Swingley's farewell tour deserves Alaska's respect

Like a line of recreational vehicles on the highway or a zoning ordinance, Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race musher Doug Swingley has sparked the ire of Alaska again.

Swingley, who prides himself on being from Montana, has always been considered an outsider in Alaska, meaning his actions are automatically viewed with an extra twist of distrust and fear.

In 1992, when he finished ninth to take rookie of the year honors with the best finish by a rookie in 15 years, it was viewed as a fluke.

Then in 1995, he became the first non-Alaskan to win the Iditarod. When he was following that up with victories in 1999, 2000 and 2001, then-Anchorage Daily News sports editor Lew Freedman wrote, "It may be hard to quantify, but the anybody-but-Doug feeling is real."

Just when Swingley was at least reaching in-law status in the state -- you don't like him but have to respect him -- he pulled his latest stunt.

Swingley decided to do this year's Iditarod as a farewell tour, not a competitive race. He also chose not to let anybody know about this prelude to retirement until he'd spent a couple of days on the trail.

As of Saturday afternoon, Swingley was in 48th place while pushing back more arrivals and departures than Amtrak and taking advantage of more pullouts than a peruser of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

With the divorce complete, many Alaskans have decided to cathartically unload on this in-law outsider who they've been forced to host in their cherished race year after year.

But in the same way Swingley must be accorded respect for taking on, and eventually conquering, the perception an outsider couldn't win Iditarod, he also should be commended, and not berated, for his latest move.

Swingley has had the courage and wisdom to shun money, fame and competition in order to take the time to enjoy the magical tour of Alaska that is the Iditarod.

Anyone who has done various races in scenic places, like the Tour of Anchorage, Mount Marathon or the Lost Lake Breath of Life run, knows that these majestic settings are shrouded by the fog of competitive exertion.

The Iditarod is no different.

"Your whole body feels tingly and numb during the race, like when your hands fall asleep," Swingley told Outside magazine in March 2001. "There's actually not a lot of time to think. You're watching over 16 dogs, working the sled, keeping everyone out of moose holes."

Swingley also told the publication he loses as much as 20 pounds during the race and averages just three hours of sleep a night. Contrast that to Swingley's current ride, where he's taking tons of time to sleep, eat, soak in the scenery and hobnob with the people.

It's the difference between getting sick on a flight tour of Denali, or feeling good enough to sip champagne, peak out the window and share wonderment with neighbors.

But what makes Swingley's leisurely stroll in paradise all the more commendable is he sacrificed three jewels of the American ideological crown for it:

Money -- The winner of this year's Iditarod gets $68,571 and a pickup truck.

Could Swingley have won? There's no question about it. Joe Runyan, the 1989 Iditarod champ who is covering the race for a Web site, said Swingley's time between checkpoints Finger Lake and Rainy Pass was the fastest ever recorded.

There are too many variables over a 1,100-mile trail to say Swingley was certain to emerge victorious, but it would have been hard to imagine him finishing very far down in the prize money.

Swingley not only gave up that prize money, but also went through the expense of entering the race just so he could take his tour.

Even three-time champ Jeff King said, according to The Associated Press, that it's almost criminal to be in such a big rush on the trail and that he's envious of what Swingley's doing. "On the other hand," said King, "I'm hoping to make a paycheck."

Fame -- Many have said Swingley, perceived by many as an egomaniac, did this all just to draw an immense amount of attention to himself.

Swingley, more than anybody, understands that the Iditarod is a media-driven spectacle of Alaska romanticism. His prickly one-liners have had just the right barb to rash the supposedly impenetrable skin of Alaskans for years.

For instance, when asked why he didn't let anybody know he planned to run an easy race this year before the event started, Swingley said he "didn't want the other mushers to slack off."

But this tour isn't about publicity. Swingley knew that he'd create a buzz for a few days, but by the midway point of the race he'd be an afterthought.

If it was publicity Swingley sought, he would have attempted to reach Nome first. If he had, he would have joined Rick Swenson as the only five-time winner and he would have been the only musher to win four straight Iditarods.

The maelstrom over this would have built up over nine, or possibly eight, days. It wouldn't have petered out after three.

Competitiveness -- Most likely, it was competitiveness, not money or fame, that Swingley had the hardest time turning aside to take his tour. "You don't know how hard those first few days were," Swingley told The Associated Press regarding untriggering his competitive instinct.

Swingley has achieved his entire life. He won a baseball scholarship to Stanford, then built up one of the largest mink operations in Montana before selling it in 1991.

He threw his fierce competitiveness into the Iditarod, and never was his drive more on display than in 1999. That year, Swingley, then 45, became the oldest Iditarod champ despite cracking his ribs during the race's first day.

But this year Swingley has managed to unlight the fire within. It takes a wise man to figure out, and an even braver man to act on, the fact that competition and endless drive to succeed are important and necessary, but they need not be constants. There are other ways to enjoy life.

Swingley told Outside magazine of the Iditarod: "To be honest, by the time you get to Nome, you're so damn glad it's over winning is just a bonus."

This year, when Swingley gets to Nome a couple days later than usual, my guess is he won't be so glad it's over. It's too bad Alaskans can't realize the unique cultural statement of his journey and join Swingley in being sad to see it all end.

This column is the opinion of Jeff Helminiak, the sports editor at the Peninsula Clarion.

Comments and criticisms can be directed to clarion@alaska.net.