Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
From there, it’s an assembly line of procedure—Grant McManus introduces Tyler to the crowd as the champion before shuttling him over to hand him the oversized prize check for photo ops, and then beyond to a slogan-laden presentation of a pickup truck from the sponsoring dealership. Finally, they head to a table, where Tyler sits with Tank and Nala, and the officials place yellow rose garlands around the lead dogs’ necks.
I smile as he ropes his arms around them, pulling them tight to his side, his grin for the cameras genuine and wide.
Reporters converge with microphones and questions, and I strain to hear his answers around all the background noise, hoping to glean a bit more insight on a man who avoids talking about himself.
“You were living in Finland before you moved to Alaska last summer. And you raced and won the Finnmarksløpet, the longest dogsled race in Europe, a year ago at this time. How would you compare these two trails?” a female reporter, unseen on the screen, asks.
“They’re both incredibly challenging. The Finnmark is a bit shorter at 750 miles, but with strong winds across the fells and the temperatures, it can get treacherous. I’d say finishing either is a great feat, no matter whether you’re first or last.” His eyes dart to the camera before shifting to a spot on the ground
“Did you grow up mushing?” a man asks.
“I didn’t. I discovered it a few years ago, when I moved to Finland from Montana and fell in love with it immediately.”
“You say you’ve only been doing this for a few years, and yet here you are, a world champion of the Finnmarksløpet and now the Iditarod.”
“Maybe more than a few years.” He grins sheepishly. “And I had good training. Tero and Anja Rask, of Rask Huskies in Finland, have been mushing their entire lives. Tero has raced and won the Finnmarksløpet three times. They’re both here, actually. Right over there.” He points somewhere beyond the camera and throws up a wave, I assume, to them.
I mentally take note of the names, intent on searching them once I can peel my gaze from Tyler’s face. That answers the question about the man he hugged.
“You were married to their daughter, Mila Rask, also a competitive musher in Finland. Is that how you were introduced to mushing?” another male voice asks. They’re firing questions at Tyler from all angles, as if armed with them ahead of time. I guess that makes sense. No one has been able to pin him down until now, and people watching want to know about this year’s champion.
The muscle in Tyler’s jaw ticks. “Yes, that’s right. My wife’s family are big into mushing and when I met her, I fell in love. With everything, I guess. Her. The dogs. The life.”
My heart squeezes, hearing him so candidly admit that.
“Mila Rask was a top-five finalist in the Finnmarksløpet in previous years and expected to win one day, until she tragically passed away during childbirth just under two years ago, as did your son. Did you …”
The reporter’s question fades with the blood rushing to my ears, my horrified focus on Tyler’s face as it takes on a stony expression. This reporter clearly dug into Tyler’s personal life in preparation for the interview. Why would he mention that on a livestream as Tyler’s celebrating his win, though?
No wonder Tyler avoids interviews.
My stomach churns as I wait for Tyler’s answer to the insensitive ass’s question—whatever it was. “That’s right. This is Mila’s team.” His attention shifts to Tank, his hand scratching the dog’s chest. “She always talked about racing the Iditarod, and so it was a no-brainer that I would do it for her now that she can’t. This race, and this win, was for her.”
“And a monumental win it is! A thirty-seven-year-old rookie crossing under the Burled Arch with his full team …” The questions drift into another direction—about the race’s challenges, about what his postrace routine looks like, about next year—and I only half listen.
Tyler would have been about thirty-five when he lost his wife. Not just her, either. A son, too. How did it happen? Did he drive her to the hospital, their hands clasped, their senses buzzing with excitement and nerves, and all the possibilities for years to come, of a full life together?
Only to drive home alone?
Mila’s bag in the trunk, empty car seat in the back.
No wife.
No child.
What would she say about all he’s accomplished in her honor?
How often does he think about her?
I can’t imagine the pain that must consume him from the moment he wakes until he drifts off at night.
How do you get over something like that?
Not in two years, you don’t.
Possibly never.
My life is the way I want it. Uncomplicated.
Our last parting is beginning to make more sense. Maybe I wasn’t imagining everything after all. Maybe there was a spark of interest there, at least a physical one, but it’s clear he’s still living for his wife.