My Point...And I Do Have One

upset, I started to cry and scream, “Why—why—why?” I was pounding on the table with my closed fists. I was filled with anger—raging with fury—I was a wild stallion rearing up on its hind legs, snorting and whinnying and kicking and … Wait a minute. Hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute. This is passion I’m feeling. This word
Iditarod
has moved me. I must find out what this
Iditarod
is and do it—I will
Iditarod
and I will win.

J OURNAL E NTRY
    I am beginning to feel frustrated. It is my fourth week of training for the Iditarod and I am seeing very little progress, if any at all. The big race is two months away, and I worry I won’t be ready. I already have one strike against me: My sled barely moves along the concrete-paved roads.
    Having only two dogs is also not helping. Since I don’t believe in hitting, I certainly won’t strike my dogs just to make them pull me. So I encourage them strongly. “Please, let’s go, come on.” But they come toward me and get in the sled. Seems they’re conditioned to come
to
me when I speak, not away. I’ve tried dog biscuits, but as I place them down several yards ahead of the dogs, by the time I run back to get in the sled, they’ve run to get the biscuits without me in it. Also, one of my dogs is rather small so the times we do move at all, it’s in circles—the larger one sets our course off balance.
    I am sweating so much in those big Eskimo clothes because of the warm California climate. I should warn others to wear a cooler version here. Ah, well, I must not give up. It’s a dream. I will race! I can’t let the neighborhood children’s silly taunts stop me. Let them laugh all they want. I will race in the Iditarod one day.

J OURNAL E NTRY
    I’ve given up returning phone calls. I’ve given up my so-called “normal” life. I can’t be bothered. The race is but a month away. I eat, drink, and sleep Iditarod.
    I’ve begun to question aspects of my training. I had heard that carbo loading was good, but now I am not so sure. My dogs have gotten fat and lethargic. I may need to change their diet of spaghetti, potatoes, pound cake, andice cream. Now, when I bring them to the sled, they just roll over and fall asleep. Sometimes, to my eternal shame, I do the same.
    Perhaps I should quit. No, no, no!! I cannot allow a negative thought. My will cannot be broken or bent. I must continue chanting my mantra:
    Icanwarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod.
    Icanarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. Icanarod, Iwill-arod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. If I chant loudly enough, I can barely hear the jeering from the neighborhood children. They are ignorant philistines. No matter how many times I correct them, they get it wrong. I scream to deaf, uncaring ears, “It’s pronounced
Iditarod
, not idiot!”
    I have ended my quest for corporate sponsorship. The only offer came from a place called Uncle Huey’s Dry Cleaning and Donut Shop and only if I wore a vest with their motto: “If you get some jelly donut on your clothes, we’ll clean it before you’re finished with your second cup of coffee.” I have too much pride. I will not look ridiculous, so I turned them down. They can keep their $35.

J OURNAL E NTRY
    I do worry that I will not be ready in time to race the Iditarod after all. It is only two weeks away, and I have made little progress. The dogs sense when we are about to begin training. They watch me get dressed and know that when the big boots come out, we are headed for the sled. It’s 87°, unusually hot for this time of year. I have lost fifteen pounds just from wearing these big bundly clothes and sitting in my sled, but I must get used to the bulkiness.
    I have made some progress, though. Last Thursday, Bootsie, Muffin, and I were out in the street sitting there,same as every morning—we’ve chosen to go out at 3:00 A.M . to avoid both traffic and cruel neighborhood children. Suddenly, Bootsie and Muffin took off with a start that caught me unawares (I had dozed off). I was thrown from the sled and the dogs ran for a half a mile or so. I caught up to them and encouraged them profusely. “Good doggies,” I said. “Good dogs—two good girls.” I’m not sure, but I think they saw a squirrel or something. It’s too bad there wasn’t another squirrel to get us back home. We walked; I carried the sled. I sure hope we’ll be ready. Maybe there are squirrels in Alaska.

J OURNAL E NTRY
    Well, we’re in Alaska and I’ll tell you something,