My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [24]
“That was a rush!” he said, chuckling as he dusted himself off. “You dragged my ass a long way.”
Coleman strapped the headlamp back on his hat before we continued, but the light slipped free. He was too nervous to let go of the sled and reach for it, so the headlamp dangled, still lit, from the end of its power cord.
As they stood and watched, Bonnie and Blaine couldn’t see much beyond the two lights steadily moving across the open field. The lamp in front moved smoothly away, floating several feet above the dark line of dogs. But the trailing headlamp, the one Bonnie knew was strapped to Coleman’s forehead, continued bouncing on what had to be the hard, icy ground. Bonnie was horrified by that awful dancing light; she pictured her husband’s head being battered to a pulp. Blaine bellowed with laughter.
After the lights were swallowed by a line of trees, Bonnie was nearly overcome with dread and grief. Coleman had only recently gotten over pneumonia. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, Bonnie knew that her husband was still weak. What kind of insanity had brought her here, to Alaska, to this dismal edge of known creation, to watch him dragged to his death? Bonnie hugged her stomach, swollen with the pregnancy. To think that she had wanted that dogsled ride. She felt tears coming as she imagined having to explain Coleman’s death to Sarah and Devin, the children they left at home. She and Blaine drove back to Cyndi’s. The waiting was just too awful to bear.
Coleman and I took the dogs on a ten-mile loop. After the rough start, Coleman remained tense for several miles, expecting the sled to flip again. Nothing bad happened, and he finally relaxed, leaning into the corners and having fun. Riding a sled was like getting your sea legs, he concluded.
Coleman put on a show for the crowds lining Anchorage’s Cordova Street. He was dragged, facedown, for about a hundred yards, then righted the sled with a twist and pulled himself aboard the runners. He was riding the brake with one knee when he noticed a pedestrian running alongside.
“I’ve got your hat! I’ve got your hat!” cried the sprinter. The man had snatched the hat from the snow and dashed after us. He had chased the team three blocks before Coleman heard his cries. With his sled righted, we were pulling away. The man made a last desperate throw with the hat. It fell short.
Unbeknownst to us, Daily News photographer Fran Durner caught the incident with a telephoto lens. Safely ensconced in his hotel bed the morning after the start, Coleman was awakened by Bonnie’s shrieks. Somebody had slipped a copy of the paper under the door. The back page was illustrated with a six-inch-square color photo. It showed me shouting at my brother as he belly-surfed through downtown Anchorage.
That first morning I didn’t expect my two-minute, lead would hold up long. Team number 3 was driven by Brian Stafford, who had dusted us in the Klondike.
“We got company,” Coleman shouted, as Stafford’s dogs began closing in on us. We held him off for a few more blocks. But he was coming on strong as the trail shifted to a bike path and continued on into the woods.
A short tunnel gave me the edge. Rainy and Rat sailed through it. Stafford’s leaders threw on the brakes. I pulled away as he sorted out a tangle. Fifteen minutes past the starting line, the lead in Redington’s Last Great Race remained mine. All mine.
Minutes later, Barve’s team appeared from behind. I had to hand it to the veteran. We were approaching the exact spot he described at the banquet.
“Stop your team. Now,” he cried, pulling alongside.
I braked. The Iditarod had a new leader. But, it had been fun while it lasted.
Beginner’s luck had run its course. Seconds later, rounding an easy turn into the woods, Gnat dodged the wrong way around a tree.