Lance Lekander

AS IT TURNED OUT, the most difficult challenge of the second Running of the Reindeer was finding a parking spot somewhere near downtown Anchorage. Apparently, several thousand people had heard about the 2008 inaugural event and thought, “That sounds like a perfectly ridiculous thing to do! Where do I sign up?”

I’d paid the entry fee, picked up the race bib and signed the liability waiver without reading it, but all I really knew beforehand was that this event was the Fur Rondy Festival’s answer to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Personally, I thought the Running of the Grizzly Bears would offer a slightly edgier cachet—not to mention a more rigorous athletic contest—but March 1 seems a bit early to expect bears to cooperate in a controlled stampede.

Still, I couldn’t help but picture a herd of crazed reindeer bent on revenge after a lifetime of Rudolph jokes, not to mention (ahem) a future possibly involving sausages and other meat products. So I took the precautionary step of inviting a friend, Dawnell, based on the time-proven adage that you don’t need to outrun a bear/moose/reindeer, you just need to outrun your buddy.

Or 1,400 buddies. The mob of racers was crammed curb-to-curb at one end of the racecourse, which extended four blocks down the middle of a snow-covered Fourth Avenue. Spectators jammed the sidewalks, hung off lampposts, dangled out windows And stood on roofs. A blaring PA system added din to the confusion. I started feeling sorry for the reindeer.

It was clear that humans would never win this race. People were too busy laughing, shrieking, bashing into each other, gasping for air, tripping on their feather boas and bunny boots, and slowing to a trudge after about a block.

Dawnell understood that the whole point of such events is wearing silly costumes and embarrassing yourself in public, so she arrived wearing an outsized cowboy hat and possibly buckskin underwear.

“This is the only race I’d do because it’s not organized and it’s not serious,” she said. “Unless you get gored.”

I dressed as a humble scribe who doesn’t like to be cold, a swaddled look that screamed “survivor” or possibly “coward.”

But nobody was going to notice me squished among the multitudes, not when I was standing beside a six-foot guy wearing a cocktail dress, a Dolly Parton wig and an impressive tattoo. Also, there was a man in a banana suit, a woman wearing camo with a target pinned to her back, fairies in fire hats, the Easter bunny and pirates.

A group of women in green jumpsuits held signs referring to the recent grumblings of Mount Redoubt, including “Volcanoes are Dumb!” and “Redoubt is Mean!” Some people went with a horn or antler theme, festooning themselves with Viking helmets, devil horns and the occasional moose antler, caribou rack or deer spike. Many competitors were undoubtedly disappointed to discover that dressing as Santa Claus wasn’t as original as they had imagined.

“We should count the Santas while we’re waiting,” I suggested, but then we became distracted by Elvis, Spider-Man and a man in a tutu and bunny boots

There was a disturbing current of carnivorous taunting that suggested a hostile relationship between human and reindeer. Two men wore Spam hats that said “Warning: May contain reindeer.” A pair of chefs carried cleavers and advertised themselves as “How’s It Hanging Sausage Factory.” Dawnell pointed out “Team Santa Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

This violent undertone was nothing new, I learned. The Fur Rondy used to hold races in which individual reindeer towed people in plastic sleds or skis around the Anchorage Football Stadium until one year someone was injured. After more than a decade’s absence, the sprint races returned in 2007, this time on Fourth Avenue, where a reindeer named Vixen ditched his cargo, leaped a fence and—oh, cruel irony!—crashed into a reindeer sausage stand.

Mingling reindeer and racers in 2008 was the brilliant idea of KWHL disc jockeys Bob Lester and Mark Colavecchio. Rondy organizers didn’t have to look far for their Rangifer tarandus. Tom Williams raises a herd on his reindeer farm at Butte, just outside Palmer. He’d supplied animals for previous events, but he confessed some uncertainty about whether they would actually run toward people instead of away from them. As for the risk factors—their antlers might be soft and curve inward, but they do have hooves. And teeth, come to think of it.

“It’s going to be really different,” Williams told reporters. “I just hope we don’t have a lot of injured people. I know the reindeer aren’t going to get hurt.”

The event was a huge success, drawing a thousand entrants—divided into men’s and women’s herds—and several thousand spectators. Some credited the race with reviving interest in the Fur Rendezvous, a traditional celebration that had suffered in recent years from poor weather and anemic attendance. Happily, neither two-footed nor four-footed participants were injured. More importantly, the reindeer did indeed run. Fast.

This year included more heats, including a celebrity dash, a couples run and a group race. From our position, we couldn’t see much but we followed the action thanks to play-by-play from Bob and Mark.

“Make some noise if you want this to be a safe, fun family event,” said Bob—or Mark. Cheers erupted. “Make some noise if you want to see destruction and carnage.” Louder cheers. “My kind of people.”

Their duties included riling the reindeer as handlers led several animals through the crowd and stationed them behind each “herd.”

“You want a piece of me?” said Mark—or Bob. “I want a piece of you. I ate your brother for breakfast, buddy. Yeah, that’s right. I had you with scrambled eggs. I saw your mom at Gwennie’s, on a plate.”

Now, really, was that necessary?

When a handler wrangled an agitated reindeer behind the women’s herd, I wished I’d read the liability waiver more closely.

“This thing’s not cooperating,” the handler said, grasping its antlers as it twisted its head.

“He looks mad,” someone said as we edged away.

Too late!

“…three, two, one! Go!” the crowd chanted, and we all took off.

“They’re coming for you!” hollered Bob/Mark. “Ruuuunn!”

The handlers released the reindeer, which quickly weaved through the runners and bolted for their corral at the far end, where (rumor had it) a female in heat served as “bait.” Most of the reindeer arrived in about 22 seconds. The rest of us valiantly struggled through the soft snow even though nobody could tell when we’d crossed a finish line, if there was one.

I never saw Dawnell, or her hat, again.

When I watched videos later, it was clear that humans would never win this race. People were too busy laughing, shrieking, bashing into each other, gasping for air, tripping on their feather boas and bunny boots, and slowing to a trudge after about a block.

Well, the Trudging of the Reindeer just doesn’t have the right ring. But it’s not too late to change tactics and raise the stakes. The day before our contest, an official encountered an early rising grizzly bear on the trail after the Fur Rondy Open Championship sled-dog race.

The Running of and/or from the Grizzly Bears would become an international sensation and give a whole new meaning to “You want a piece of this? Do ya?” Just give it some thought, Fur Rondy organizers. That’s all I’m saying.

Sherry Simpson teaches creative writing at the University of Alaska Anchorage and is the author of The Accidental Explorer: Wayfinding in Alaska, and The Way Winter Comes: Alaska Stories, both published by Sasquatch Books.