the walls. The first room was dusty and empty. She paused at the second, greeted by the unmistakable sound of a pony crying.

‘Raffia?’

It was him alright. He’d curled up on one of the benches, sniffling into his hooves. Her first response was relief. He hadn’t forgotten or changed his mind. Her second was confusion. What was the matter? Her last was understanding. Strewn on the floor, crumpled and tear-stained, was a morning newspaper – and the image of Raffia scowling on the back page drew her hoof to it immediately. She flattened it out and read the headline:

REVOKED – YOUNGSTER MISSES MASTERS FOR MISCONDUCT

Underneath was a smaller image of a pony she recognised: none other than Spitfire, Chairmare of Equestrian Racing. ‘The wildcard’s a privilege,’ she was quoted as having said. ‘If you bring the sport into disrepute, you lose that privilege.’ Rainbow Dash didn’t have to read on. She set the paper aside. Raffia’s sobs became her sobs from long ago. She’d been there. She’d sat on a bench and cried at the unfairness of it all. Not that it was unfair. But did racers ever think they’d been treated right? Such was the world of peak performance – brutal, fickle, painful.

She patted Raffia on the shoulder. ‘Hey. It’s OK.’ Or maybe it wasn’t. What had he done? ‘What did you do?’ she asked. After a minute or so he managed to find a break in the tears to tell her.

‘Ignored a groundskeeper,’ he croaked. ‘Trespassed.’

Ah. Well, that wasn’t so bad. It was a sad situation because, for something relatively small, he’d lost a great opportunity. But at least he hadn’t been caught gambling or done for match fixing. They were the media’s favourites, for which they never let a pony off the hook. Rightly so, it was easy to say, but Rainbow Dash had sympathy for her own even when they were in the wrong. Racing was hard enough, and she knew how easily it could drive a pony to unsavoury coping mechanisms. ‘I know it feels terrible,’ she began, ‘but it’ll pass. And this isn’t the end. Just because you miss one doesn’t mean it’s over. You’ll be fine. Chin up and focus on getting ready for the next one.’

Raffia looked at her through swollen eyes as though she was the biggest idiot in the universe. ‘“The next one”?’ he hissed, snot dribbling down his snout. She understood. Youth – all or nothing, always. Either it was the greatest time in their lives, or it was the end of the world. She knew. She’d done it all before.

She patted him firmly. ‘There will be a next one. I know it’s tough. The Masters, the best tournament you’d have flown in. But the thing is you’ll get there again. Well, you will if you focus. Nothing changes. You get up, you get onto the course and you do your best. Do that, and you may even have a chance of getting an invitation proper next year.’

‘Next – year –’ gurgled Raffia. Now or never. Woe is me. It was good that Rainbow Dash knew how it was. She didn’t feel any pressure. This pony had a future in front of him. He wasn’t desperate or dying, just disappointed.

‘Chin up,’ she said again. ‘Look at me.’ Raffia’s eyes crept up to hers. They burned with sadness, pain and shame. In them she recalled herself. ‘You’ll be fine. Wipe your nose, and we’ll go and do some flying.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to fly anymore,’ he breathed. Rainbow Dash snorted. He glared at her, murderous. She sighed. He needed to hear the truth again. It was a firm method, a hard method, but she’d long since learned that it was the right method.

‘You aren’t feeling anything that a racer hasn’t felt before. I’ve been there; I’ve done it. I’ve moaned and cried. I’ve cursed and shouted. I’ve felt like giving up a hundred times.’

Raffia was shaking his head, stubborn, self-righteous. ‘You haven’t had your Master’s invitation taken away from you!’ he choked.

‘No, but I’ve watched my career get taken away from me,’ said Rainbow Dash. That quietened him down. ‘I’ve watched it slip away. Picture this, alright? You’re the best, the world number one. That should be easy enough for you. So, you’re on top of the world, and everypony wants to know you. What happens then? Where do you go from there? Sadly, there’s only one direction to go in from the top, and that’s down. You never want to believe that when you’re up there – and I don’t think you should believe it, because you need all the help you can get.’ She paused. ‘But one day you stumble. One day somepony else beats you to it. You fall, but it isn’t the end, and you pick yourself up. And all of a sudden your wings don’t work. And all of a sudden you’re struggling. And then you’re fighting yourself; you’re fighting against the tide, and you can’t stop it.’ She paused, wondering what to say next. ‘The final I raced against Lightning Dust – I should have won. She was coming through the ranks, and we all knew how good she was, or how good she was threatening to be. And there’s a time when, if there’s going to be a change of guard, if there’s going to be a raising of the bar –’ She worked her mouth. ‘I think Lightning Dust did that; she raised the bar. Somewhere down the line there’s that crucial race, and that was the one. That was the moment she took over my mantle, and I then became a worse racer because of it, and she became a stronger racer. But it wasn’t just her. I remember I went into the studio with Lightning Dust, and the interviewer asked me a few questions. And then, as a statement – rather than asking me the question – he said, “Well, the end of an era,” and turned to Lightning Dust. And I thought, “What a cheek! How dare you! How can you say that?”’ She stopped. ‘As it turned out, it was. Because I never won the World Championship again. Didn’t even get in the final again.’

She swallowed at the ghosts of old, powerful emotions. But they didn’t grip her as they had. Speaking about it, getting it out, all the time with Eggshell and with herself – it had blunted them. They still hurt, but they didn’t cut into her anymore. Raffia’s nose was still wet; his lips were still trembling. But his eyes had softened. His anger had passed. He was ready to accept, ready to move on. Rainbow Dash smiled. He was just a colt. She guided him to his hooves and gave him a little hug. To her surprise, he returned it, sniffling. She patted him on the back.

‘Come on,’ she said eventually. ‘Let’s sort those corners, eh? And don’t worry about the press,’ she added, struck suddenly by an idea. ‘There’s a way around them.’

Eggshell watched Rainbow Dash chatting animatedly to Buttons, whose production had improved since her previous visit. The three of them sat on comfy red chairs in a spacious, tastefully decorated room. Buttons looked the part, his mane immaculate, his manner cool and professional. It counterpointed perfectly Rainbow Dash’s enthusiasm and Raffia’s youth.

‘And what would you say to the ponies who have doubted you?’ Buttons asked Rainbow Dash, who waved a hoof.

‘I don’t know. Maybe they were right to doubt me. To be quite honest, I don’t really care, because it was never about proving anything to them. I wanted to enjoy flying again – and I did, don’t get me wrong. There’ll always be a place in my life for flying. But you have to take things as they come, and when I saw Raffia, I knew there was a great opportunity for the both of us,’ she finished.

‘Raffia, you’ve been quiet,’ said Buttons, smiling. Raffia smiled back at him. Eggshell smiled too. The change in that colt had been dramatic and most welcome, and it had startled him. But Rainbow Dash was an exceptional pony, and whatever they did, they always took you by surprise. ‘What do you think about this opportunity at this stage of your career?’

‘It’s great,’ said Raffia simply. ‘I’m very happy.’ He looked to Rainbow Dash, and she grinned at him. ‘I look forward to learning my craft, and I know that, in time, I’ll be able to show everypony a better side of me.’

‘Well said,’ said Buttons. ‘Rainbow Dash, Raffia – thanks for coming, and before we finish, let me ask you both the one question we always ask: where do you see yourselves in ten years’ time?’

‘In a care home,’ joked Rainbow Dash. Buttons and some of the crew laughed. ‘No, look – I don’t know. I hope that, whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it whole-heartedly. If I can do that, then I’ll be happy. But please do check with me in ten years!’ Grinning, Buttons turned to Raffia.

‘Raffia?’

Raffia paused. He looked Buttons in the eye. ‘I think I’ll have suffered more,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be stronger for it. I hope I’ll still be racing. But if I’m not –’ He shrugged.

‘Fillies and gentlecolts, thank you.’

Eggshell turned off the screen. He sat and pondered. He smiled – a strong, wholesome smile. He’d done his bit. Rainbow Dash didn’t need him anymore, and that was the best-case scenario for which he’d hoped. She was happy. She was excited. She was using her talents for good. Even if he never saw her again, the world was right. And, if she ever needed him to chip in, all she had to do was call.

After all, he owed her a coffee.

The train rattled along the tracks to Las Pegasus, and Raffia was on it, in a small, dingy cubicle, looking into the broken mirror at his reflection. The last few days had changed him. Even in the half-light, it was apparent on his face. His eyes were wider and more relaxed. His mouth was softer. Even his posture had changed. When you carried tension, it carried you – your thoughts, your movements, everything. This was the calmest he’d felt in ages, since he’d decided he loved racing. He wasn’t worried about a course or a corner or a dip or a rise. Missing out on the Masters still hurt, undoubtedly, but it wasn’t the end of the world. And, in a way, it was good pain, a just pain. After all the emotions – the hope and disappointment of the last week – it had become manageable because he knew, really, that he deserved it. It hurt, but he was over it enough to move on to the next stage of his career.

He had Rainbow Dash to thank for that. She’d given him time, knowledge and boundless enthusiasm. Now he was living a dream unlike any he’d anticipated. He’d always thought he would do everything alone, but after the two sessions they’d had together, he realised it was much easier working on yourself when you had a dedicated pony to help you – and more than just an expert, a friend. Anything he was worried about he could tell her, and she would be tactful, understanding and have a good answer, one born of hard experience. That extended beyond racing to life itself. That was why he was on his way to see his parents for the first time in a year, a year that felt like a lifetime. He had grown so much.

The truth was there were ponies out there who had suffered much more than he had, who had done much more than perhaps he ever would and who had lost more than he could imagine. He’d been so fixated on one thing, so determined to judge everypony by how fast they could fly, that he’d become unaware, oblivious, blind. After Buttons’ interview he felt smaller, more exposed, more vulnerable, but ready – ready to learn, ready to work, ready to improve. But also he felt excited because he still had everything that had made him believe he was brilliant. He was just as fast, just as strong in the air. This time he knew that, to be truly great, he had to do more, and he was going to do it as well as he could. If by the end of all his efforts he still wasn’t good enough, then it was fine. It would hurt, but he fancied he would be able to live with it. Because he would know he’d tried.

He blinked down at the raffia on his flank. Perhaps he knew at last what it meant. Success was healthy growth, a fulfilling life. It didn’t matter if that was as a racer, an interviewer or a janitor. Whatever he did, he had to do it with all his heart, to the best of his abilities. He grinned.

And he would forever be grateful to the chubby ex-champion who’d helped him see it.