Alaska: Day 18: 7-23-93: The Wheelchair Marathon Begins

After a completely unsatisfying 2 1/2 hours of sleep, I opened my groggy eyes at 6:00 a.m. and reluctantly crawled out of bed. I had a growling stomach, a pounding head and a bursting bladder, but prompt amelioration was not in the cards. From the moment my feet hit the floor, it was nonstop chicken-with-its-head-cut-off craziness. The early morning silence I had grown accustomed to was suddenly shattered with buzzing chaos. Where was the meeting? Was there any breakfast? Where does the race start? How do we get there? etc.

Eventually, a head volunteer arrived to answer some of our questions and hand out assignments. Through some perverted twist of Fate, I was put in charge of the CB radios and emergency lights. As a person who has vehemently endeavored my whole life to avoid mechanical knowledge and skill of any sort, I found it amusing that, in the past 24 hours, I was given the responsibility of handling the company van, a mammoth trailer, and radio & electrical equipment. It was all I could do to keep from laughing when volunteers started asking me how the equipment worked (I started wondering if there might be a hidden camera someplace, and I vowed to keep my eyes open for Allen Funt's shiny dome!). Surprisingly, it somehow all worked out in the end. I'm not one to toot my own horn (though I did try once when I was 13 -- ha-ha!), but I think I fared pretty darn well this morning -- I even managed (on a wing and a prayer) to fix a few non-functioning CB's.

My other morning task was traffic control at one of the initial waypoints: namely, I was told to slow down and/or divert any oncoming vehicles while simultaneously directing the racers down the appropriate route. When I asked whether I truly had the authority to do such a thing, I was handed a bright orange highway worker's vest and told, "you do now." (According to what other volunteers who were on traffic detail told me later in the day, most drivers really will follow orders blindly when you wear one of those things; though, of course, we had no true power out there on the road, nor permission from local law enforcement, who were our true "traffic cops" -- we were only sent out when the police were not around to help us.) Unfortunately, I never got a chance to perform my duty. The hurriedly and primitively sketched map I was given -- of a city I've never been in, no less -- combined with my inherent navigational impairment, led to a forgone conclusion: I didn't find the right street in time! (Luckily, other volunteers did.)

After unceremoniously crumpling the map and tossing it on the floor mat, I drove on to the halfway point of today's 48 mile leg of the race to cheer and assist the athletes as they arrived. Being in the thick of things (watching the wheelchairs roll in, applauding with my fellow volunteers, talking to the racers) for the first time, finally made me feel part of something special, and I couldn't help but get caught up in all the adrenaline-charged excitement.

Following the mandatory 1/2 hour break, I watched the racers as they set off on the second half of the opening day stretch. I was totally amazed at the strength of the competitors and the speed of their wheelchairs -- they cruised!

-----Racers Take Their Places At The Mid-Leg Starting Line--------
-------------------------(On Your Mark . . . Get Set . . . )--------------------------

------------------------------------------(Go!)----------------------------------------------

After the rubber cooled at the first-leg finish line, a French Canadian racer named Andre was declared the winner and presented with a yellow "bib" in recognition of his achievement. He set a blistering pace, posting the fastest first-leg time in the 10 year history of the marathon, and left only three others (Tony [2nd], Jeff [3rd] and Michel [4th]) with a realistic chance of ever catching him. I cheered Andre's victory and Michel's 4th place finish with a little more enthusiasm than the others, because they are the two racers staying in the trailer I'm hauling, and I had already begun to think of myself as part of their team. (I unofficially named the nine of us (Andre, Michel, Andre Noel [Michel's trainer], Val, Andrea, Merritt, Gabrielle, Odile and myself) "Team Quebec," since Andre and Michel both hailed from there).

-------------------------------------"Team Quebec"-------------------------------------

Once all the racers made it in, every one headed over to the campsite du jour (we would be staying somewhere new each night, as we progressed along the marathon route). I was anxious to settle in and get better acquainted with the athletes. The more I got to know them, the more impressed I became with their abilities and attitudes. They all had a tale to tell about their individual fates, backstories filled with car accidents (Andre, Tony, Ken, Ed, Larry & Kem), strokes (Steve & Wayne), a rugby injury (Bob), a construction accident (Joe), a fire (Jeff), a Motocross crash (Doug) and even a tragic fall down a mine shaft (Michel). Although they were all "handicapped" by society's reckoning (whether amputees, paraplegics or mobility impaired), they were more capable than most Average Joes. Several of them had competed in wheelchair marathons all throughout the world and a few were genuine Olympic medalists (including Andre, who had won gold at the Barcelona Paralympic Games -- no wonder he blew out the competition today!). They were champions in every sense of the word -- and yet, tragically, they were virtual unknowns. It is a sad comment on our society indeed, that athletes with disabilities receive so little public recognition (for instance, until today I didn't know that the Olympic Games even had a Paralympic component, much less the names of the competitors; they certainly aren't televised during Prime Time, if at all) -- they are just as, if not more, deserving of our praise.

Please allow for a short break in the narrative, whilst I get down off my soap box . . .

Thank You.

After catering to the racers, Val and I decided to explore the outlying town of Nenana. To tell the truth, it wasn't really anything to write home about (2 cafes, a knick-knack store, and -- of all things -- a law office (!) . . . next to a 24 hour laundromat . . . convenient AND classy . . . maybe Jason should eventually hang his shingle here, as he would be sure to make a name for himself!).

On the way back to the campsite, Val and I met a 12-year-old boy named Ricky. Ricky was driving the coolest ATV I'd ever seen. He was real friendly, and when we asked for a ride, he didn't even think twice. Val climbed on beside him, and I hopped on the grate in front of the steering wheel. Boy, could that thing move -- it was a bumpy ride, but one I won't soon forget!

Just as we returned to camp, clouds moved in, followed quickly by the worst Alaskan rainstorm I'd seen yet. I was forced to pitch my tent in the downpour, and it got soaked before I could attach the protective cover. On top of this, I discovered that I had mistakenly left my raincoat back in Fairbanks, 50 miles away (!) -- so I got drenched, too.

Then we found out that the boys from Eisener Air Force (who are graciously preparing all our meals) somehow "lost" our chicken dinner, so we all ended up going to one of the aforementioned cafes in town for some mediocre salmon (lack of tastiness notwithstanding, I downed the salmon in record time -- it was my first meal in a day and a half!). I sat at a table with Val, Odile, Michel and his trainer, Andre Noel. They were a nice bunch of people, though I felt somewhat out of place because every one spoke French but me. (They chucked me a few bones of highly accented English now and then).

By the end of dinner, I was fat-eh-gooed and ready for a good night's sleep. Alas, I was destined not to get it. Various work on the trailer and van kept me busy for three hours, and a conversation with Val (my tent mate), for another two. When I finally drifted off to sleep at 12:30, one haunting thought echoed continually in my dreams ("Wake up! It's 5:00!").