In addition, there’s the personal rush of wearing a media badge and rubbing shoulders with photographers and reporters from around the world, as well as gaining access to the mushers and teams for interviews and photos.
This year, however, my excitement was weighted down by a recently broken, cast-covered foot and propped up by a pair of armpit-torturing crutches.
As Saturday’s ceremonial race start approached, I worried about how I could possibly enjoy the event as I had in the past. In fact, when Dad and I met for breakfast Saturday morning, I still didn’t have an answer when he asked what I had planned. The best we could do was agree to go our separate ways and meet back at the hotel in the afternoon. That way I wouldn’t slow him down, and I could deal privately with my limited possibilities and personal frustrations.
Although they were ice- and snow-covered, allowing a mere four blocks to separate me from the excitement of the starting line was more than I could bear. So, I decided, I’d just take it very, very slowly. I had a whole hour to make my way to Fourth and C Street, a good place for photos.
Hanging my camera around my neck, extra batteries in one pocket, a notebook in another and my checkbook in another, zipping my coat and putting on my gloves, I headed up the street. And one slow step at a time, I finally managed to reach my goal.
But that sense of accomplishment was second to a very unexpected gift given repeatedly throughout the day — the insightful kindness of strangers. Passersby made my slow progress easier with their smiles, words of encouragement, offers to run interference and stories of their experiences with crutches. Not once, at least within earshot, did I hear anyone say I should go home.
A very patient Iditarod race official searched for and eventually found my media pass at the temporary headquarters set up in a location that I couldn’t access.
With a crowd of shoppers filling the store, a sales clerk in the Army Navy Surplus Store took time to find me a fold-up chair that fit into a bag I could carry over my shoulder. Then he stood by while I tested my ability to take it out of its bag, unfold it, refold it and put it back into its bag without losing my balance and toppling over.
A policeman helped me make it the last few steps of the way, unfolded the chair and positioned it so I had a clear view of the starting line.
With two minutes separating each of the 84 mushers leaving the ceremonial starting line, the start stretched to three hours, making it a chilling experience for onlookers. In spite of all my preplanning, I had overlooked the need for a hat. But a woman wearing a New York VIP badge overheard a photographer and I discussing being chilly and she promptly gave me an extra hat she had in her pocket.
And so went the morning. One unexpected kindness after another turned the day into something quite different than I had anticipated and quite different from anything I have ever experienced.
When the race ended, someone helped me refold my chair, put it in its bag and position it on my shoulder. Within a few steps I realized that keeping the bag on my shoulder was going to be a challenge, but no sooner did I stop to try and resolve the problem than a woman ran up and said, “Let me fix that for you.” And she did.
A few weeks dealing with the inconvenience of a cast on one foot and crutches tucked under each arm can’t begin to compare with a lifetime impacted by physical or mental impairments.
But the kindness shown by family, friends and, most surprisingly, by strangers is a gift that fits all predicaments and is meant to be passed on.
McKibben Jackinsky can be reached at mckibben.jackinsky@homernews.com.
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