"Trainer, what about me?"
"You do your usual dirt routine... actually, no. Watch Rice today. Cheer her on, if you can. It'll be a good learning experience for you."
"Got it!"
Seeing a G1 winner in her element was a better lesson than any lecture. Plus, I wanted to see how Rice responded to Urara's particular brand of "support."
"Alright. The distance is 3000 meters on turf—the same as the Kikuka-sho. Don't push yourself into an injury, but I want to see as close to your full power as you can give me. Ready?"
"Yes... understood."
Based on her history, Rice was a classic stayer—built for medium to long distances. She excelled as a "front-runner" (Senko), but I suspected she had more tools in her kit.
I raised my stopwatch, watching her take her position. She had no competition today, just the open air and the clock.
"Ready... and... GO!"
"—!"
Rice exploded off the line.
Unlike Urara, who struggled with the shifting texture of turf, Rice glided over it. Her start was crisp, her acceleration smooth and rhythmic.
"Whoaaa! Amazing! Rice-chan is so fast!"
"..."
Urara was hopping up and down, her tail wagging so hard it was a blur. Rice seemed to take notice; she leaned into the first corner with a visible increase in speed.
"Go, go, Rice-chan! Go, go, Rice-chan!"
Urara began a rhythmic clap above her head, still bouncing. Some people would find it distracting, but for me, it was a oddly calming background noise.
Rice's cornering was magnificent. She held a tight line, minimizing the outward centrifugal pull without sacrificing her momentum. She was shaving every possible centimeter off the distance.
I kept one eye on the stopwatch and the other on her form. Beside me, Urara was still cheering, but I had gone silent. My brow furrowed.
(She's fast. She's undeniably a champion... but...)
A seed of doubt began to grow. The way she was running now didn't match the girl I'd seen on the screen last night.
(Is she the type who needs a target? Does she only hit her peak when she's stalking someone like Mihono Bourbon? Or is she just having an off day?)
She was fast, yes. But that terrifying, "win-at-all-costs" aura—the predatory focus that had allowed her to overtake the favorite—was missing.
(She's probably just pacing herself since it's a trial... but her gait feels off.)
Her lap times were incredibly consistent, hitting each furlong with metronomic precision. The track here was flatter than the Kyoto Racecourse where she'd won the Kikuka-sho. Kyoto has the "Slope of Yodo," a grueling 4.3-meter incline at the third corner known as a heartbreaker. Without that obstacle, she should have been flying.
I clicked the watch as she crossed the 3000-meter mark. I stared at the numbers and felt my stomach drop.
(3:11.4... On this course?)
It wasn't a bad time. For a normal girl, it was elite. But Rice Shower had clocked a record-breaking 3:05.0 at the Kikuka-sho. She was over six seconds slower on an easier track.
(Is it her condition? Her form looks... messy.)
It wasn't "bad" form, per se. To the untrained eye, she looked perfect. But as I watched her, I saw a subtle asymmetry. In the final stretch of the Kikuka-sho, she had been running with every ounce of her soul, so a breakdown in form was expected. But to have a distorted gait during a practice run was a recipe for catastrophe.
"Haa... haa... H-how was it?"
Rice approached, breathing heavily. Even for a stayer, a 3000-meter sprint is a massive tax on the system.
"That was so cool, Rice-chan! You were like a rocket!"
"T-thank you, Urara-chan. I think... I think I ran faster because you were cheering."
Urara threw herself into a hug. Rice looked surprised but held onto her. It was a heartwarming scene, but I was focused entirely on Rice's legs.
"Rice, how do you feel? Anything feel tight or strange?"
"Eh? I feel... normal, I think. Trainer, how was my time?"
"It wasn't bad... but it wasn't good, either."
I showed her the stopwatch. Her eyes widened in shock.
"Oh... you're right. I-I promise, I wasn't slacking off!"
She immediately flattened her ears and looked at the ground, as if expecting a scolding. I felt a twinge of guilt—did I really look that scary? I forced a small, reassuring smile.