I have a dream: that dream is to ride a dog like a horse. That isn’t possible. But I’ve heard the next best thing is possible, which is why I’m freezing in a field in Tewkesbury. Gloucestershire may not be Lapland but it’s where you can try mushing, organised by Arctic Quest. Single-handedly charioteering a sled powered by huskies? Sounds like a Christmas miracle to me. I gape in awe, as countless lupine beasts emerge from a trailer, yelping with excitement. It’s a few weeks before Omicron gathers strength, and I’m here for one last shot at feeling free.
Vickie Pullin – a superb candidate for nominative determinism – set up Arctic Quest, and is a former world champion dog-sledder in four divisions, an achievement never equalled. (You have to be driven to get into husky sledding, ironically.) She has 36 dogs in total, all smaller than I imagined, total cuties with names like Azera, Frappe, Mocha and Cino. It would sound like a sitcom premise, were it not for Pullin’s no-nonsense demeanour. “The blue-eyed, fluffy husky thing? Hollywood PR,” she snorts.
Her Siberian huskies and Scandinavian hounds are striking, though – blue eyes, brown eyes, sometimes one of each. Though small, they are mighty, bouncing with scarcely containable energy, closer to furry nuclear rods than dogs. They are born to run, but am I? I’m smaller than Pullin expected. I might be too lightweight to ground the rig. The dogs can run at 20mph and there’s a chance I’ll be overturned once they get going.
Pullin decides to trust me with a few of her most experienced animals. These are working dogs and need the exercise, after all. I’m relieved, but more scared than I was. “Huskies have no recall. Never let go of one,” she says sternly, before instructing me to put a harness on one. Axel jumps up and licks me, whipping his body around excitedly. Imagine putting a harness on an alligator, or giving eye drops to a bear. That would be easier than calming Axel down.
Two more ungovernable creatures are clipped to the cable of the rig: a minimal three-wheeled frame with foot plates. They have to be held back physically from charging ahead, while I adjust my goggles and squash my fear. I don’t get to shout “Mush!” but I will need to direct the team. “It’s ‘Gee’ for right, ‘Hor’ for left,” Pullin explains. (Luckily, there are no left turns in the direction I’m going, hugging the edge of the field.) Joining Axel is Rocco and his sister River. River gave birth to most of the dogs here. In my head, I hear We Are Family, the disco classic by – ha! – Sister Sledge. This is meant to be! What is? I don’t know. I’m shackled to maniacs.
Release the hounds! They burst forth with astonishing strength. I’m off, rapidly picking up speed. It’s fast. I’m scared to ride in their slipstream as instructed, not wanting to run one over. I veer to the left, then the right. I come within millimetres of being deposited in the hedge. A sharp, off-balance yank of the handlebars pulls me back on course, still wayward. This is terrifying. The rig bumps and hurtles forward, relentlessly forward. I’m holding on for dear life, with something akin to rigor mortis.
“Relax!” yells Vicki, from her quad bike. Unthinkable. Yet I’m so tense, I’m not going to make the distance like this. I drop my shoulders, stand a little taller. I pull in line directly behind the dogs, and suddenly we’re travelling as one. This transforms the entire experience. I can hear the paws drumming ahead, I can smell the sky. River has been glancing backwards since I nearly drove into the hedge, checking on me. Is she … smiling?
We take a corner, and I lean in, throttling just enough to sweep the curve with full control. “Go, go, go!” I shout to the dogs, who bound into the future, happy that I’m finally on their level. It’s … unbelievable. Who knew such magical transport existed? We’re travelling too fast for trouble, for sadness. We’re leaving behind a year that was, somehow, even worse than the one before. I find myself laughing.
Huskies can race 1,000 miles – I can’t. My legs are aching, fingers freezing, goggles misted. I’m relieved to hit the final stretch. We charge home, where arms greet the conquering dogs. Stepping off, I literally whoop. I’m no whooper. My team are returned to their siblings, and I give them each a kiss. They need a drink. I need a drink. Hot chocolate and camp fire sarnies await. “That was a good save,” nods Vicki, referring to the hedge, before admonishing me for stepping off the rig before the dogs were unharnessed. I’ll take it.
Terrifying, transcendent, enchanted. What a ride. I still play it back at night, this running with the pack, blades of grass blurring, earth spinning beneath us. I’ve never known animal joy like it. The dogs and I, we were flying. More than anything I’ve tried, this has stayed with me. It’s a weird time right now – everyone is sad or mad and living on hope – but that is what December is for. I’ve always relied on the kindness of animals, tried to stay alert to the wisdom they offer. Even when not in control, we move forwards, always forwards. Happy Christmas, everyone!
Other racing dog songs are available
Top answers include Drive My Car by the Beagles and Come On Feel the Nose by Sled.
Smugness points
My heart is mush. 5/5
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