The Race Site
Day One Start - Full of Hope
"C'mon they're gettin' away"
Day One Finish - After Many Leader Combinations
Day Two Finish - Where Once There Were Eight...
Another Long Story
I sometimes think we have almost as many adventures getting to a race as we do actually taking part in the race - Stratford was no exception. Put on by the North Country Mushers and fully supported by the Stratford Nighthawks Snowmobile Club, the Stratford race takes place in eastern Vermont on the edge of the White Mountains; a mere two provinces and three states away.
I had figured that it was going to take about 12 hours to get from home to the race site and so decided to take most of the Friday off work and set off from Shubenacadie at around midday. Because Louise couldn't get the time off work we decided I would go to the race on my own. This is me who wouldn't have ever considered taking a three dog team to a sprint race in the UK on my own and here I was heading off across North America with eight dogs, one sled and one very suspect van; oh well at least the weather was good - in Nova Scotia. Having formulated and executed my plan with my usual military precision I finally got on the road at 1500, only three hours later than scheduled. Never mind I figured that if I put my foot down, with a bit of good fortune and taking into account that I would be crossing a time zone then I could still be in
Vermont by 0100 on Saturday morning - plenty of time to catch a nap before the race. In fact once on the road all was going well until hunger/greed took over and I decided to stop for some food at around 2000 well into the US but still not yet past Bangor.
Having grabbed a quick burger, and having refueled the van, the guy behind the counter at the gas station pointed out that it had started to snow and the signs looked ominous. I looked out of the window at a few flakes fluttering down and dismissed it in my own mind as a minor flurry at best/worst. Besides the roads were good and clear - what was there possibly to worry about? And I was right of course, as long as I stayed on the Interstate, and provided the snow remained as a minor squall there truly was nothing to worry about. Five minutes later I turned off the Interstate onto Highway 2 in order to cut west across Maine and drove straight into a blizzard.
It may just be my perception borne out of desperation but to my mind the further I got from Bangor then the more isolated the Highway became and the greater the build up of snow on the road. As my speed dropped away (sounds like a description of one of my races) and the conditions became more treacherous I encountered joy riders hell bent on running everyone else off the road (it did amuse me when I passed them later in the process of being invited into the back of a police car), limped passed huge 18 wheelers stranded on the sides of hills and then as some imaginary clock replaced the voices inside my head in order to strike 2 am, and I figured that I was still nowhere near Stratford, exhaustion
began to sweep over me; I decided I had better find somewhere to stop.
Endowed with Shylock like qualities I was loathed to pull into a hotel or motel at this time of night and pay exhorbitant fees for what would be just a couple of hours sleep. Besides which we were becoming masters of sleeping in the van by the side of the road, I had even worked out a body contortion technique that almost allowed me to crawl into the van's heating duct to extract that last little bit of heat from the idling engine. All I needed to do was find some lay by to stop in for a few hours.
Deserted this road certainly was, deserted of suitable places to stop and sleep - cheaply. And so it was that the flashing neon lights, the sign of a quality motel, drew me off the highway and into a semi-deserted parking lot. I (sh)ambled into the reception and straight into the middle of a debate between the receptionist who, it soon became abundantly clear, was new to this line of work, and a ne'er-do-well who looked no older than 16, claimed to have a girlfriend sat out in the car waiting for him and who was doing his best to secure a room for a couple of hours without
eating into too much of his allowance. The ne'er-do-well threw me a glance and then continued to try to convince the receptionist that he had a special arrangement with the motel's owner thus securing cheap rates on a Friday night. By now I was truly exhausted, had god knows how many miles still to travel and a 30 mile race to take part in in just over 6 hours - I needed to get to bed. As the receptionist finished cursing at the computer the young lout looked past me and out into the car park at our UK assembled van.
"Nice rig man" he drawled (good grief I am starting to sound like an aging Walter Matthau character)
"Is the steering wheel on the wrong side?" - I sighed in the affirmative too tired to argue that I was in fact quite happy with its current location.
"You'll not be from round here then?" - I responded in the negative.
"Where are you from then?"
"Canada" - a mere half truth and easier than a full explanation/geography lesson - it was too late for that.
"I thought so, you don't sound American! What you doing this far from home?" (Since being in North America I have been mistaken for a Canadian, an Australian, a German and a Frenchman (go figure that one mes amis) but very rarely am I mistaken for a Brit - it must be the whole Empire denial thing:)
"I am dog sledding" - I prepared myself for the usual questions.
"Really? Where at?"
"Stratford. Do you know if I have much further to travel?"
"Dog sledding, wow." And then he paused for just a bit too long "I used to dog sled" he quite patently lied whilst still ignoring my question.
"Oh did you?" I sighed
"Yea. You heard of the Iditarod?" Ne'er-do replied
"Vaguely" now I lied
"I took part in the Junior Iditarod one year"
"Really"
"Oh yea, I was third"
Had this guy been Pinocchio (and believe me looking at him it could easily be claimed that his father's genes had created at the very least a
muppet), his nose would at that point have been entering New Hampshire under its own volition. I feigned interest and nodded my head hoping his attention span was not that good and he would soon lose his chain of thought and leave me alone. Fortunately before he could push back the boundaries of credibility or reality any further the receptionist's computer burst back into life.
"OK your room is booked, come back and see the owner in the morning to settle your bill"
"Fantastic, see you round man" and with a nod in my direction the lying lothario stepped out of my life as quickly and insignificantly as he
had come in to it.
Once the receptionist and I had collectively established that rooms were still available (and at military rates - I am after all a miser to the core), that the car park was secure and secluded and that I had no intention of bringing any dogs into my room (there is undoubtedly a motel joke there but I reserve the right not to pursue it) I enquired as to whether or not the receptionist knew where Stratford was.
"Sorry I don't, this is my first night on the job".
I was somewhat puzzled: "Don't you live round here then?" I asked
"Oh yes, lived here all my life but only started this job tonight"
"O...K... Do you happen to know where Berlin is?" This was the town where I would turn off the Highway to cross the mountains and judging by the distance I had already traveled I knew it couldn't be too much further. She didn't know this either - a not very local local.
It was now rapidly approaching 0300 and as the musher's meeting was planned for 0800 and with little or no idea how much further I had to go I figured I would need to be back on the road by 0530 - I was going to pay a handsome fee for a few hours in bed (there is another motel joke there but once again I resist the temptation - the life of a sailor tends to warp ones humour I am afraid) however I was now so exhausted that I figured it was worth the money. As the receptionist's computer failed yet again I too promised to return in the morning to settle up with the owner but asked for a commitment that he would be available by 0530. I drove round to the back of the motel into the 'secure' car park, dropped the dogs as quickly as we possibly could (the dogs did have a fair amount of say in the speed of this evolution) and made myself comfortable in my
expensive if albeit Spartan room with the aim of getting at least two hours sleep.
How naive can I possibly (continue) to be. So concerned was I that I would oversleep and thus fail to get to the race site on time, I literally kept waking up every ten minutes in order to check the clock. At 0515 I had had enough, I got up and had my second shower in as many hours (I was
determined to get some value out of this room even if it was just wasting the complimentary soap, shampoo and shower cap and using as many towels as possible - it was too late at night/early in the morning to explore my conservationalist tendencies) and wandered back into reception to await the owner.
Eventually after some delays the bill was settled and after a mere two hours respite I was back on the road. By this time the previous night's storm had all but subsided and the road had, at least in part, been ploughed. As we climbed up into the White Mountains, and I was as ever overcome by the magnificence and splendour of the views, I began to relax somewhat, even daring to consider that I might make the race start on time - did I mention above that I do have a propensity for naivety?
As I approached Berlin I studied the map closely, or at least as closely as you can whilst eating a bagel, drinking an extra large coffee (let the gods bless Dunkin' Donuts) and attempting to drive a van in snow and on the wrong side of the road. As I studied the map it became clear that my choices were either to remain on the Highway and take the slightly longer, but obviously clearer (and much more sensible) route or turn off in Berlin and follow a side road up and over the mountains. My head said stay on the highway, it'll be quicker, my heart said stay on the highway, there'll be less chance of getting stuck in the snow, my common sense said stay on the highway there'll be a better chance of surviving. I do wonder why it was then that as soon as I reached Berlin I pulled immediately off the highway, onto the side road and straight into a series of diversions caused by road closures as a result of all the snow. I ended up, after a great deal of swearing, on a minor road that had been barely cleared on snow and not at all sure that I was heading in the right direction.
Eventually however after a great deal more swearing interspersed with a degree of praying and not an insignificant amount of good luck I pulled into the race site a mere twenty minutes after the scheduled start of the musher's meeting.
There is one thing our 'Euro-van' does with more monotonous regularity that it does breaking down (and it does that a lot) and that is getting stuck; mud, ice, snow, grass. I swear that if you look at the van the wrong way she will spin her wheels in protest. With this in mind it was with some trepidation that as I pulled into the race site I stopped next to the hailing official (she was obviously official, she had a clip board) on a snow covered yet seemingly icy incline.
"You must be Rob, do you think your truck will make it up the hill into the parking lot?" enquired Rhonda.
"Um, probably not"
"Oh, OK. Just turn around then and park just over there next to the trail."
As it turned out my parking spot had a major(ish) advantage and several major disadvantages. The advantage was that I was within 60 feet of the starting line; I could get the dogs out of the van, snack, harness and hook up and then had clear trail ahead of me into the starting chute and so could pull the snub at the van and make a virtually unhindered start.
The disadvantages depended a lot on perspective. From my perspective life was great - I was near the start; nobody was going to get in the way of my (slow) progress to the start line. From the perspective of every other vehicle that either tried to leave the race site, get passed me and found themselves stuck in a ditch life wasn't so good; many a push and pull was in order. From the perspective of the majority of the 15 mile
teams that had to mush past my van to the finish (did I mention that my parking spot was actually part of the race trail) and found their dogs distracted by something interesting in or around the van then perhaps my site wasn't a preferred location; needless to say this prime piece of real estate was denied me the next day.
Anyway after such a painful and exhausting journey just to get to the race site it would be nice to report that the rest of the weekend was a breeze with the dogs running the perfect race, flying around the 30 mile course in record time. Alas, as usual, it was not to be.
All seemed to start off well. Despite my reservations about traveling to a race on my own without the long suffering trail help (i.e. Louise), there were loads of offers to help get the team to the start line with Kim and Kelly in particular providing invaluable assistance. Shortly after the start line, however, the pleasures of the race quickly evaporated. As I was running 8 dogs in the two day, thirty mile per day, Open Class I was under no illusions that I would finish the weekend down near the back of the pack; I didn't however expect to start getting passed by quite so many teams in the first couple of miles after the start. Nor had I actually comprehended, despite receiving several warnings, just how challenging the trail was going to be. Although obviously previously well groomed, the fresh snow that had blighted my journey the previous evening had also resulted in slightly 'punchy' trail conditions, not something either I or the rest of the team were really that used to. Add into the equation inclines the like of which we had rarely encountered before and a now familiar picture of a slow and struggling musher, and hence dog team,
emerges. To make matters even worse (I like to get my excuses in early in a story - yes still a long way to go the end of this story) the leader(less)
problems that had blighted our run at Tahquamenon came back with a vengeance half way up the first hill. Poppy was holding back so much at lead that we were suffering constant tangles and I took the only real option available and moved Paris up next to Medea. Although things seemed to improve somewhat, it is all relative and as we took the 'haw' turn off the main trail onto the back loop that differentiated the 30 mile course from the 15 we were passed by the last of those running in the same class as myself and I knew that soon enough the faster teams from the 6 dog, 30 mile class would also be catching and passing me; it's bad enough being last in your own class but getting beaten by the next class
running less dogs is embarrassing in the extreme.
However I had more to worry about that coming last for if I thought that the first ten to twelve miles were bad they were actually flat as you like compared to this extension trail. It appeared that you dropped down the side of the mountain and then began the slow, laborious climb back up and over the same said mountain, a climb that very soon became remorseless and apparently without end. At one point so steep was the incline, so slow our progress and so difficult the snow conditions for running in, that my thigh muscles began to lock up (a now common complaint for this finely tuned athlete which I contend has much more to do with anaerobic conditions in the muscle tissue as opposed to the fact that these very same thigh muscles have to support, lift and move an ever so slightly over weight and hence out of balance upper body). Eventually we ground to a halt, me propping myself up on the runners silently imploring the dogs to go on, Paris at lead looking back at me
and wondering what the hell I was playing at and why wasn't I getting my fat carcass off the runners and start helping the rest of the team out. Our gazes met and suddenly I was struck by a great revelation. It would be fantastic to say that the startling revelation that I came to on this particularly tough bit of the trail was that I should lose a bit (or perhaps a lot) of weight and/or get a bit (or perhaps a lot) fitter so I could become more effective and less of a hindrance to the team. Unfortunately this revelation was not quite so positive; as Paris and I exchanged desperate looks I realised that I was completely wasting my time: hours, days, weekends spent on the trail: hundreds of freezing cold, soaking wet, moral sapping miles on the trail and this was my reward, stuck half way up a bloody mountain, unable to move (quite literally) and dead last - again! Enough was enough, as soon as I got the team back to the finish I was quitting mushing for good - this was too exhausting and too
demoralising for words. As oxygenated blood overcame the toxins in my thighs (nothing to do with Fatty getting some energy back) I managed to help the team on and we made slow progress up the mountain. I also decided it was time for a change at lead, both Paris and Medea were yearlings and so I was expecting too much for them both to lead the team the whole way round; I therefore replaced Medea with Fya. Unfortunately after a few hundred yards it became quite clear that Paris was intimidated by Fya and wouldn't run next to him. Another change,
Cal to replace Paris; now I was running with a new and completely untested leader combination. Still they ran together, of sorts, and despite the fact that we reverted to running on the left hand side of the trail (Fya's Scottish roots and English driving license taking full charge) we finally made it back to the finish line. As we all stood around listening to me moaning about my run (another common occurrence I must add) I learnt that others had suffered too. Becki (Tucker) had gone through the same doubts about the futility or otherwise of our chosen hobby. I think there must be some solidarity in misery (I am after all a Wolverhampton Wanders supporter so have studied and been subjected to misery ad infinitum) and as such I decided that after a good night's sleep (and possibly a few carefully quaffed ales) the whole world of mushing would look different, better dare I even venture to say. And so after an evening of excellent conversation, shared with good friends, and having eaten extremely well courtesy of the Stratford Nighthawk's Snowmobile Club, I retired to bed to catch up on some much needed sleep - tomorrow could only be a better day!!
And Lo and Behold the world did look differently the next day; as I threw open the side door of the van to welcome the dogs to the bright new day my world, it seemed, was covered in diarrhea - nice! Very quickly I ascertained that it was Fya who was ill. Through careful detective work (Shylock turned Sherlock) this was actually quite easy to detect:-
1. The majority of the mess originated from the area of his cage
2. He was sat huddled up in one corner of his cage looking very sorry for himself
3. Cal, his cage companion for the evening, was pressed as far as possible into the opposite corner of the cage doing his damnedest to put as much distance as possible between himself and what obviously emanated from Fya.
This was an unmitigated disaster. Despite the fact that I am always loathed to admit this in front of 'mummy', Fya is probably just about our best and most consistent sled dog; not in anyway a leader he is otherwise the complete package. Since he was just a puppy his drive and motivation have been so impressive (if only we had known then what we were doing ... if only we knew what we were doing) and even now as he pushes towards veteran status and is surrounded by younger and much more exuberant dogs he is still #1 pick on the team. However in all the years of running him I had never seen him like this and had never had to contemplate doing a race, or even just a run, without him.
I cleaned up the van as best I could whilst trying to convince myself that this was only a transitory illness picked up as a result of eating or drinking something bad; it was after all quite obvious that none of the other dogs were affected so this was quite obviously not contagious -
perhaps just a one off bug. As my start time was still over two hours away he could well be fully recovered, rehydrated and ready to run by then; I am nothing if not naive, stupid, optimistic.
Alas it wasn't to be and at the race site (and parked in a much more convenient location - the car park!!) I did all I could to convince myself he might be fit to run. I enticed him with baited water to try to rehydrate him, gave him electrolytes to try to perk him up, I even gave him some TLC, but try as I might nothing could convince me that he was better. And so it was with a sad and desperate heart that I harnessed and hooked
up the other seven dogs but left Fya, for the first time in our seven year mushing relationship, in a cage on his own whilst the rest of us went out for a run. I don't think I have seen a dog, and certainly not Fya, go quite so mental when he realised he was not coming along for the ride; he pawed at the cage door, howled at the top of his voice and caused the van to rock from side to side as he charged around his cage. For a brief second I figured that for a dog to act in this manner then he must be fit to run, I reversed my decision and turned back to the van to very quickly get Fya harnessed. Thankfully however common-sense punched me smack on the nose - there was no way he was fit to run and I was a fool for even contemplating it. I sighed as I turned back to the sled to set out on another adventure but this time without a constant companion; with Fya's howling haunting me, I took the team down to the start line for day two of the race.
A fantastic, dynamic, unprecedented, never to be repeated, once in a lifetime run ... eluded me yet again. Finally having realised that Poppy was no longer able (or perhaps willing) to run at lead I started out with Paris and Medea leading the team away. Without Fya's power and presence something was noticeably missing, if possible we were even slower than we had been on Saturday. As it was however it seemed that the other teams were in similar predicaments in terms of slower runs and it seemed that each team was passing me in approximately the same location as the previous day. On a brighter note though the murderous inclines failed to defeat us as they had on the previous day. Halfway around the 'back 15' I realised that Medea was not pulling quite as conscientiously as she had been; I hooked down to check her over and having noticed ice balls between her toes, cleaned her feet and booted her. The results were amazing, it was like having a new dog on the team - another new
lesson learnt, Medea needs to be booted!
We made it up the side of the mountain without the soul searching that had impeded our progress the day before but as we rounded the summit I realised I had one more valuable lesson to learn and one more new task to undertake before the finish.
Poppy, banished to swing (or point or one of those positions that isn't either lead or wheel but which I so easily get confused over the title of - she was just behind the leaders) because of her lack of desire to lead the day before, had started to hang back and was once again in danger of not only getting tangled in her own tug line but also causing tangles in the team behind her. Quick to learn my lessons (??) I convinced myself she too must have ice balls (there is definitely a joke there somewhere) so I checked her feet - nothing. We went on another 500m but she was getting worse and now seemed to be limping as well. I figured that my best option was that regardless of the fact that I couldn't see anything
wrong I should boot her too. As I lifted up her front right leg though in order to fit the boot she gave out a pitiful cry. Realising then that there was a more serious problem I did something that I had never had to do before in nine years of 'mushing' - I 'bagged' a dog.
And so it was with Pop's sat up in the sled bag watching the world go by (slowly) we progressed over the final (circa) 5 miles to the finish. Piece of cake of course except for two facts:
1. I was (and am) still very new to this sled driving business and had/have a habit of testing my own ability to stay upright even in the most
benign of conditions.
2. I had never 'bagged' a dog before on sled, ATV or wheeled rig. I therefore did not understand the ensuing sled dynamics.
On one very steep downhill section (that's my story and I'm sticking to it), as our speed increased dramatically (from the perspective of Team Cooke of course) we hit a very sharp left hand bend with the trail dropping away to the right. Actually it was more than just the trail that
dropped away to the right, so did the sled... and the musher...and Poppy. How I did not land on top of her as I elegantly flipped the sled and careened into the trail I do not know. Determined not to expose myself further for the inexperienced oaf that I am I barrel rolled (of sorts), managed for a second time to avoid flattening Poppy and whilst still holding on to the sled hauled myself to my feet before anyone could see what a complete arse I was/am. The musher immediately behind me glided passed unhindered and (outwardly at least) unamused by my Jerry Lewis On Ice performance; she eased off towards the finish line without comment.
Having re-bagged Poppy we too continued on and, I am glad to say, finished the race without further incident (save of course the photographer who snapped me coming home with one dog on the sled as opposed to in front of it). Oh, and might I also add we weren't last either, even in our
class there was one musher who took longer than us to get round.
The end of another (long (!!) and boring) adventure? I guess so. We drove and drove and drove in order to get home on Sunday night/Monday morning so I could be up bright and fresh for work on ...Monday morning. I stopped once to feed the dogs and then once to clean up the diarrhea from Fya's cage because the idiot driver fed him by mistake as well.
Are we stupid driving all these miles to 'race'? Probably but who really knows?
Will our performances ever get better? I have to honestly say - Probably but who really cares?
Are we having fun? You'd better believe it!?!
Rob
I sometimes think we have almost as many adventures getting to a race as we do actually taking part in the race - Stratford was no exception. Put on by the North Country Mushers and fully supported by the Stratford Nighthawks Snowmobile Club, the Stratford race takes place in eastern Vermont on the edge of the White Mountains; a mere two provinces and three states away.
I had figured that it was going to take about 12 hours to get from home to the race site and so decided to take most of the Friday off work and set off from Shubenacadie at around midday. Because Louise couldn't get the time off work we decided I would go to the race on my own. This is me who wouldn't have ever considered taking a three dog team to a sprint race in the UK on my own and here I was heading off across North America with eight dogs, one sled and one very suspect van; oh well at least the weather was good - in Nova Scotia. Having formulated and executed my plan with my usual military precision I finally got on the road at 1500, only three hours later than scheduled. Never mind I figured that if I put my foot down, with a bit of good fortune and taking into account that I would be crossing a time zone then I could still be in
Vermont by 0100 on Saturday morning - plenty of time to catch a nap before the race. In fact once on the road all was going well until hunger/greed took over and I decided to stop for some food at around 2000 well into the US but still not yet past Bangor.
Having grabbed a quick burger, and having refueled the van, the guy behind the counter at the gas station pointed out that it had started to snow and the signs looked ominous. I looked out of the window at a few flakes fluttering down and dismissed it in my own mind as a minor flurry at best/worst. Besides the roads were good and clear - what was there possibly to worry about? And I was right of course, as long as I stayed on the Interstate, and provided the snow remained as a minor squall there truly was nothing to worry about. Five minutes later I turned off the Interstate onto Highway 2 in order to cut west across Maine and drove straight into a blizzard.
It may just be my perception borne out of desperation but to my mind the further I got from Bangor then the more isolated the Highway became and the greater the build up of snow on the road. As my speed dropped away (sounds like a description of one of my races) and the conditions became more treacherous I encountered joy riders hell bent on running everyone else off the road (it did amuse me when I passed them later in the process of being invited into the back of a police car), limped passed huge 18 wheelers stranded on the sides of hills and then as some imaginary clock replaced the voices inside my head in order to strike 2 am, and I figured that I was still nowhere near Stratford, exhaustion
began to sweep over me; I decided I had better find somewhere to stop.
Endowed with Shylock like qualities I was loathed to pull into a hotel or motel at this time of night and pay exhorbitant fees for what would be just a couple of hours sleep. Besides which we were becoming masters of sleeping in the van by the side of the road, I had even worked out a body contortion technique that almost allowed me to crawl into the van's heating duct to extract that last little bit of heat from the idling engine. All I needed to do was find some lay by to stop in for a few hours.
Deserted this road certainly was, deserted of suitable places to stop and sleep - cheaply. And so it was that the flashing neon lights, the sign of a quality motel, drew me off the highway and into a semi-deserted parking lot. I (sh)ambled into the reception and straight into the middle of a debate between the receptionist who, it soon became abundantly clear, was new to this line of work, and a ne'er-do-well who looked no older than 16, claimed to have a girlfriend sat out in the car waiting for him and who was doing his best to secure a room for a couple of hours without
eating into too much of his allowance. The ne'er-do-well threw me a glance and then continued to try to convince the receptionist that he had a special arrangement with the motel's owner thus securing cheap rates on a Friday night. By now I was truly exhausted, had god knows how many miles still to travel and a 30 mile race to take part in in just over 6 hours - I needed to get to bed. As the receptionist finished cursing at the computer the young lout looked past me and out into the car park at our UK assembled van.
"Nice rig man" he drawled (good grief I am starting to sound like an aging Walter Matthau character)
"Is the steering wheel on the wrong side?" - I sighed in the affirmative too tired to argue that I was in fact quite happy with its current location.
"You'll not be from round here then?" - I responded in the negative.
"Where are you from then?"
"Canada" - a mere half truth and easier than a full explanation/geography lesson - it was too late for that.
"I thought so, you don't sound American! What you doing this far from home?" (Since being in North America I have been mistaken for a Canadian, an Australian, a German and a Frenchman (go figure that one mes amis) but very rarely am I mistaken for a Brit - it must be the whole Empire denial thing:)
"I am dog sledding" - I prepared myself for the usual questions.
"Really? Where at?"
"Stratford. Do you know if I have much further to travel?"
"Dog sledding, wow." And then he paused for just a bit too long "I used to dog sled" he quite patently lied whilst still ignoring my question.
"Oh did you?" I sighed
"Yea. You heard of the Iditarod?" Ne'er-do replied
"Vaguely" now I lied
"I took part in the Junior Iditarod one year"
"Really"
"Oh yea, I was third"
Had this guy been Pinocchio (and believe me looking at him it could easily be claimed that his father's genes had created at the very least a
muppet), his nose would at that point have been entering New Hampshire under its own volition. I feigned interest and nodded my head hoping his attention span was not that good and he would soon lose his chain of thought and leave me alone. Fortunately before he could push back the boundaries of credibility or reality any further the receptionist's computer burst back into life.
"OK your room is booked, come back and see the owner in the morning to settle your bill"
"Fantastic, see you round man" and with a nod in my direction the lying lothario stepped out of my life as quickly and insignificantly as he
had come in to it.
Once the receptionist and I had collectively established that rooms were still available (and at military rates - I am after all a miser to the core), that the car park was secure and secluded and that I had no intention of bringing any dogs into my room (there is undoubtedly a motel joke there but I reserve the right not to pursue it) I enquired as to whether or not the receptionist knew where Stratford was.
"Sorry I don't, this is my first night on the job".
I was somewhat puzzled: "Don't you live round here then?" I asked
"Oh yes, lived here all my life but only started this job tonight"
"O...K... Do you happen to know where Berlin is?" This was the town where I would turn off the Highway to cross the mountains and judging by the distance I had already traveled I knew it couldn't be too much further. She didn't know this either - a not very local local.
It was now rapidly approaching 0300 and as the musher's meeting was planned for 0800 and with little or no idea how much further I had to go I figured I would need to be back on the road by 0530 - I was going to pay a handsome fee for a few hours in bed (there is another motel joke there but once again I resist the temptation - the life of a sailor tends to warp ones humour I am afraid) however I was now so exhausted that I figured it was worth the money. As the receptionist's computer failed yet again I too promised to return in the morning to settle up with the owner but asked for a commitment that he would be available by 0530. I drove round to the back of the motel into the 'secure' car park, dropped the dogs as quickly as we possibly could (the dogs did have a fair amount of say in the speed of this evolution) and made myself comfortable in my
expensive if albeit Spartan room with the aim of getting at least two hours sleep.
How naive can I possibly (continue) to be. So concerned was I that I would oversleep and thus fail to get to the race site on time, I literally kept waking up every ten minutes in order to check the clock. At 0515 I had had enough, I got up and had my second shower in as many hours (I was
determined to get some value out of this room even if it was just wasting the complimentary soap, shampoo and shower cap and using as many towels as possible - it was too late at night/early in the morning to explore my conservationalist tendencies) and wandered back into reception to await the owner.
Eventually after some delays the bill was settled and after a mere two hours respite I was back on the road. By this time the previous night's storm had all but subsided and the road had, at least in part, been ploughed. As we climbed up into the White Mountains, and I was as ever overcome by the magnificence and splendour of the views, I began to relax somewhat, even daring to consider that I might make the race start on time - did I mention above that I do have a propensity for naivety?
As I approached Berlin I studied the map closely, or at least as closely as you can whilst eating a bagel, drinking an extra large coffee (let the gods bless Dunkin' Donuts) and attempting to drive a van in snow and on the wrong side of the road. As I studied the map it became clear that my choices were either to remain on the Highway and take the slightly longer, but obviously clearer (and much more sensible) route or turn off in Berlin and follow a side road up and over the mountains. My head said stay on the highway, it'll be quicker, my heart said stay on the highway, there'll be less chance of getting stuck in the snow, my common sense said stay on the highway there'll be a better chance of surviving. I do wonder why it was then that as soon as I reached Berlin I pulled immediately off the highway, onto the side road and straight into a series of diversions caused by road closures as a result of all the snow. I ended up, after a great deal of swearing, on a minor road that had been barely cleared on snow and not at all sure that I was heading in the right direction.
Eventually however after a great deal more swearing interspersed with a degree of praying and not an insignificant amount of good luck I pulled into the race site a mere twenty minutes after the scheduled start of the musher's meeting.
There is one thing our 'Euro-van' does with more monotonous regularity that it does breaking down (and it does that a lot) and that is getting stuck; mud, ice, snow, grass. I swear that if you look at the van the wrong way she will spin her wheels in protest. With this in mind it was with some trepidation that as I pulled into the race site I stopped next to the hailing official (she was obviously official, she had a clip board) on a snow covered yet seemingly icy incline.
"You must be Rob, do you think your truck will make it up the hill into the parking lot?" enquired Rhonda.
"Um, probably not"
"Oh, OK. Just turn around then and park just over there next to the trail."
As it turned out my parking spot had a major(ish) advantage and several major disadvantages. The advantage was that I was within 60 feet of the starting line; I could get the dogs out of the van, snack, harness and hook up and then had clear trail ahead of me into the starting chute and so could pull the snub at the van and make a virtually unhindered start.
The disadvantages depended a lot on perspective. From my perspective life was great - I was near the start; nobody was going to get in the way of my (slow) progress to the start line. From the perspective of every other vehicle that either tried to leave the race site, get passed me and found themselves stuck in a ditch life wasn't so good; many a push and pull was in order. From the perspective of the majority of the 15 mile
teams that had to mush past my van to the finish (did I mention that my parking spot was actually part of the race trail) and found their dogs distracted by something interesting in or around the van then perhaps my site wasn't a preferred location; needless to say this prime piece of real estate was denied me the next day.
Anyway after such a painful and exhausting journey just to get to the race site it would be nice to report that the rest of the weekend was a breeze with the dogs running the perfect race, flying around the 30 mile course in record time. Alas, as usual, it was not to be.
All seemed to start off well. Despite my reservations about traveling to a race on my own without the long suffering trail help (i.e. Louise), there were loads of offers to help get the team to the start line with Kim and Kelly in particular providing invaluable assistance. Shortly after the start line, however, the pleasures of the race quickly evaporated. As I was running 8 dogs in the two day, thirty mile per day, Open Class I was under no illusions that I would finish the weekend down near the back of the pack; I didn't however expect to start getting passed by quite so many teams in the first couple of miles after the start. Nor had I actually comprehended, despite receiving several warnings, just how challenging the trail was going to be. Although obviously previously well groomed, the fresh snow that had blighted my journey the previous evening had also resulted in slightly 'punchy' trail conditions, not something either I or the rest of the team were really that used to. Add into the equation inclines the like of which we had rarely encountered before and a now familiar picture of a slow and struggling musher, and hence dog team,
emerges. To make matters even worse (I like to get my excuses in early in a story - yes still a long way to go the end of this story) the leader(less)
problems that had blighted our run at Tahquamenon came back with a vengeance half way up the first hill. Poppy was holding back so much at lead that we were suffering constant tangles and I took the only real option available and moved Paris up next to Medea. Although things seemed to improve somewhat, it is all relative and as we took the 'haw' turn off the main trail onto the back loop that differentiated the 30 mile course from the 15 we were passed by the last of those running in the same class as myself and I knew that soon enough the faster teams from the 6 dog, 30 mile class would also be catching and passing me; it's bad enough being last in your own class but getting beaten by the next class
running less dogs is embarrassing in the extreme.
However I had more to worry about that coming last for if I thought that the first ten to twelve miles were bad they were actually flat as you like compared to this extension trail. It appeared that you dropped down the side of the mountain and then began the slow, laborious climb back up and over the same said mountain, a climb that very soon became remorseless and apparently without end. At one point so steep was the incline, so slow our progress and so difficult the snow conditions for running in, that my thigh muscles began to lock up (a now common complaint for this finely tuned athlete which I contend has much more to do with anaerobic conditions in the muscle tissue as opposed to the fact that these very same thigh muscles have to support, lift and move an ever so slightly over weight and hence out of balance upper body). Eventually we ground to a halt, me propping myself up on the runners silently imploring the dogs to go on, Paris at lead looking back at me
and wondering what the hell I was playing at and why wasn't I getting my fat carcass off the runners and start helping the rest of the team out. Our gazes met and suddenly I was struck by a great revelation. It would be fantastic to say that the startling revelation that I came to on this particularly tough bit of the trail was that I should lose a bit (or perhaps a lot) of weight and/or get a bit (or perhaps a lot) fitter so I could become more effective and less of a hindrance to the team. Unfortunately this revelation was not quite so positive; as Paris and I exchanged desperate looks I realised that I was completely wasting my time: hours, days, weekends spent on the trail: hundreds of freezing cold, soaking wet, moral sapping miles on the trail and this was my reward, stuck half way up a bloody mountain, unable to move (quite literally) and dead last - again! Enough was enough, as soon as I got the team back to the finish I was quitting mushing for good - this was too exhausting and too
demoralising for words. As oxygenated blood overcame the toxins in my thighs (nothing to do with Fatty getting some energy back) I managed to help the team on and we made slow progress up the mountain. I also decided it was time for a change at lead, both Paris and Medea were yearlings and so I was expecting too much for them both to lead the team the whole way round; I therefore replaced Medea with Fya. Unfortunately after a few hundred yards it became quite clear that Paris was intimidated by Fya and wouldn't run next to him. Another change,
Cal to replace Paris; now I was running with a new and completely untested leader combination. Still they ran together, of sorts, and despite the fact that we reverted to running on the left hand side of the trail (Fya's Scottish roots and English driving license taking full charge) we finally made it back to the finish line. As we all stood around listening to me moaning about my run (another common occurrence I must add) I learnt that others had suffered too. Becki (Tucker) had gone through the same doubts about the futility or otherwise of our chosen hobby. I think there must be some solidarity in misery (I am after all a Wolverhampton Wanders supporter so have studied and been subjected to misery ad infinitum) and as such I decided that after a good night's sleep (and possibly a few carefully quaffed ales) the whole world of mushing would look different, better dare I even venture to say. And so after an evening of excellent conversation, shared with good friends, and having eaten extremely well courtesy of the Stratford Nighthawk's Snowmobile Club, I retired to bed to catch up on some much needed sleep - tomorrow could only be a better day!!
And Lo and Behold the world did look differently the next day; as I threw open the side door of the van to welcome the dogs to the bright new day my world, it seemed, was covered in diarrhea - nice! Very quickly I ascertained that it was Fya who was ill. Through careful detective work (Shylock turned Sherlock) this was actually quite easy to detect:-
1. The majority of the mess originated from the area of his cage
2. He was sat huddled up in one corner of his cage looking very sorry for himself
3. Cal, his cage companion for the evening, was pressed as far as possible into the opposite corner of the cage doing his damnedest to put as much distance as possible between himself and what obviously emanated from Fya.
This was an unmitigated disaster. Despite the fact that I am always loathed to admit this in front of 'mummy', Fya is probably just about our best and most consistent sled dog; not in anyway a leader he is otherwise the complete package. Since he was just a puppy his drive and motivation have been so impressive (if only we had known then what we were doing ... if only we knew what we were doing) and even now as he pushes towards veteran status and is surrounded by younger and much more exuberant dogs he is still #1 pick on the team. However in all the years of running him I had never seen him like this and had never had to contemplate doing a race, or even just a run, without him.
I cleaned up the van as best I could whilst trying to convince myself that this was only a transitory illness picked up as a result of eating or drinking something bad; it was after all quite obvious that none of the other dogs were affected so this was quite obviously not contagious -
perhaps just a one off bug. As my start time was still over two hours away he could well be fully recovered, rehydrated and ready to run by then; I am nothing if not naive, stupid, optimistic.
Alas it wasn't to be and at the race site (and parked in a much more convenient location - the car park!!) I did all I could to convince myself he might be fit to run. I enticed him with baited water to try to rehydrate him, gave him electrolytes to try to perk him up, I even gave him some TLC, but try as I might nothing could convince me that he was better. And so it was with a sad and desperate heart that I harnessed and hooked
up the other seven dogs but left Fya, for the first time in our seven year mushing relationship, in a cage on his own whilst the rest of us went out for a run. I don't think I have seen a dog, and certainly not Fya, go quite so mental when he realised he was not coming along for the ride; he pawed at the cage door, howled at the top of his voice and caused the van to rock from side to side as he charged around his cage. For a brief second I figured that for a dog to act in this manner then he must be fit to run, I reversed my decision and turned back to the van to very quickly get Fya harnessed. Thankfully however common-sense punched me smack on the nose - there was no way he was fit to run and I was a fool for even contemplating it. I sighed as I turned back to the sled to set out on another adventure but this time without a constant companion; with Fya's howling haunting me, I took the team down to the start line for day two of the race.
A fantastic, dynamic, unprecedented, never to be repeated, once in a lifetime run ... eluded me yet again. Finally having realised that Poppy was no longer able (or perhaps willing) to run at lead I started out with Paris and Medea leading the team away. Without Fya's power and presence something was noticeably missing, if possible we were even slower than we had been on Saturday. As it was however it seemed that the other teams were in similar predicaments in terms of slower runs and it seemed that each team was passing me in approximately the same location as the previous day. On a brighter note though the murderous inclines failed to defeat us as they had on the previous day. Halfway around the 'back 15' I realised that Medea was not pulling quite as conscientiously as she had been; I hooked down to check her over and having noticed ice balls between her toes, cleaned her feet and booted her. The results were amazing, it was like having a new dog on the team - another new
lesson learnt, Medea needs to be booted!
We made it up the side of the mountain without the soul searching that had impeded our progress the day before but as we rounded the summit I realised I had one more valuable lesson to learn and one more new task to undertake before the finish.
Poppy, banished to swing (or point or one of those positions that isn't either lead or wheel but which I so easily get confused over the title of - she was just behind the leaders) because of her lack of desire to lead the day before, had started to hang back and was once again in danger of not only getting tangled in her own tug line but also causing tangles in the team behind her. Quick to learn my lessons (??) I convinced myself she too must have ice balls (there is definitely a joke there somewhere) so I checked her feet - nothing. We went on another 500m but she was getting worse and now seemed to be limping as well. I figured that my best option was that regardless of the fact that I couldn't see anything
wrong I should boot her too. As I lifted up her front right leg though in order to fit the boot she gave out a pitiful cry. Realising then that there was a more serious problem I did something that I had never had to do before in nine years of 'mushing' - I 'bagged' a dog.
And so it was with Pop's sat up in the sled bag watching the world go by (slowly) we progressed over the final (circa) 5 miles to the finish. Piece of cake of course except for two facts:
1. I was (and am) still very new to this sled driving business and had/have a habit of testing my own ability to stay upright even in the most
benign of conditions.
2. I had never 'bagged' a dog before on sled, ATV or wheeled rig. I therefore did not understand the ensuing sled dynamics.
On one very steep downhill section (that's my story and I'm sticking to it), as our speed increased dramatically (from the perspective of Team Cooke of course) we hit a very sharp left hand bend with the trail dropping away to the right. Actually it was more than just the trail that
dropped away to the right, so did the sled... and the musher...and Poppy. How I did not land on top of her as I elegantly flipped the sled and careened into the trail I do not know. Determined not to expose myself further for the inexperienced oaf that I am I barrel rolled (of sorts), managed for a second time to avoid flattening Poppy and whilst still holding on to the sled hauled myself to my feet before anyone could see what a complete arse I was/am. The musher immediately behind me glided passed unhindered and (outwardly at least) unamused by my Jerry Lewis On Ice performance; she eased off towards the finish line without comment.
Having re-bagged Poppy we too continued on and, I am glad to say, finished the race without further incident (save of course the photographer who snapped me coming home with one dog on the sled as opposed to in front of it). Oh, and might I also add we weren't last either, even in our
class there was one musher who took longer than us to get round.
The end of another (long (!!) and boring) adventure? I guess so. We drove and drove and drove in order to get home on Sunday night/Monday morning so I could be up bright and fresh for work on ...Monday morning. I stopped once to feed the dogs and then once to clean up the diarrhea from Fya's cage because the idiot driver fed him by mistake as well.
Are we stupid driving all these miles to 'race'? Probably but who really knows?
Will our performances ever get better? I have to honestly say - Probably but who really cares?
Are we having fun? You'd better believe it!?!
Rob
