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,
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 to go. My handlers began assembling the team. I directed the placement of each dog, working from a chart scrawled on a legal pad. From front to back, the lineup called for Rat and Rainy in lead; followed by Cricket and Raven; Screech and Daphne; Chad and Scar; Denali and Pig; Spook and Digger; Bo, Skidders, and Harley; with Cyrus and Gnat in wheel. Bo, our kennel scrapper, got a solo spot to ensure that the Iditarod’s live telecast didn’t begin with blood spilled in the snow.
Twenty minutes left. Handlers and several Iditarod volunteers assumed positions along the gang line. Troyer knelt in front, calming the leaders. Digger madly shoveled snow with his front paws. Spook uttered his keening wail. Other dogs whined anxiously or jerked on the gang line.
Joling was assigned to the ballerinas, Raven and Cricket. “Approximately ninety pounds of yelping fury,” he called the pair.
I left Cyrus chained to the truck until the very last second, a slight that drove him insane with worry. He whined. He stood on his hind legs pawing the air. Other dogs were going someplace. Why not him? Why not him?
I remembered the day Rattles had brought over the young black-and-white dog for a tryout.
“This is Cyrus. He’s a Rum dog, a Rummm dog,” said Rattles, chanting the phrase like a mantra.
We had been hearing tales of the late great Rum for months. Rum was merely the leader immortalized, according to Rattles, in the Quest’s official sled-dog logo. His bloodline was marked by distinctive barrel-chested dogs with pointy snouts.
Barely two years old, Cyrus was Rum’s grandson. Like his proud owner, the pup was painfully loud. The dog whined day and night and whooped for joy when Rattles’s pickup entered our driveway. At 50 pounds, the big lunk was prone to knocking food pans out of my hands and chewing anything within reach.
“Jesus, Rattles, has that dog even been harness-broken?” Mowry said after wrestling Cyrus into the team for the first time.
“He’s a Rum dog,” Rattles replied, as if no other answer was needed.
Mowry tested the dog during the week I was away on the Klondike.
The Coach began cautiously, taking Cyrus on a 15-mile run. The young dog was hardly panting when he returned. So Mowry ventured to try him on 30-milers, several days in a row, then 3 5, then 50 miles.
“I can’t tire that dog out,” the Coach said when I got back, for once truly impressed.
Today I had a special slot reserved for Cyrus. He’d be leaving town paired with Gnat in wheel position, which locked them down directly in front of the sled. Rattles’s pup was too wild to trust anyplace else, and I wanted Gnat where I could keep him under close watch.
It was time.
Coleman stood ready on the back sled. “Let’s go!” I shouted, pulling the rope. Feeling give in the gang line, the dogs plunged ahead. Clawing and straining they dragged the sleds and handlers forward. My handlers skidded and struggled to keep their footing in the mushy snow, which had been trucked in to Anchorage and dumped on the barren street for the occasion.
“Like walking through a big pile of cornmeal,” Troyer told himself. He glimpsed Butcher directing a swarm of handlers attired in matching suits. Passing by Redington, Swenson, and other famous drivers preparing for their own approaching departure, Troyer noted similarities to the pits at the Indianapolis 500. He was amused at the thought of his former Yellow Press bowling partner competing against these legends of the sport.
I didn’t notice any of that. My eyes were fixed straight ahead where I couldn’t see through the crowds blocking the street. But the sea of parkas, cameras, and barking dogs kept parting mere yards ahead of our advance, as ranks of race volunteers screamed for people to clear the way.
Officials halted us a few doors down from the Iditarod starting-line banner, which was fluttering grandly above the avenue. After a brief pause marking the late Doc Lombard’s honorary departure, my team was waved into the chute. A crew of burly guys grabbed my sled. An announcer boomed out my name, giving a brief biography. I walked up the length of the team, petting each dog and talking to him or her for a second. Cricket’s ears drooped. The commotion had her cowed. But looking at me she shyly wagged her tail.
“Five,” the voice boomed. “Four. Three. Two …”
The howls ceased. Noses dipped toward the snow. Tug lines snapped taut as my 17-dog team bent to business, effortlessly yanking our two sleds forward. Loosely fastened booties flew from the paws up front. I briefly scowled, conscious that I faced a booty shortage, but the regret was soon overwhelmed by the thunderous cheers greeting my team.
Pumping my right fist at the sky, I mushed the dogs down the center of Fourth Avenue, savoring my moment as front-runner on the Iditarod Trail. Butcher, Swenson, Runyan, Buser, and King — all the name mushers were chasing me out of Anchorage today.
The start was broadcast live across Alaska. Watching at a friend’s house in Two Rivers, Rattles leaped to his feet as the camera zoomed in on a manic dog in the rear of my team.
“That’s CYRUS! That’s CYRUS! CYRUS!” the Rattler shouted. “He’s going to Nome!”
