6 am and we're up and taking a walk - our secret weapon to ensure that Nick is not doing his business during the race! By 7:30 Debi is getting the dogs groomed to a T - they may not win, but by God they'll be a credit to the Welsh race! Before the day ends, they'll be mistaken for Airedales, "miniature Airedales" (no such thing), "wire-haired terriers" (meaning Fox Terriers), and lots more; when you're representing your breed you have to look the part, even if the masses don't appreciate the treat they're getting.
We haven't left yet but the Nick is clearly wired - the game is afoot and he knows it already, even before the competition is in sight.
By 8:30 we're at the race - early enough for a smallish (perhaps 400) race that starts at 9:00, but not too early because Nicky will spend the next half hour literally going nuts - sensory overload - twirling around (always clockwise!), attacking dogs here and there at random (better to disable them before the race than to have to run them down later), and so on. I warm up a little, and a brief glare of the sun leads me to change into my singlet (DRS singlet - NOT!) even though up to now I've been thinking cool morning.
Nick and I head for the front of the pack - any further back and it will mean big trouble for any dog in our way! Nick entertains the crowd for a while with more twirling (and I mean, non-stop), psyching them out into thinking he's using up his energy before the race! Hah! A few minutes before the race starts we tuck in just behind the front row, me holding Nicky to avoid the fights which would be certain to occur. In past years I've thrown him to the ground at the gun, but being in the second row this isn't going to work, so with 20 seconds to go I put him down. More twirling, and near fights, but he knows the race is about to start so none of the fights are serious.
The starter shouts Go! (no shot to frighten the dogs) and the frenetic pack starts to go. Nicky starts at about 5:30 pace, desparately trying to get past the few dogs in front. The Nick does not want anyone in front of us! Unlike Nick, however, I know two things - 1) I can't run that kind of pace; and 2) neither can he! I restrain him as best I can, settling back into the 6:45 pace which is more reasonable for both of us.
Around the first turn and the first casualty of the excitement - a fellow with a British accent who was well ahead of us is pulled up short by his dog, intent on doing the business that dog's do. We smile and run past, content in the knowledge that our "secret trick" will avoid a similar fate. At about the half mile mark, a guy in baggy shorts with a horrible style goes by us! Bad news! I'm not sexist; I have no problems being past by women. Baby joggers are slightly humiliating, but anyone who can push a baby at 7:00/mile is a good athlete in my book. But baggy shorts? This shall not stand! I resolve he won't finish the race ahead of us! [A few years ago in a triathlon, a guy passed me on the bike wearing BLACK STREET SOCKS! I had a similar reaction, and was galvanized into riding for all I was worth until he was left behind].
At the one-mile mark, the first (dog) water stop. I slow slightly, but Nicky shows no interest, and we press on. Baggy shorts and his dog stopped for a drink! We never see them again! Somewhere in the next mile, we pass that British guy again, his dog stopped for more business! Tough luck, guy!
Two women go by in the next mile, but settle in just slightly ahead of us. We go through mile 2 and passed the second (dog) and first (human) water stop; again picking up one or two places as some of the dogs stop to drink. But not us - we came to race! A body check says all systems are go - legs and lungs ok, ready for the final mile. With a half mile to go we speed up, and pull past the two women. Nicky tugs on the leash and says he want to stop. I yank back, and we run on. Can't stop now, Nick!
Now the finish line is in sight through the trees, 1/4 mile to go! Damn! Nicky has stopped dead, and this time he's serious! The secret trick has failed! Nick is going to do his business and there's not a thing I can do about it! The two women run by, along with two or three others who I later learn were in my division. Damn!
15 seconds later, we're off. C'mon Nick, let's go! Nicky, his load lightened, is up to the challenge, and we sprint to the finish, passing one of those who just went by us on the way. We finish, as the rules require, with Nicky crossing the finish line first (no problem with a runner like Nick), with a time of 21:54, not our best time (that was three years ago with 21:16) but our second best ever, and feeling like we ran a darn good race, with nary a negative thought creeping into the brain during the race. Our finish is good for 28th overall but only 13th in our division, which is "male runner, medium (10-20") dog."
Some time (much) later, we head for the finish line to watch for Debi and Jody. Here comes Jody, her smaller legs scooting along, looking like she was actually running the race (I learn later that "the anchor," as we call her, actually lived up to her name; she was only putting on a good show at the finish).
During the awards ceremony, I learn that British guy must have passed me again, and actually medalled! Good job with a 30-second handicap!
We'll be back next year, and next year, we're taking a longer walk in the morning!
Steve Patt 8)
and Nicky "the flying Welshman"
Palo Alto, CA (w)/Cupertino, CA (h)
E-Mail: slp@nmr.varian.com