Why mushing fans support Lance Mackey, no matter what

KASILOF — By now, loyal mushing fans have heard the news that Lance Mackey — the only person to win both the Iditarod and Yukon Quest sled dog races in the same year — withdrew from the Last Great Race, citing "health reasons."

I was sad to learn the news, and I quickly realized after reading the comments at the bottom of the Alaska Dispatch News story and the well-wishes left from fans on Lance's social media page that I was not alone.

"Be well Lance! You are the Alaska we love!" wrote Jim678. "You da Man, Lance Mackey! Here's to recovery and 2018 will be your New Year!" added Andi Taggart.

The adoration goes on and on.

It got me wondering why. The venue at the bottom of Internet stories is all too often a gathering place for people who prior to the Internet were big into writing salacious poetry on bathroom stalls. I've witnessed even the most benign stories digress into a pissing contest of cantankerous comments, so how does Lance pull off having so many people from so many different walks of life admire him?

I can only base my answer on my own experience, and that of my wife Colleen, who's also an Iditarod and Quest veteran.

[Lance Mackey withdraws from 2017 Iditarod, citing health]

Lance was one of the first people we met upon moving to Kasilof. It was 2002, and Lance had just completed his first Iditarod that winter. As is common among mushers in our town, he was having people over for a post-cold-weather-season barbecue. We had moved next door to him, so he invited us over to be neighborly.

He had recently improved his family's living situation — from a tent to a tiny cabin that appeared to be built from construction scraps pulled out of the dump. A couple of broken-down vehicles rusted in the front yard.

It didn't appear he had much to his name, but he didn't hesitate to offer us a cold beer and some of the food sizzling on the grill. He was willing — even eager — to share what he had.

What Lance possessed in abundance was dogs, and like many mushers in spring, he was looking to part with a few of the dozens living on his property.

In the years after he won the big races, Lance bred and sold dogs for thousands of dollars. But these were still the days when he could barely give a dog away, so we took a husky off his hands — one of the first for our start-up kennel and an animal who's now a graying old-timer sitting on the couch beside me as I type this.

Over the years, as Cole and I learned to mush and shared trails with Lance, we had tons of passes with him — some clean but many that resulted in our teams tangled in a huge mess. He never lost his temper, never raised his voice, never hurled a single insult over our rookie ignorance.

As a reporter, I got to know Lance even better. He seemed to perpetually pop up in stories my editor wanted me to chase down. Everything from his battle with cancer, to coping with having teeth and fingers removed as a result of the disease, and eventually his many wins on the ascent from rags to riches.

[Mackey ditches dog sled for race car at Alaska Raceway Park]

I didn't just watch, I reported on his transformation — from the guy who won the ugliest truck award for the beater he drove to the 2008 Knik 200, to a guy who won multiple new trucks as prizes for his Iditarod victories. A few memories stand out that, I think, define Lance's character, charm and at times his comedic side that is wholly natural and seemingly unintentional.

One of the most enduring to me came during a brutally cold Copper Basin 300. That year the race started late because, as per the rules, organizers had to wait for the mercury to rise to minus-40 before starting. Lance had many 1,000-mile-race wins under his belt, and everywhere he went throngs of people wanted to be near him.

At a checkpoint about 100 miles in, despite rules against outside assistance, I saw race volunteers not only melt snow for Lance and the other front runners so their dogs would immediately have water when they arrived, but half a dozen people cheered Lance's arrival and helped him park his team in the best spot.

Cole arrived about an hour later, greeted only by the official checker. No water had been left for her or any subsequent teams, and she had to park her team on a downhill slope in a willow thicket.

So goes dog racing at times.

We didn't hold it against Lance, but he more than made up for it 50 miles later. At the halfway point in Paxson, there were about three times as many mushers as rooms available for rent in the town's only inn. Cole and I weren't fortunate enough to get one, and we were looking at the reality of her sleeping in the sled out in the cryogenic conditions. Lance — and his wife and son — saw this and said, "No way."

"I'm getting ready to pull out. No one will be using my room as they'll be driving the truck to the next checkpoint. Why don't you go in, use the bathroom, get warm, and get some sleep?" he offered. So we did.

[From first to 43rd, does Lance Mackey have another comeback in him?]

This to me was pure Lance. Over the years, Cole and I have both met our share of race champions who acted nice to us newcomers when cameras and sponsors were around at the start and finish lines, but could turn mean-spirited and malicious on the trail, away from the limelight.

Lance wasn't putting on an act of kindness. He was kind, and in a way that only people who have truly lived hand-to-mouth at some point can manage so genuinely. He may have had a famous last name in the mushing world, but he was a self-made man in the sport, and he remembered what it's like to be that nobody with nothing.

As for Cole, the memory that most embodied Lance came during her last Iditarod in 2012. On the home stretch along the coast, she and Lance jockeyed back and forth between 21st and 22nd place. This was Cole's second Iditarod and an amazing improvement from her rookie run, when she finished 36th — a race that Lance won. This time, Lance was having his worst run in seven years.

She pulled into White Mountain and was met by a small crowd cheering until one yelled out, "Wait, that's not Lance!" They quickly assisted her team out of the way to clear the chute for the celebrity on her tail.

Still, Cole was elated at getting a choice parking spot equivalent to that of a former champ and seeing plenty of food still left for both of them when they went indoors.

Lance paid Cole a compliment on how she was doing and how good her team looked — something few mushers concede to competitors, even after the race, much less while vying for the same finishing position. Then Lance made mention of his circumstances.

"Man, I forgot how badly you get treated this far back in the running," he commented while scarfing down heaps of volunteer- and villager-cooked food.

"What? I can't believe how good you get treated when you're this close to the front of the pack!" Cole responded. They both burst out laughing at their differing views of the same situation.

Their merriment was quickly curtailed when a cluster of star-struck children wandered in to get Lance's autograph. While he could have waved them off to focus on much-needed food and sleep, Cole remembers him making time for each child, making them feel like they were essential.

To her, that was the definitive Lance. The guy who, when his chips were down and the odds were stacked against him, wouldn't let it sour his morale. Even when not winning, he was a people's champion through and through.

Perhaps one of these qualities, or many of them, is what makes Lance so endearing to the masses.

For good and bad, his life has been an open book to all of us. He struggled with the divorce of his parents, worked odd jobs, dabbled in drugs, dealt with alcoholism both personally and with some family members, went through painful divorces and at times — including while fighting cancer and dealing with myriad medical problems that followed — he must have felt desperate.

But he never gave up and never gave in to that tiny little voice all of us hear during our darkest times. "Quit," it whispers. "Quit now. It is so much easier than carrying on."

Lance never quit, and because he never quit, his success exemplifies to everyone enduring complicated lives why it's worth continuing the struggle. And it's also the reason, I know, he'll be back as soon as he can.

Joseph Robertia is a freelance writer living in Kasilof, where he and his wife operate Rogues Gallery Kennel. Joseph's first book, "Life with Forty Dogs," published by Alaska Northwest Publishing, is due out in April.