Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
runny nose. “We've already sold six hats this morning,” he says after he makes the sale.
“Clear and cold, best sales.”
Ten feet more and I am directly across from the bronze statue of the sled dog which
marks the official ceremonial start of the Iditarod. A bright red Dodge pickup is parked
nearby, a prize for the winner. People who are lucky enough to have friends among the
local businesses pack the windows of storefronts. Another crowd jams the edge of the top
floor of the Fifth Avenue parking garage. Every second person I see is making an Arctic
fashion statement, mink and beaver and muskrat parkas, gaily flowered kuspuks, knee-
high mukluks with fur tassels on the laces, sealskin gloves that reach the elbow.
Next to me are two Special Olympians, Mike Johnson and Ricky Francis in uniforms of
Canadian red, nordic skiers from Toronto. In front of me are Rick and Colleen Franks and
their children, Carolyn and Macky, who have been in Alaska for eleven years but this is
their first Iditarod start. “We've been here since 8:15,” Colleen says. “We wanted this
spot.” She doesn't look as cold as she ought to.
Over loudspeakers the announcer broadcasts the countdown in company with the mayor
of Nome, and the crowd chants along: “Five, four, three, two, one!” Tyrell Seavey, winner
of this year's Junior Iditarod and wearer of the honorary Bib Number 1, slides out of the
chute. The street erupts.
Musher after musher and team after team, on they come, and go. Paul Gebhardt hugs all
his dog handlers and kisses all his dogs. Peryll Kyzer, back in the race after sitting out a
year, has handlers decked out in purple armbands. Dan Govoni holds up his arms as he
takes off—“Look, Ma, no hands!” Martin Buser shows off his dimples. The great families
of mushing are well represented, two generations of Redingtons, three generations of
Seaveys, a Brooks, a Mackey. Mike Williams, who races to promote sobriety. Jeff King,
with two handlers for each dog working hard to keep the team from launching into or-
bit—“Wanna go, wanna go!” they all seem to be yelling. My personal favorite, Charlie
Boulding, who placed fifth last year at age fifty-eight.
The crowd cheers on their favorites—“Go, DeeDee, go!” “Three in a row, Doug, three
in a row!” John and Ricky cheer every musher who goes down the chute until they're
hoarse, they think this is the coolest thing they've ever seen.
