Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. I tried my best to ignore the relentless ads, but they were well, relentless. Go to the theater? “In the news, the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon promises to be the greatest event in history, bringing. . .” Read the paper? “Cash prizes will be provided to anyone who finishes. . .” Watch television? “Now a word from our sponsor, Mr. Grenfell and his wonderful race around the world! Have you ever dreamed of. . .” Go to a play?

> PRINCE:

> “A glooming peace this morning with it brings;

> “The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:

> “Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

> “Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:

> “For never was a story of more woe

> “Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

>

> CAPULET:

> "May they be pardon’d first, and forgiven;

> “For how could their eyes have seen;

> “That every last of their wishes could be granted anon;

> “If they but won the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon.”

Luckily for the actors, Romeo et. al was hardly Shakespeare's best work; frankly, it's his worst. I was only even there to mock the people going to the most mainstream Shakespearean play and still not being capable of understanding the words. As if I could understand that nonsense without help. If it had been Hamlet, though, the theater and the actors within would not be standing today. Over the course of several months, I had unwillingly learned everything about the stupid marathon, but only one point interested me, the promise of a wish. I am a skeptic at heart, so I waited for proof to surface, and surprisingly, it did. Wishes were granted to a trio of randomly chosen volunteers. I watched the televised wish-granting hundreds of times, and through that research and some divination, I discovered that the wishes were truly granted to truly random people. Grenfell was legit. Well, as legit as a stranger claiming to have magical abilities could be.

It took a few days for me to fully decide on it, but in the end, I found myself in the Bonneville Salt Flats. If I couldn’t learn about magic at home, then Grenfell’s wish, or he himself, would have to suffice.

I signed in one hour before the race and was left to find my own starting position. There wasn’t a strict grid for starting positions, you only had to be behind the starting line, so I tried to find a good shady place for Zippy before the race started. There was obviously little in the way of shade in the salt flats, but I quickly noticed a plane towering over the cars dotted around it. I made my way towards it and let Zippy rest in the shadow of the plane’s wing.

Half an hour of meditation passed and ended when a woman spoke to me about where my teammate was, “He’s right here,” I said, patting my horse for emphasis.

The woman sighed, “Any mode of transportation is allowed, but animals cannot count as a teammate. You need a human partner.”

“What? I read the rules, and it only said that I needed a teammate, not a human teammate.”

She sighed again, considering how often she did it, she was either an expert or a hobbyist, “It was implied. Heavily implied. If you can’t find a partner in-”

I cut her off, I already knew what she was going to say, “Just sign me to be partnered with the next person without a team, and please, do it quickly, I have to make sure my horse is ready to run.” It didn’t matter how much dead weight my partner was, I would be more than capable of carrying them on my back.

The woman left with a final showcase of her favored action, and I started brushing Zippy. Less than a minute passed before a stranger interrupted me, “I’m Nerio, your new teammate.” I responded in turn and held out my hand.

“France?” He responded and extended his arm. I tried to initiate the handshake, but he had brought out the wrong arm. I had extended my right, and he his left.

Really? He’s going to do this stupid power move to make me change my hand when he’s the one who sent out the wrong one?

I looked at our mismatched arms, then at him. I needed to make it as obvious as possible that I knew what game he wanted to play and that I was not going to play it, so after a moment I looked at his right arm. All I could see was the empty sleeve of his jacket. We shook left hands.

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“Actually, I’m from Australia. The French name is just a. . . thing,” I said, desperately trying to alleviate the tension I had made without admitting my mistake with an apology, “You?”

“Greece,” He was certainly good at moving on.

“Huh, I thought that name was Italian,” I said as I glanced to the sky. Judging from the position of the Sun it was 11:58, “We’ve got two minutes left, get on.”

“I was going to say the same thing,” He pointed to a motorcycle behind him.

Could you even steer a motorcycle with one arm?

I laughed, perhaps more than I should, and pointed out the obvious flaws with his vehicle. It could only last as long as he had gas, and he had brought no extra gas.

He marched back to his vehicle and said, “If you said that about any other bike, I’d agree with you, but mine is different. Your horse on the other hand. . . It may not need gas, but a horse just cannot compete with a machine, no matter how good the rider is.”

I am going to love every second of proving you wrong, no matter how right you should be.

I mounted my horse to hide the smile I was certain had appeared. Despite being a minute away from destroying his worldview, I couldn’t wait to begin, “If you said that about any other horse, I’d agree with you, but we are different.”

A shadow covered drifted over me and my horse. Looking up, I saw a grey shape floating in the sky. I had heard that someone was going to use a zeppelin in the race, but I thought it was hyperbole. From where I was, it looked tiny, but the vessel was still a quarter-mile long and just silently floating as if it could just ignore gravity. Truly the closest they ever got to true magic.

A voice filled the canyon and brought my admiration to an end. The race had started. The ground came alive as hundreds of thousands of cars screamed to action and fought for dominance. I could barely see beyond my horse due to the dust kicked up by millions of tires. I urged my horse on, and as expected I quickly fell behind the other vehicles, but it was only temporary. I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow, placed it upon my horse’s back, and placed both my hands above it.

Arcana fourteen: Enhancement, speed and endurance.

Aided by my magic, Zippy launched through the dust cloud and past the sea of vehicles spread out before me. A moment later I broke through the ocean of dust and saw the open world before me; however, I couldn’t appreciate the scenery as both ground and sky became a blur. I had already traveled ten miles, and Zippy was beginning to tire. I placed the index and middle fingers of both my hands on either side of my horse.

Arcana thirteen: Revitalization.

The horse's breathing calmed, and he resumed his speed. I looked at the people behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of my teammate trailing behind.

I won’t see him, probably because he is losing ground right this second. I can’t go too far ahead though, I still need to pick him up when he realizes my horse is leagues above whatever assembly-line trash he’s riding.

Despite my negative thoughts towards his vehicle’s ability to compete, I saw him just fine. Not only had he broken ahead of the pack, but he had also caught up to me to the point that I could see his empty sleeve flapping in the wind, a triumphant standard declaring his victory over all those behind him, and his desire to add me to the long list. Seeing that he was clearly no relative of mine, he shouldn’t have any magic within him. That meant that his speed was purely mechanical.

I drew a circle on my palm and faced it into the wind.

Arcana three: Communication.

The wind told me that I was going ninety-four miles per hour, yet he was still gaining on me.

Nothing should be able to compete with the arcane except the arcane. Yet. . .

To say that this stranger being able to effortlessly keep up with the world’s greatest magician hurt my pride would be completely ignoring just how much it pissed me off. I pushed my horse a little harder (and used the thirteenth arcana again just to be sure). The wind said I was topping one-hundred thirty miles per hour, well beyond what any ordinary motorcycle could go even temporarily. This speed was unsustainable, but I only needed to keep it up until I reached the edge of the salt flats; I only needed to keep it up until I proved him inferior. I glanced behind myself to see his shrinking form, except it was growing.

Just how powerful is his damn motorcycle?

The current record for a two-wheeled vehicle is barely any faster than what we’re going, and that bike had a shell built around it. A vehicle that can cut through the air like that at that speed without such a shell is impossible, even less so one that can be driven with one arm. The easy explanation is magic, but I’m the only one on the planet. At least, the only one of consequence. So, who is he that has that impossible machine that can rival the very forces of. . . whatever forces drive magic?

He is Nerio Pinkerton, and this race is how he regained his humanity.