Mike Dillingham - Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers - The Adventures of Balto, Back of the Pack, Honor Bound, Rivers

Of potential interest to me and some of the other rookies was the so-called “competitiveness” rule, designed to prevent mushers from dawdling too long behind the main pack. Basically, all mushers must make it to McGrath within three days of the leader, and must likewise reach Unalakleet on the coast within five days of the first driver.

Nobody really knows how the rule will affect things this year. Last year, it would have resulted in only one musher being withdrawn from the race. (The formal term is “withdrawn,” which is supposed to imply no fault on the part of the musher, as opposed to “disqualified,” which is theoretically reserved for serious transgressions such as cheating and abusing dogs.)

Last night was the big mushers’ banquet at the Sullivan Arena in downtown Anchorage. This is always a major community event and probably 4,000 people showed up at the 40-dollar-a-plate gala. Some of the entertainment was provided by the fourth graders from Mount Spurr Elementary; they all recognized me from my student teaching. They did fine, bringing the crowd to its feet with an enthusiastic rendition of Hobo Jim’s “Iditarod Trail” (which is practically Alaska’s alternate state song) complete with the rousing chorus ending in “I did, I did, I did the Iditarod Trail!”

Then came the formal drawing for position. Each of the 58 mushers got time at the microphone to thank sponsors and say anything that came into his or her mind. Some didn’t say much at all, some said way too much; I drew number 23, right behind Martin Buser, and probably said too much. The final musher didn’t draw until almost 10:30; Barrie drew toward the end of the evening and pulled number 57, which means she will leave the chute next to last.

Today is theoretically free of meetings and other distractions, but I’m like a headless chicken looking for the last few items on my checklist. I should have had most of this stuff weeks ago, but something always came up to make me put it off. Now I’m paying the price in frazzled nerves and lack of sleep.

I haven’t had more than three hours’ sleep a night since sometime last week. I’m already reacting like someone on the verge of sleep deprivation, which isn’t a good sign so close to the race. But then, I may as well get used to it — as the veterans have told me, the one thing you can’t ship out to the checkpoints is sleep.

Ceremonial Start in Anchorage to Eagle River (20 miles)

Race day. The Big One. The end of training and the beginning of reality. Ready or not, I’m on Fourth Avenue amid a surging crowd of thousands of spectators with my team and a handful of volunteer handlers. If I wasn’t a zombie from lack of sleep, I’d certainly be wondering if I wasn’t finally in over my head.

Actually, the 20-mile run from Fourth Avenue in downtown Anchorage out to the VFW post in Eagle River is only ceremonial this year. The times won’t count and the real race will start tomorrow at Wasilla. I’m not even using my regular sled, which I don’t want to risk on the potentially rough trails over downtown streets.

I’ll also be towing a second sled; this adds drag to keep the dogs from running too fast while they’re still wildly enthusiastic. Ron has graciously agreed to ride my caboose today and also tomorrow from Wasilla to Knik; I can at least tap his experience for the first part of the race.

Moreover, I have a passenger in my front sled for the first eight miles today. The race organization decided to raise money this year by selling rides to the highest bidders. It was quite successful and all 58 mushers have a paying passenger. In all, the fares have raised more than $35,000 for the race.

My rider is a businessman from New York who is up here with three of his friends. They paid $500 each for what will certainly be a unique adventure, and I’ll do my part not to disappoint them. My game plan is to let the dogs get over their initial excitement and then let my guest swap with Ron and ride the runners on the back sled for awhile.

Bert and the rest of my handling crew are on Fourth Avenue at eight in the morning; my actual start time isn’t until about 10:45, which gives us plenty of time to get the dogs ready. The city has trucked in tons of snow to cover a mile of streets to get the teams onto the extensive municipal system of ski trails. I can’t imagine what it must have cost.

My spot is directly across the street from Martin Buser, and there is a steady stream of admirers brushing by my team on their way to see him. The scene is absolute pandemonium, especially when the teams start moving up; they are parked so the first teams are farthest away and must pass all the others enroute to the starting line.

As usual, I’ve only gotten a couple hours’ sleep and I’m running on black coffee and nerves. I hope my handlers will keep things in order because I’m not really all here. A few people lean over the temporary fence separating my dogs from the sidewalk and ask for autographs; I think I sign my own name but I’m not sure, and I’m even less certain why they’d want my signature when all the Big Names are close by.

Soon I see Martin getting ready across the street. The race officials tell me I’ve got 15 minutes to be ready to move. We’ve already got most of the dogs harnessed up; we’ve held off on Rocky and Rosie because they chew things when they’re nervous, and if they’re not nervous now, they’ll never be.

Almost in a blur the handlers get the dogs hooked up; all I do is point where I want which ones. I decide to start with Pullman and Bea in lead. Bea isn’t really a leader at all, but her brother Nuka is Diana Moroney’s world-class lead dog and she comes from a long line of front-end dogs. She serves as an accelerator for other leaders, and may eventually learn the ropes on her own. Pullman is the real leader, but she’s barely three years old and has never started off in a major crowd situation. She went to Nome with Vern Halter’s team last year, but not in front.

The real reason they’re leading is because they’re the two who led me most of the way through the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300, and who have guided the team for most of the training over the past several months. I’ve still got Socks and old Slipper in reserve back in the team if I need them, as well as a couple of others who can run up front on the trail in a pinch. Anyway, all we’ve got to do is get a few blocks down Fourth Avenue and make the sharp right turn onto Cordova Street, where we’ll be out of the main crowd area. I figure Pullman and Bea shouldn’t have any trouble handling that.

Before I realize it, it’s my turn. A race volunteer comes back to help guide us the two blocks to the starting line, which is marked by a huge banner and grandstands on either side, not to mention enough media vehicles to rival Camp O.J.. With a dozen handlers restraining the team,

we join the procession to glory — or whatever. As we pass the other teams, I see people I’ve run with in the qualifying races and others I know only from reputation. Finally we pass Barrie, whose 57th position puts her almost in the starting chute.

Most of the pomp and ceremony and excitement goes right over my head. There is a huge to-do about Martin, directly in front of me. Part of this may be because his passenger for the first part of the run to Eagle River is the new Governor of Alaska, Tony Knowles. The Guv plays the crowd like the pro he is, as does Martin, who is no less the experienced showman, although I’m reasonably certain he’d rather be out on the trail away from the hoopla.

The author and handlers take a photo break on Fourth Avenue before the race start.