[what Tater Tot and I look like when we’re winning — photograph courtesy of JIMMY]

I love it when the dark horse wins.  Actually, I love to be the dark horse.  When I find myself in a dark horse position, here’s what I like to do:

1.  Meet up with the folks I am competing with and be my regular curious, dorky, runty self.  I am very physically unimpressive to look at so everyone pretends to not really notice me until I force them to talk to me by offering up chipper hellos to them and introducing myself.  I’m an ice breaker.  It’s practically my vocation in life.  Then, more often than not, strangers want to impress and test the dark horse so they talk a lot about their sponsorships, make a big deal about their malamutes and generally look down in disbelief at the little brown bird dog by my side.

NOTE: You can make yourself an even DARKER dark horse if you are the only competitor running a single dog.  No one can take a single dog team seriously.  Come on now.

2.  I tie on my racing bib.  Wait in line for the staggered start.  Put on my skis.  Eventually step up to the line with humility and a general plan to be as excellent as I can be.  I want to have fun but I also want to win.  I want to win really badly.  I want to be the best of the day.  I want my dog to be celebrated.

3.  When the official yells at me to start, I ski until I feel like my heart is going to fall out of my chest and my shoulders feel covered in flames.  I step skate all the corners and do NOT slow down for them.  I ski so fast I am on the brink of being out of control at times.  I double pole relentlessly, stab the ground over and over, bend my knees, push off with my back, legs, core.  Stab and push.  Stab and push.  A thousand times.  I cheer on my dog at the top of my lungs — he likes my enthusiasm and digs in a little deeper when I call out.  We are relentless, my dog and I.

4.  When I catch a ski tip in a snow machine rut and suffer the worst arse-over-teakettle wipe out in the history of my skiing career and Tater proceeds to drag me at terminal velocity about 15 feet down the trail, face first, I get up, untangle the lines, check if I have a nosebleed and ski even harder until I reach the point of bodily fire again…

5.  …then, I sustain that burning state of exertion, pass the skier who started before me, ski on, hard and fast, and four miles later I cross the finish line.  And smile.  Big.

6.  Then I kiss my pup right between the eyes and tell him he is the fastest, strongest dog of the day.  Then I hug my husband when he runs over with his cowbell and stopwatch to tell me that I crushed the competition and the nearest time to mine is nearly 2.5 minutes off.

7.  Then I thank my competitors, one by one, for a lovely race and earnestly share with them how much fun it was, offer gratitude for their presence, meet all their dogs and kiss them all between the eyes and tell them they are wonderful and cherished and fast and strong dogs, too.