Share moxie with your friends and co-workers that you like the most. Share moxie with the cranks in your life, because they need it. Share moxie just because it’s fun and the world could use a little more fun.
Am I the last person to know about the “meetaversary”? My daughter was baking a cake this week and I asked what the occasion was, “It’s our meetaversary tomorrow, we’ve been friends for ** years.” My first reaction was promposals, now this? Come on. But then, my grinchy heart stopped, and thought about my own friends, and grew bigger.
My friend from elementary school that made it through bluebirds, divorce, and moves with me. Happy 35th meetaversary, Granny.
My next door neighbor that lived through middle school, loss, boys and break-ups. Happy 31st meetaversary, neighbor.
My college roommates that walked me down the garden path in ways that you can truly only get away with in college. Happy 22nd meetaversary, roomies.
The ones that have saved my sanity through my first real job, marriage, kids, and the shitsortment of life for the past 20 years. Here’s to 20 more, softball gang.
I think we spend a great deal of time trying to immortalize ourselves on social media, taking pictures of this vacation, and that amazing meal, but if you really want to see who you are? Look to your friends. They have the goods on you from every stage of your life, right? They knew you before you were whoever you present to the world now. Any friend that has stood witness as you dramatically flushed some boy’s picture down the toilet with gusto and then offered to bike to get you ice cream is the real deal. Same for the friend that showed up for the funeral, that showed up, and showed up, and showed up.
We celebrate love with anniversaries, with engagements, with weddings, and a huge amount of pomp and circumstance. The truth is, my friends have saved me, all through my life. My husband didn’t. It’s because OF my friends that I didn’t need to be “saved” but rather to just have fun and see where it went. I can’t thank all of them enough. If you stop and think about it, I bet you can’t either. Meetaversary? It’s not such a silly thing. When I think about what I truly want for my daughter? It’s to have friendships that she wants to celebrate. That is no small thing. It’s everything.
Every family has their own vacation rituals, right? My childhood trek was to, wait for it, the great state of South Dakota. Every. Single. Summer. My mom had little vacation time, so the yearly pilgrimage to South Dakota was a big deal. We got a bag of cheetos, twizzlers, made some sandwiches, filled up the coffee thermos, and wouldn’t dream of forgetting to pack “Love is- Best of the 70’s” tape, part 1 and 2. I can still recite every single line of “Islands in the Stream” and “I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.” (Now if that isn’t a great party trick…I don’t know what is…)
No air conditioning, sticky seats, and an older sister that barely tolerated me headed to a town smaller than my own. Sweet bliss! As time has gone on, what I remember most about these trips is how happy my mom was. This was the one time that I could imagine what she was like as a child. She hummed getting close to South Dakota. She let me blow things up with my rowdy cousins in South Dakota. She let me drive a car (when I was 13) in South Dakota. This was her happy place.
Of all the gifts from childhood, the ability to see your parents as people separate from yourself is a lasting one. I always associated my mom with work, cleaning the house on Saturday mornings, grocery shopping, and worrying about the future. I saw someone different in South Dakota. It was the equivalent of seeing your elementary school teacher on a ride at the county fair. They can have fun?! That’s allowed?
I just spent the last week packing to decamp with my own family to the lake for a month. I hummed while writing my packing list. I overheard my kids talking last night, “Just ask her. She’ll probably let us. Mom’s in her happy place.”
Bike to get ice cream? At 10 o’clock? You bet. I’ll do you one better. I’ll race you there.
Keep sharing moxie. Happy Canada Day to our friends to the North & Happy 4th to those stateside.
My porch has been taken over by an expectant robin. She is fierce and a little unhinged. My daughter made this sign to make sure that no one dares to step foot on our porch. This bird will fly at you like a missile. She will pretend to be wounded to lead you away from her eggs. Her dive-bomb tactics will make you run screaming for the hills. Today is Mother’s day, and to me, it isn’t about just being a mother, it’s about anyone that is ready to dive-bomb to protect a child, that instinctively thinks of someone else before themselves. A mother’s love is not limited to biology, to race, even to gender. I have met some single fathers that are better “mothers” than me. I have known aunts that rock parenthood like professionals. I have been taken in by someone that shares not a drop of DNA structure with me, but loves me unconditionally. Unfortunately, I also know “mothers” that don’t give a fig newton about their children, that are mothers in name only.
Mother’s Day is about celebrating the slightly crazy, fierce, unhinged birds that love with their whole hearts and would sacrifice themselves to protect whoever they have claimed as their own. Welcome to the ranks, Little Mama Bird.
Before you go thinking I’m some ribbons for all, celebrate everybody fluffer nutter, I’m not. A mother’s love is something to be celebrated, its sanctity is the ultimate reflection of sacrifice. I’m saying that can come in all sorts of vessels and in no way is that something to scoff at.
I was playing a “What-if” game in the car with a group of friends years ago and one of the questions went something like this “You’re in a room, you have a choice to push a button to kill yourself, or someone in the next room that might or might not be your spouse. What would you do?”. One person answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I would push the button and kill the person in the next room. Even if it were my spouse. No one could love my children like I can.” As I said, a mother’s love is not to be trifled with.
So today, on this day that is beautiful for some, and something to be endured for others, let me leave you with this…You may be a mother, you might not be. You may have children, you may have lost children, you may have chosen to not have children. In any case, I hope you have someone you would dive-bomb to protect and a person in your life that loves you with a mother’s love, because it is fierce and glorious. Happy Mother’s Day!
I live in a small town, was born and raised in a small town. Stop it, John Cougar Mellencamp, this is my story. Like many, I couldn’t wait to get out of a small town, until I had kids. My children can walk down any street in this town. Everyone knows their names, who they belong to. My kids will eventually feel suffocated by this, but not me. Nope. This helps me sleep at night.
There are two seasons here: ice in and ice out. Whether for fishing or the two hockey arenas, it’s boat or fish house, skates or dryland. We have more churches than bars. This is Minnesota after all, not Wisconsin :). Our polling place is in a farm field. I kid you not. My husband brings out donuts to the election judges, and by the time I get there I’m treated to a full report of not only when my husband voted, but who he visited with. Often I feel like I live in Mayberry, but sometimes I feel like I am stuck in high school. Forever.
Sometimes small towns can be, well, small. Small-minded and full of nosy parkers. I’m not quite sure why I have Facebook, most of the people that are my friends on this medium see me grocery shopping daily and picking up my kids from practice. It’s hard to make a mistake and change in a small town, or to create a better version of yourself. Everyone seems to remember Fat Timmy, Drunk Bev, or that homewrecker, you remember the one.
But then, once in awhile, this small town knocks the curmudgeon right out of me and fills me with love. When it comes to the nitty gritty, this town shows up. Whether that’s a fire, a car crash, or a brave little boy fighting to get well, the town answers the call. Rise up, small town, rise up. There is a family that needs you. Print the t-shirts, open the fund, fling wide the doors, invite others in. And we do. And we will. Because we live in this same small town…
Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Prob’ly die in a small town
Oh, those small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity
Educated in a small town
Taught the fear of Jesus in a small town
Used to daydream in that small town
Another boring romantic that’s me.
Alright, John, you had your moment. Pack it in. I’ve got a little boy on my mind, just like everyone else in this town tonight. Rise up, small town, rise up. Let’s watch something magical happen, bigger than you, bigger than me, more than we could ever do on our own.
I hope all of you have a small town somewhere, at some point, in your history. They’re a good place to spring from and return to when you need it.
All my memories start and end with you. Did you know that? You’d probably say you don’t remember all this crap, but I’d call bullshit. This is the relationship we have. I’m a “goddamned pain in the ass” and you’re mine.
I’m not a “Daddy’s girl”. You know that, right? Only because it makes me think of pretty dresses and princesses, which is decidedly not me, but I am your girl. I always have been, always will be.
All my memories start and end with you.
I am 3- and I leave my trike out in the driveway. I promise not to do it again.
I am 4- I do it again.
I am 5-I’m certain that there isn’t anything better than sitting in the middle seat and shifting your truck. I was right.
I am 6- I know what divorce is. Don’t try to explain it to me. I know.
I am 7- You let me eat so much candy I swear I don’t ever want to eat another peanut butter cup or SweeTart again. You know better. I will never stop eating candy. Ever.
I am 13- I get caught stealing toothbrushes with a friend. You ask me what the hell I was thinking. I wasn’t.
I am 16- I piss you off. You disappoint me. I tell you I don’t want to talk to you anymore…until I do.
I am 25- You walk me down the aisle. You stand on my veil and my head snaps back as I try to move forward. You’re embarrassed. I know you just weren’t ready to let me go. Plus, it gave my sisters something to talk about (until the end of time).
I am 30- You are laughing. Your granddaughter is testing every limit. You love this.
I am 35-I name my son after you. You love this, too.
I am 40- I’m wishing I became something more useful like a doctor. I will be forever grateful that some fellow student spent more nights studying than me, so they could one day repair your heart.
Years ago you started calling us every Saturday. I love these calls, have I ever told you that? You try to call early enough to wake me up. This never happens. (I’m always up first).You ask me about work, the kids, and try to make me lighten up. I push you about your health and you call me a “goddamned pain in the ass”. It’s the new “I love you”, it just hasn’t caught on with everyone yet.
Here’s the thing. I don’t know what it’s like to not have someone in my life that all my memories start and end with. I’d appreciate it very much if I don’t have to learn how to live like that for a very long time. Stick around to annoy me, your grandkids, your wife. We’ve got your number, we can handle you. So, with that, “Keep your boots on, you goddamned pain in the ass.”
People dogsled the Iditarod Trail, right? They also bike, run, and ski it. In the middle of the winter. In Alaska. Unsupported. For 1100 miles, 350 or 130, take your pick. This is not a joke. In our house it’s been on the bucket list of racing adventures for the last 20 years, within reach for 10 years, actively planned for one year, and completed in 6 days.
The Iditabike was started in 1987 as a 200-mile course on the Iditarod Trail. Racers didn’t know what to expect, but showed up anyway with their little mountain bikes and a hodgepodge of clothing and gear. Once a mountain is climbed, new feats must be sought and the Iditasport Extreme, a 350 mile event, was created and later expanded to the full 1100 mile race to Nome. The Iditarod Trail Invitational was created by a former Iditasport racer, Bill Merchant, a race for racers, unsupported, no purse, no mandatory gear, with no marked route.
Fatbiking has grown exponentially over the last decade and the mountain gear has been refined. The fact remains, biking, skiing or running on the Iditarod Trail, in the middle of an Alaskan winter, is going to be very hard. Some years are harder than others and 2017 was a doozy. Read below for my personal interview with a 350-mile ITI 2017 finisher.
What first interested you in the ITI? There was a mountain bike book I saw in the 90’s of the most extreme races in the world. Most people didn’t finish it.
Why did you sign up this year? I’d had multiple years of good finishes in the Arrowhead Ultra (an 135 mile event in Minnesota) and my wife told me it was time to get out of my comfort zone. The greatest enemy to human potential is your comfort zone. I have that in my office and I figured I should follow my own advice.
3. What preparation for the ITI do you think helped the most? Beyond the riding, extensive training, it was the winter camping trips. It’s one thing to have gear, you need to know how to use it. I slept outside a lot this past winter in Minnesota. You need to be comfortable with going to sleep outside in dangerous temps. Mental preparedness. I obsessed over this race from the gear to potential equipment failures.
4. It’s been said that going out on the trail changes you. Did it? Yes. I’m not sure of all of the ramifications yet. From a riding standpoint, it pushed me beyond what I thought was possible. For my family, hopefully, I’m a role model to my kids. Not everything was within my control. It scared me. We were caught in a snowstorm and the temps were -50 on the trail. Because of the extreme weather, there was so much clarity. It was basic: hydrate, eat, and move forward, but all of it was an enormous challenge in the weather. Being in a 50 mile an hour headwind through a mountain pass gaining elevation at -20 to -40 below temps, it’s relentless. It’s scary seeing people turning around like they had seen a ghost while you’re trying to decide if you should continue on or not. Bivvying outside those nights, I knew there wasn’t a margin of error. None of my gear had been tested for that.
5. Highlights? Best moments? Finishing. Most didn’t. Really though, being immersed in the Alaskan interior, it’s beautiful. Stopping at camps and being welcomed into some of the culture and living in the moment.
There was a 22-year-old guy camping by the river all winter. He invited me in for lynx and coffee. The lynx was burnt, the fish was being boiled for his dogs, and the skinned beaver was a little alarming when you biked up, but the kid was so friendly and welcoming.
6. What advice would you have for others considering this? Overprepare. If you don’t live in extreme conditions, find them and train in them. Learn how to push your bike for hours. There was one entire day that I had to push my bike, because the trail was unrideable.
7. How would you characterize yourself as an endurance athlete? I’m good, but not the best. I have a high dose of experience in extreme conditions and a lot of tolerance.
8. What’s next for you? I don’t think there’s anything that can compare to the ITI when the conditions are extreme, like they were this year. The hardest part of the trail, with the most elevation change, is in the first 350 miles, but riding to Nome would be a great experience. Some have done the ride to Nome ten times. You get addicted.
9. Final thoughts? Standing in a swamp looking up at Mountain cliffs makes Alaska what it is. The people of Alaska in the backcountry are amazing, self-reliant, but helpful. They aren’t looking for handouts or attention, they just want to be outside in Alaska. I get it now.
Riding the Iditarod Trail for 350 or 1100 miles isn’t my dream. It may not be yours either, but you have to respect those that are pushing the limits of their experience and ability to endure. Keep sharing moxie.
The convention center was packed with $1,000 tables, the dress casual, as all Alaskan events seem to be, and the mushers mingled in the crowds. My favorite part of the night? The clear fact that the mushers would rather be on the trails than mingling, the times their faces really grew animated was when talking about their dogs.
I am here in Anchorage this week by happenstance, others because being a part of the Iditarod is on their bucket list. The Musher’s banquet was filled with the founders, memories of them, and racing legends. The Iditarod has groupies like you would expect at a rock concert. People lined up to have their favorite mushers sign their shirts and take pictures (see picture below of an acquaintance pictured with two identical twin mushers). I saw a book of trading cards even. As with every sport, there is a culture, and the Iditarod is no different.
The Iditarod Sled Dog Race was co-founded by Joe Redington who wanted the Iditarod trail listed as a National Trail, much like Lewis & Clark. He became friends with Dorothy Page who wanted to save the sport of dog mushing. The combination of their two interests became one and the Iditarod Sled Dog Race was born. It’s the 45th running of the Iditarod this year and Joe’s three grandsons are entered in the 2017 race carrying on the family tradition and his crooked grin.
Sled dogs used to be the major mode of transportation here in Alaska. It was the 1925 serum run to Nome, also known as the Great Race of Mercy, a transport of diphtheria antitoxin serum by dog sled relay across the U.S. territory of Alaska by 20 mushers and about 150 sled dogs 674 miles (1,085 km) in five and a half days that put dog mushing back on the world’s stage briefly before airplanes changed the face of travel completely. The Serum Run saved the small town of Nome and the surrounding communities from an incipient epidemic and the lead dog, Balto, became a legend. By the 1950’s and early 60’s families weren’t passing down methods of dog mushing to the younger generation and it was beginning to die out. The Iditarod Trail race has become the iconic symbol of this state and frontier life. It accomplished both Dorothy and Joe’s goals, to bring life to the Iditarod trail and renewed interest in dogsledding.
It isn’t called the “The Last Great Race” for nothing. In a world where constant communication is normalized, mechanization is prized, and comfort is sought above all, the Iditarod Sled Dog Race is a uniquely special event. The mushers have to train their dogs all year, yet elements of the race can’t be controlled now, just as they couldn’t in 1925, racing to Nome. Weather can be harsh, dogs can struggle, yet the mushers continue on.
For me, I started the week not caring a fig newton about this race, and now I’m fangirling. Susan Butcher, the late female racing legend of the Iditarod, named her firstborn after her lead dog, Teckla, that made the first dog-sled ascent of Denali. The Iditarod has strong women, strong men, all heart, and a crazy love of nature and animals. We could use more of this in the world. Iditarod, welcome to your newest fan.