Information

Straightaway has a minion!

Lead Pony the Bonnie

Straightaway
Legacy Name: Straightaway

The

Nostalgic Legeica
Owner:

Torrie

Age: 11 years, 3 months, 2 weeks

Born: January 20th, 2013

Adopted: 11 years, 3 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: January 20th, 2013

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 10
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 1
Books Read: 1
Food Eaten: 1
Job: Stock Worker

"The dirt is dry and fast on this b-e-a-utiful day! And heeeere's the call to the track!"

The announcer cuts his feed as a lone horn sounds in the muggy June air. Slowly, almost carefully, the race horses and their lead ponies begin pouring out, the jockeys taking great care to help their horses conserve their energy. Number 8 was the last to emerge, the only gray stallion in a field of roans and the occasional bay, seemingly uninterested in the race itself, but eagerly flicking his ears in the direction of the ecstatic crowds. His lead pony was also an oddity, a filly with fur that was a stark white, and seemed to gleam amidst the other muddy colors. Together the odd pair followed behind the rest, as the announcer read off the numbers, jockeys, and the designated racing name of each Thoroughbred.

As each pair of horse and jockey peeled away from their lead ponies, Number 8’s own rider took a moment to beam an excited smile towards the crowds before guiding his steel gray steed into the racing gate. Crossing the threshold, Number 8’s attention pulls away from the crowd, his ears shifted to the empty race track ahead as he leans much of his weight against the closed doors behind. His trainers liked to joke that in that the horse was reclining, as if he were on some retreat, instead of a racetrack. In that moment, the calm before the storm, both horse and rider settled their nerves and coiled their muscles in anticipation of release.

RRRRRIIIIIINNNNNGGG!!

The front gates slam open, and Number 8 pours himself forward, making a clean break. His gate position pushes him to the back of the pack, as the early sprinters surge to the front and set the pace. Number 8's jockey searches for holes in the horses as they round the first turn, and guides the stallion through the largest and safest of them. He pulls away a layer of thin, plastic goggles as they become caked with dust, and takes a few precious seconds readjusting his rhythm.

The crowds roar loudly as the horses round the final turn, waving fistfuls of betting slips and pocket golf pencils. Number 8 charges down the final few furlongs, his jockey feverishly brandishing a leather wrapped riding crop. A hot-headed bay is on his heels, only a neck or so behind, and is notorious for being a closer--something he was eager to prove. Number 8 is also considered a closer, a damn good one at that, and fightst for every inch he can take from the rest of the pack. His steel gray coat, a rarity in winning racers, and white socks are speckled with dust and dirt from the early minutes of the race. The finish pole, polished white with thick black lettering announcing it's purpose, looms ever larger and if Number 8's jockey could have unclenched his teeth, he would have smiled. Together they charged across the finish line, as cameras flash and the announcer croons, confirming their win.

"And it's Number 8, Straightaway with the win! Straightaway has taken the Triple Crown!"

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