My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [118]
“No. No. No,” I said, wearily. “You’ve got it all wrong. I did everything I could to dodge that bullet for seven hundred miles.”
With great solemnity, Leo, the old Nome checker, presented each of us with an Iditarod patch, an official finisher’s belt buckle, and a check for $1,000, which was given to every musher to complete the race that year. I’d counted on that money to get us home.
After formally accepting the Red Lantern from Leo, I briefly talked about the setbacks that had sealed my fate. Daily caught the frustration in my voice as I described the mutiny at the dump, but even he, our convoy’s sensitive soul, laughed so hard tears dripped from his chin.
Decked out like a banker in suit, vest, and tie, Swennie took a front-row House gallery seat in Alaska’s state capitol. An excited buzz spread through the chamber. Lawmakers swiveled in their chairs to get a look at the master musher in the flesh.
At last, the anticipated moment arrived. The representative whose district included Two Rivers rose and read into the record a citation celebrating my neighbor’s come-from-behind victory and his reaffirmed status as Iditarod’s all-time champion.
After the hurrahs subsided, Swenson said a few polite words. The champ was in good form on this, Rick Swenson Day.
I was seated at the press bench immediately in front of the gallery. Swennie stuck around after the citation, wearing a thoughtful expression as he watched his government at work. After a while he leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder.
“You sit through this bullshit all day long?” whispered the champ.
Later a reception was held for Swenson at the governor’s mansion. With Gov. Wally Hickel out of town, it seemed natural to find Iditarod’s all-time champion playing lord of the big white house. Amused by our first and last combo, others in attendance put Swenson and me together for a picture. I gave someone my camera to get a shot, but my flash batteries were dead. The misfire summed up my life.
The champ was being chummy. “I wouldn’t know myself—because I’ve never been there,” he said, “but I’ve always heard it’s tough on you guys in the back. How long did it take you?”
“Over twenty-two days, nearly twice as long as you.”
“Well then, you’ll have twice as much to write about, won’t you?”
The snow had melted, even in Fairbanks, by the time the lawmakers and I headed home. Howls sounded as soon as I pulled into the Deadline Dog Farm’s driveway. Out in the lot, the dogs greeted me like a lost brother. Licks all around.
The reception demonstrated, once and for all, that I hadn’t lost anything important. I wanted to mush the Iditarod Trail, and I had. I dreamed of starting first, and that had come true. The rest? Well …
In the kitchen that night, I unveiled my new plan to Mowry.
“I want to put up a sign by the end of the driveway,” I said, nodding toward the glittering memento on our bookshelf. “A sign saying ‘Home of the Red Lantern.’”
“Over my dead body, O’Donoghue.”
Someone shakes my shoulder. “Get up! Get up!” the man says, an Inupiat accent coloring his voice. “You told me to wake you.”
Wind howls outside the steamy-warm cabin. My body is stiff, wooden. I’m so tired I could cry. Where the hell am I?
“It’s time to go,” the man insists. “The next checkpoint isn’t far.”
Another checkpoint? What? That makes no sense. “The race is over,” I cry.
Searching my clothes for proof, I find the buckle and the patch. “See,” I say, showing them to the man. “I already made it to Nome.”
The checker, faceless, shakes his head. “Your dogs are waiting,” he says.
Wind rattles the cabin walls. A strong aroma of coffee tickles my nose. I sigh, not understanding, but accepting. Time to go.
That’s when I awake, drenched in sweat.
For months after the race, the nightmare replays almost nightly. Each time I’m victimized by my own conditioned response: Rainy and the team need me. I can’t let the dogs down.
1991 IDITAROD ORDER OF FINISH
1. Rick Swenson: 12 days, 16 hours, 34 minutes, 39 seconds
2. Martin Buser 12:18:41:49
3. Susan