My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [21]
“Peter,” I said, “you’re not going to believe it. We’re going to have to have our shit together—I’m going out first.”
“Far out,” Kelly said.
Mowry refused to believe the news at first, but then he became excited. Going out first virtually guaranteed our team would beat the mob to Skwentna, the Coach reasoned, providing me with a tremendous advantage.
CHAPTER 3
Leader of the Pack
I’d snatched barely two hours of rest before Peter Kelly and his friends showed up at Cyndi’s on race day. Kelly was impressed that I got any sleep at all. It was 4 A.M., but I didn’t feel tired. The Day was here.
I took advantage of the hour-long drive to interrogate Kelly about the trail. He listened to me ramble for a while, then passed me a cup of coffee laced with a strong shot of Kahlua.
“You need to settle down, man.”
We arrived at Iditarod’s staging area about 5:30 A.M. One of the 225 volunteers assisting with the start checked off my name and directed us to the front of the parking lot. After a wait of about 20 minutes, we were waved through a corridor of downtown streets to Fourth Avenue. Parking spots were assigned in reverse starting order, providing handlers with an easy exit route. Our space was located at the far end of the closed avenue, four and a half blocks from the starting line. “A long, long, long way,” decided Nancy Marti, as she surveyed the scene. Nancy dreaded the moment when she and my other handlers would begin shepherding the team toward the distant countdown area.
Kelly noticed that the stars were exceptionally bright. It was crisp and cool in the predawn hours, a good morning to be mushing. He removed dogs from the truck, one at a time, and fastened Iditarod’s team ID tags on their collars, a ritual that brought back memories of his own grand departures. In his two Iditarod starts, Kelly had relied on cues from the mushers nearby. He watched to see if they thought snow conditions warranted booties. The movements of teams ahead of his signaled it was time to harness the dogs.
Today was different. “Everybody is keying off us,” Peter realized with a shudder.
We positioned the sled and uncoiled the team’s gang line. The length needed for 17 dogs was staggering. Each pair of dogs extended the line another 8 feet in front of my sled. The leaders, Rainy and Rat, would be almost 80 feet ahead of me. Turns were going to be real interesting.
My family soon turned up, as did Eric Troyer, News-Miner managing editor Dan Joling, and a growing swarm of friends and spectators. Rigging chains around the truck, we brought the dogs out for good. I posted the volunteers at strategic places, ready to intervene if fights broke out. “Your basic midmanagement job,” Joling said.
At 8 A.M., with 62 minutes to go, the sun was high and bright. Crowds were building along the barricades. A crew of veterinarians examined the dogs, but found nothing amiss. Jim Kershner was next. The race marshal inspected my sled for required gear, including a bundle of U.S. mail to be delivered in Nome, a tribute to the mail carriers who served Alaska by dog team as late as the 1940s. Finding my snowshoes, booties, axe, sleeping bag, and the mail packet were in order, Kershner wished me luck.
With 45 minutes to go, we harnessed the dogs, rechaining them outside the truck. Aunt Margo was stalking me with a videocam and a newspaper map. Where should she stand to get the best pictures?
“I haven’t got a clue,” I snapped. “I’m just following the damn arrows.”
News photographers and video crews shadowed my movements. This rookie’s lucky draw couldn’t have been scripted better.
“I’ll be leading the Last Great Race, and not many people can say that,” I said over and over.
Another reporter asked how long I expected to stay out in front of the pack.
“For three or four blocks.”
Thirty minutes