Blur of Lightning: The Cheri Cup!

Blur of Lightning:
The Cheri Cup!

They had been training for months now. First for simple things, like simply getting Norman to accept the bit between his teeth and the saddle on his back. Next came some hasty lessons in how to ride for Desdemon, who aside from known a Zebstrika’s head from its tail didn’t know much about how to actually direct one from the saddle. The first few weeks were rough. Not knowing what he was doing meant the Chandelure had taken quite a few tumbles into the dirt and the mud. Luckily, he had a fast learning curve.

Now they regularly rode around the perimeter of the ranch, checking the fences, watching the livestock, even having pretend races with the wind as their opponent to build up Norman’s speed and endurance. The pond had been expanded to accommodate his broader physique and the Zebstrika still enjoyed swimming about in it to build extra muscle. His shoulders and haunches rippled with power now, and only some of it came from the electricity surging in his blood.

Last year, the stallion had still been a Blitzle recovering from a severe bout of colic. This year, he could race shoulder to shoulder with the best of them. And Desdemon couldn’t be more proud! They were as ready as they would ever be for the Cheri Cup.

Shifting slightly in the saddle, the slender man reached down to pat his mount’s neck with a gloved hand. “Easy, boy,” he murmured as Norman snorted and stomped his hooves. The stallion didn’t much like waiting for others. “Only a little bit longer now.” Already he could see a Porygon Z readying his Dodrio with a custom bridle, the configuration of which gave Desdemon a headache. To the side sat a Sawsbuck woman atop a gigantic male Bouffalant who kept giving all the other mounts challenging glares. “Looks like we may need to watch out for that one,” the former butler decided with a frown. Hadn’t they won this race one year?

Soon more and more adult mounts began to turn up. A Lanturn lady seemed rather frustrated with her giant Shellos mount, which seemed intent on sticking fast to the side of a giant oak tree. The slender man chuckled at the sight.

Harvey, a well-renowned Ponyta breeder, entered the race with a Rapidash as expected. Though… were those gray and blue flames? The Chandelure couldn’t tell from this distance. “Interesting…”

Desdmon’s eyes widened in surprise afterwards as he spotted Draco Pyralis striding over to the starting line on a gorgeous Sawsbuck, the Charizard looking rather uncomfortable in the saddle. Last time he’d spoken to those two, Xy had still been a Deerling. “If Xy just evolved,” he thought aloud, “It’s no wonder the poor man is uncertain with his riding.”

Sending the two luck and well-wishes, Desdemon urged Norman forward to the starting post as the announcer called all entries up. Rider and mount settled into calm lull, the Zebstrika ceasing his pawing and standing stock still behind the line, anticipation coiling in his chest and energy wound tight along his spine.

This was it.

The buzzer sounded between one heartbeat and the next.

“AAAAANNNND THEY’RE OFF!”

Desdemon barely heard the announcer over the pounding of the various hooves, legs, and slippery appendages as they carried mounts and riders across the dirt. The amount of dust kicked up was incredible! He wondered briefly, as he eased Norman through a break in the pack to avoid the worst of the cloud, if anyone in the audience could even see the racers.

Within the first few minutes it became clear who the inexperienced riders were. Those whose mounts would speed up then slow down, their owners unsure of what directions they were giving through the reins. Those who burst to the front in the hopes of getting far ahead of everyone else but simply tired themselves out. Those who had not built up their endurance and burned out, dropping further and further behind in the rankings. Those who had never raced among others before and were terrified of the dirt being flung in their faces, of the cacophony of sounds, and allowed themselves to be boxed in and stuck.

And predictably there were a few mounts that stopped halfway through to simply nibble on the grass on the side of the track. “Seems they haven’t outgrown their Sprout Cup stage,” Desdemon chuckled.

The seasoned mounts were amazing to look upon. Trained well and ready to listen to their rider’s words at a moment’s notice, these racers reserved their energy, waited for the right moments to slip in between two jockeys battling for position and rush past them. These were the ones that the slender man and Norman planned to beat.

The Chandelure and his stallion were content to race in sixth place for the time being. The Zebstrika’s hooves flew over the track, lungs working easily despite the exertion. Excess energy was stored for later, when it would be most needed, right before the home stretch. They had practiced this time and time again on the ranch, on the makeshift track Desdemon built.

“Almost there,” the man whispered as he held his horse back. “Not yet… not yet…”

Slowly, they began to make their way up. First a nose nudged its way ahead of fifth place. Then, thundering strides blazed past fourth up to third, whose rider stared at them incredulously as they raced past in a blur of motion. Running neck and neck with second place proved more difficult. This pair clearly had experience, rider and mount moving seamlessly as one.

That is when Desdemon let Norman have his head.

Crouching low, he pressed himself against the stallion and leaned forward to urge him on. The Zebstrika needed no further encouragement. He advanced in an explosion of speed, strides lengthening and hindquarters straining as they propelled him. He edged his head before second place, then his chest, and with a snort of defiance pushed past to battle toe- to- toe with first.

Desdemon smirked and murmured, “Let’s show them how fast lightning really is, darling…”

THE END