Clattering hooves approached hard from behind, and then Rick and Roger pulled alongside us with their big racing burros. Flower tugged to run beside them, so I took a chance; I let my hand slip down Flower’s halter and played out the rope, testing whether I could manage their pace. And as soon as I did, I was the one who needed to be held back; it was a total rush to shift into a run and join the herd rather than resist it. Instead of being battered by monster waves, it was like riding one, sensing its power to beat you down but knowing you’ll be whisked softly to shore. Side by side with the Pedretti boys, we climbed to the top of Front Street and then, in a weird footnote to an already weird event, we entered South Park City, a restored mining town said to be an inspiration for Comedy Central’s South Park.
“Control,” Rick reminded me. He pointed to a runner clipping along just ahead with a mini-donkey no bigger than Matilda. “You can learn from that guy, John Vincent.”
“Is he the guy Barb Dolan calls ‘that fucking leprechaun’?”
“Barb calls him ‘that fucking’ lots of things,” Rick agreed. “He aggravates her. But he’s good.”
That was Rick’s Wisconsin-nice way of saying “See ya!” He and Roger floated ahead, shifting up to gears we couldn’t match. Fast as the Pedrettis were, though, John Vincent and little Crazy Horse continued to pull away even as the brothers accelerated. Still, John couldn’t shake a young woman who trailed barely two steps behind, matching him stride for stride. I’d heard about that phenomenon: she had to be Louise Kuehster. Like Lynzi Doke, Louise had taken up burro racing in high school, and now that she was a twenty-year-old freshman rower at the University of Oklahoma, she’d returned to the mountains with formidable skills, strength, and speed.
Even from a distance, Louise and John’s battle was beautiful to behold: their legs swung in perfect unison with the burros’, their feet pop-pop-popping lightly off the ground like boxers skipping rope. Their flow reminded me of Curtis’s tip about running to the rhythm, and just in time: at half a mile into the race, the altitude was catching up with me. I sucked in a steadying breath and calmed my pace to the beat of Kip’s mantra: Fear that thing…do that thing…Fear that thing…
* * *
—
“Here she goes again,” I yelled back to Mika and Tammy. “Everyone good?”
“So far!” Mika said.
The best thing about Flower, as the race was teaching us, also made her a pain in the ass. Flower has a social instinct that’s off the charts; she’s gentle with everyone and obsessive about sticking tight to Sherman and Matilda. She’s also a stalker who beelines obsessively for anyone in front of her. That instinct was terrific for training; back home, we could always send one of the kids out on her bike as a rabbit, and Flower would follow so closely that her breath would puff the rider’s hair. But out here on the mountain, it was rabbits as far as the eye could see. By this point, we’d run about a mile, and the field of racers had strung out into a long parade heading up into the mountain. For Flower, every runner ahead of us was even more irresistible than the one we’d just passed.
But I had to admit, I loved her guts. Flower was pushing me to try something I would never have done on my own: compete. Two days ago, Mika and I were panting our guts out in Kip’s driveway, wondering how we would ever be able to run more than a few dozen yards at 10,000 feet. Our strategy for today was to trot slowly and be happy with finishing dead last, as long as we finished. Something was clicking, though; every time Flower set her sights on another burro farther up the trail, I would prepare for dizzy spells and wobbly legs. But so far, nothing. Either we were jacked through the roof on adrenaline and a contact serotonin high from all the animals around us, or we’d acclimated just enough for the benefits of Coach Eric’s hillwork-hell month to kick in.
With Tammy Pedretti taking Matilda, Team Sherman is off and racing.
We were rocking along so well, I was napping when Flower led me straight toward death. “Dude!” I blurted. “What the hell!” The race course had exited the woods and, for a short stretch, skirted the highway. Before I noticed what she was doing, Flower curved us off the trail and right toward the stream of speeding cars. I pulled her back and started off again, but three yards later, she veered toward the road again like she was drawn by a suicidal impulse. Was her stalker reflex short-circuiting, somehow attracting her to the noise and energy of whooshing cars? I had no idea, but luckily, we had a remedy for mysteries like this.
“Time for Matilda,” I called.
Tammy jogged up at once with her partner. “Can you see if she’ll lead us out of this?” I asked. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Flower.” Tammy gave a little Barb Dolan growl, and Matilda lunged obediently ahead, swerving around Flower to take point. Sherman bolted to catch up, leaving Flower to traipse along behind as Tammy led us out of the danger zone. Soon we were back in the brush and I could risk letting Flower set pace as lead dog again. The trail was twisty and tough to follow, with deep ruts and scraggly rocks hiding everywhere as broken-ankle traps. I was so intent on keeping my eyes down and my focus sharp that I was shocked when we rounded a bend and suddenly I was face-to-face with Kip.
“Five miles!” he hooted.
“Seriously? We’ve gone five?” I looked around. “Where’s everyone else?”
“That boy, Ben, was having trouble with his burro, so the girls were back helping him out.”
Ten seconds earlier, we’d been hucking our way through the brush and hating life. Now that we knew how far we’d come, I didn’t want to stop. “Wait for the kids, or keep going?” I asked Tammy and Mika.
“Keep going!” they both sang out.
* * *
—
I couldn’t get over the all-terrain skill show that Mika and Sherman were putting on behind me. Sherman was so enthralled to be flowing along in a donkey parade, he was nearly bouncing—and that still made him only the second-happiest being attached to his rope. Every time I glanced back, Mika was chatting to Sherman, urging him onward with a steady stream of endearments. I didn’t know if Mika was riding an adrenaline high or was finally getting the payoff she deserved from all our hill training in the form of a red blood cell boost, but she was having the run of a lifetime. Suddenly, it dawned on me how fitting it was for Mika to be sharing this moment with Sherman.
We’d all been so focused on Zeke’s accident that until then it never clicked that Mika had undergone a transformation just as big as Sherman’s, and all for only one reason: to help everyone else. Me, Zeke, Sherman—we’d all gotten into this thing because there was something about ourselves that needed fixing. Mika had been doing just fine. She’d never asked for any of this, but all it took for her was one look at a sick donkey with crippled feet, standing alone in the back of a hay wagon, and she was committed to doing whatever would make him well again. During all those months of bucking hay in 20-degree temperatures, and hauling buckets of water from the creek in snowshoes, and waiting for me to figure out how the hell to get us back out of the maze, she was never anything less than joyful. No one had worked harder this past year, or come farther, than the two of them. Zeke was Sherman’s best friend, no doubt about it; but Mika was the loving spirit that made this possible for all of us.
Mika trains with Flower and follows the skirt-and-a-smile strategy.
Half a mile later, I heard the low rumble of hoofbeats and quickly pulled back on Flower’s rope. The lead racers were flying back toward us, and I was thrilled to see Louise hadn’t lost a step on past champion John Vincent. The two of them were pinballing expertly around the serpentine trail, pitter-pattering over the rocks and ruts without a stumble. With little over five miles to go, Louise looked strong enough to blow past him at any moment.
“GO, LOUISE!” I shouted, and got a quizzical smile in return. Thanks, buddy. And who are you again?
After the front runners had whooshed
by, we chirruped the donkeys back into a trot and soon popped out of the woods and onto a dirt road dropping downhill to the turnaround. I felt something bumping and snorting against my leg, and looked down to find Sherman—Sherman!—bursting ahead to challenge Flower for the lead. Until then, he’d been cruising steadily, but seeing the lead donkeys streaming back toward us put a zip in his stride and made his ears rocket up, as if he was inspired by his first good look at what a fast donkey could do. We rolled on down the hill, arriving at the halfway point and its authentic burro race–style aid station: a battered cooler with a few water bottles and a trough for the donkeys.
All six of us took a few quick sips, then five of us headed for home. I didn’t realize what was going on until I’d gotten a good hundred yards or so back up the homeward climb and heard the bellow of a heartbroken Sherman echoing behind me. I turned back and saw that Sherman hadn’t budged from the cooler. Mika was trying everything to get him moving again, and when she saw we were looking, she raised her hands in a big shrug: What now? Tammy and I turned around—but then I heard Karin’s voice in my mind. “See it through his eyes,” she would say. So what was Sherman up to? He wanted Flower and Matilda to meander around with him for a while at the trough. Going back wouldn’t change that. Only one thing would.
“Let’s go,” I told Tammy. “We’re leaving them.”
She cocked an eye. “You’re leaving your wife? On the mountain?” Not even the speediest women in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pee Break would abandon one of their own out here, and I was ditching my spouse? “She’ll understand,” I said. And hoped. I straightened Flower around and hopped her up again. Tammy and I got back in our groove, and when Sherman hollered this time, I kept eyes front. Sherman let loose another heartbreaker; it lingered and echoed, and then everything went silent. I cranked my head as little as possible, just enough to sneak a glance back, and saw the Wild Thing hammering toward us at a gallop. Mika had played out every inch of her rope and was barely holding on to the end.
“Shit, now we’ve got to go back,” I told Tammy, wheeling Flower around. If Mika and Sherman broke contact, she wouldn’t be able to continue the race until she’d caught him herself and returned to the spot where he’d broken free. With more than seven miles yet to run, we couldn’t risk draining our tanks by chasing Sherman around in the Rockies. Tammy and I hurried back downhill, and when Sherman saw us coming, he eased to a trot. Mika managed to stay with him until we were all united again. We gave Sherman a chance to nip and frisk around with his buddies while Mika fought for her breath, and then we started again for town.
Ahead, we could hear yelling and a piercing whistle. Ben Wann was struggling with Burrito, I saw, and out of nowhere a band of spectators had magically materialized and were cheering him along. As we got closer, I realized it wasn’t magic so much as Kip’s driving: he’d manhandled our rented minivan up that rutted fire road and flung the doors open, allowing Kristin and Zeke and the kids to pour out and let Ben know that no matter where he was out here, friends were near. We crested the hill just as Ben was heading down, sharing weak high-fives on both sides. We now had less than five miles to go, but we’d also crested 11,000 feet and it was catching up with us. We were about to leave the fire road, and I was dreading what lay ahead.
“I can’t take another stretch in the maze,” I muttered to myself, before realizing what I was thinking. The maze? Did I really just blank out and think I was back in the Southern End, fighting our way through another steaming summer workout in the slate quarry? I forced my mind back to my conversation with Carol that morning, trying to remember what she’d said about altitude sickness. Were delusions a red alert? I put up a hand, calling for a slow-down, before I realized there was another side to this. I was exhausted; I was sucking in big belly breaths; but I was also imprinted by the memory of that first day in the maze, when we’d led the donkeys into the woods with no idea how we’d get back out again. I’d never forgotten that moment, the do-or-die sensation that if we were serious about tackling the World Championship, the maze was a fear we were going to have to conquer. No wonder it came roaring back up again when I was feeling like these last few miles might be more than we could handle.
“Okay, I’m good now,” I said, and turned toward Mika. “Ready for some fun in the maze?”
“Always,” she said, and that was the last word out of any of us for the next few miles. We dropped our heads and locked eyes on the trail, willing our minds to stay sharp as we felt our energy fading. It felt like forever before we looked up—and saw a horrifically steep hill ahead. It looked like torture. And then I remembered. “Is that the dirt bank that Rick told us about?” I asked Tammy.
“I think so. Yes, definitely. That’s it.”
Then that means…
Together, we clawed and scrambled our way up the slippery bank, our feet churning through crushed dirt as soft as sand. The donkeys lunged and powered up on their own, the tools clanging against their saddles. I slipped to my knees, and when I saw that Mika was about to lose her footing, I jammed my hand under her sneaker as a foothold. I’d never felt more desperate to get up a hill, because I had a feeling that at the top we’d find…
Rick was right. That hill was a beast, but when we beat it, we were looking down at the last quarter mile along Front Street to the finish line. “Ready for your victory parade, Sherman?” I said. Sherman was shaking his mane and nipping at Flower, impatient for these slow humans to get going. After all, he had a job to do. “Let’s do it, Flower,” I called, then pulled her back. If anyone was truly reaching a finish line today, it was Mika and Sherman. I wasn’t sure how Sherman would handle the commotion of a cheering crowd, but as Mika took him out and we trotted down the street, his head flashed up. I shouldn’t have worried about letting Mika go first: as soon as Sherman saw Zeke waiting at the finish line, he was off like a shot…
Except Matilda wouldn’t have it. She coiled and sprang, whipping past Sherman and leading us across the line in four hours and two seconds, putting us in 28th, 29th, and 30th place out of fifty-two starters. I dropped my hands to my knees, exhausted and elated, until I looked up and saw Amber and Brad Wann. We’d been through a lot with Sherman that year, and there were times when it felt like we were struggling with a challenge that we would never really understand. But that was nothing compared to what they must be going through. The Wanns had put their hopes on a burro, and now their boy was out there by himself while they waited, anxious and helpless, hoping they were right.
As I was struggling for something to say, Amber’s eyes lit up. Far up Front Street, a small figure was jogging steadily closer. Murmurs spread through the crowd, and then a cheer grew until it turned into a roar. By the time Ben crossed the finish line, the noise was too deafening to hear the announcer shout his name. But everyone could read the words on Ben’s shirt, and in a flash, I realized what Sherman must have been thinking from the moment he got back on his feet and was given a chance to start his new life:
Trust Me. I’ve Got This.
27
Home Is Wherever I’m with You
A few months later, I was over at Tanya’s when she emerged from her tack shed with a saddle across her arm. I hurried to help her, but she waved me off. “I’m good,” she said. “Go on in and get yours.”
It had been nearly half a year since Tanya’s accident, and with all the commotion of traveling back from Colorado and preparing the kids for school and the farm for winter, this was the first real chance we’d had to catch up on everything she’d missed. Mika and I had taken her out to celebrate over barbecued ribs as soon as we got home, but there was so much to tell and so much to eat that we’d barely scratched the surface before Tanya had to get home and tend to her animals. We found the perfect opportunity to get together again after a teenage girl down the road from Tanya asked about riding lessons. Naturally, Tanya took that as an opportunity to sally off to a last-stop-b
efore-slaughter auction and rescue a rangy red mare she named Chili, and since I was also interested in learning, Tanya was taking me out that morning for Lesson #1: a three-hour trek through the maze, down the railroad tracks, across a few creeks, and into the back pastures of at least half a dozen farms. For the first time since well before her accident, Tanya would be reunited with Flower, while I’d see what I could do with Chili.
“You’re okay riding?” I asked, as Tanya pulled herself onto Flower’s back.
“As long as it’s on this sweetie,” she said. “Donkeys are so much steadier than horses, so I should be fine.”
We were silent for the first mile or so as I wobbled along behind Tanya, doing my best to remember her tips and match her poise, screwing my butt hard into the saddle and keeping my heels down. I could barely relax long enough to take a breath from one end of the maze to the other, but after I survived that roller coaster, I felt comfortable enough to pull up alongside Tanya and chat. Unbelievably, she had suffered yet another horrendous burst of bad luck: during a thunderstorm, a utility pole had crashed down in her corral and electrocuted her favorite carriage horse. Tanya nearly died herself when she raced outside at the sound of the transformer bursting and remembered only at the last second not to touch the metal gate. But recently, there were some glimmers that her insane cycle of misfortunes was coming to an end. She was recovering well from her crash, partly because her riding tutorials with the teenage neighbor were strengthening her back and reviving her spirits by getting her out in the woods. She was still scrambling to support her farm, but she’d become a fixture in the local Amish community and had a full slate of driving clients to keep her afloat.
She loved hearing about her rough-riding soul sisters, the Ladies, who’d bonded with us so tightly as adventure buddies that I was planning to see them in a few weeks if I learned to trail-ride well enough to join them for an event in Virginia. Tanya was eager for updates on her old pal Zekipedia, who was now back at Penn State with his one-eyed cat studying time travel, or whatever nano/neuro/nuclear stuff he majored in. I was delighted to report that Zeke had strayed from his marriage with physics to date an actual human woman, although of course the information was delivered Zeke-style: “She’s a great mathematician,” he’d told me, before revealing under follow-up questioning that oh, yeah, she’s also lovely and warm and witty. Zeke’s sister, Ashling, was also in a great place and had done so well at Penn State that she was selected for a fellowship in pharmacology at one of Philadelphia’s most prestigious hospitals.
Running with Sherman Page 33