Day at the hamster races

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 13/09/2009 (6086 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Let’s get something straight — anyone who tells you size doesn’t matter has NEVER gone head-to-head with the ferocious athletes in the high-pressure world of competitive hamster racing.

I learned this the hard way after duking it out with some hardcore competitors in the hamster races at the second annual Pawsitively Wild Pet Show, which kicked of Saturday and runs from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. today at Red River Exhibition Park.

I tackled this challenging sport because, if you are a humour columnist and someone is holding hamster races within a 300-mile radius, you are legally obligated to take part.

The main roadblock I faced in being a serious threat in this event was the fact that, unlike everyone else who signed up, I do not actually own a hamster.

I pointed this out to the organizers and they promised the nice people from Petland would make sure I was given an extremely athletic hamster, a tiny terror, a natural-born running rodent, the hamster version of Usain Bolt.

When I showed up, it quickly became obvious that the rest of the competitors, technically speaking, were kids who barely came up to my kneecaps. But before you feel sorry for my pint-sized rivals, let me point out they were all equipped with pet hamsters the size of army tanks; whereas I was handed what’s called a “dwarf hamster,” a microscopic rodent smaller than my cellphone. Not that I am bitter about this.

If you are not familiar with hamster racing, here’s how it works: You place the athlete (your hamster) into a state-of-the-art racing vehicle (a clear plastic exercise ball), pop him onto the racetrack, wait for the starter’s whistle, then just let him go.

The idea here — and there is absolutely no guarantee this will happen — is that, eventually, the hamsters will roll their exercise balls along the track — about two metres of black plastic complete with hairpin turns, flashing red lights, decorative pylons and tiny replica sports cars — and at some point, hopefully, one of the hamsters will accidentally roll over the finish line.

The rules are simple: You can shout encouragement, but you are not allowed to nudge your hamster’s ball (you know what I mean) unless it veers off the track and begins rolling into the crowd in a desperate break for freedom.

“There’s no interference from the coaches,” organizer Sandra Schmidtke warned me before my heat, “but you can cheer as loud as you want. The hamsters seem to like encouragement.”

The first thing I had to do was give my hamster a name. I decided to call him “Mario Andretti,” because I felt, considering his lack of size, being named after a racing legend would do wonders for his confidence.

With dozens and dozens of delirious parents and pet-show visitors looking on and bellowing support for their favourite rodent, the races quickly proved to be an emotional roller-coaster ride. You think I’m kidding, but for once I’m not.

There were three hamsters in each heat and, when the first race began, the other two hamsters, obviously highly trained, powered their plastic balls like steroid-fuelled maniacs to the finish line, earning wild applause; whereas my tiny racer, despite frantic shouts of “Mario! Mario! Mario!” from sympathetic onlookers, adopted the clever strategy of falling asleep.

It is hard, using mere words, to describe the level of excitement generated at a hamster race of this nature, but I will try: It is very, very exciting!

When the dust settled, Mario and I were dead last. The champions were eight-year-old Ayla Temple-Bertrand and her hefty hamster, Hagrid.

“He’s an AWESOME hamster!” Ayla squeaked, planting a victory kiss on Hagrid’s lips, assuming he has them. “I was sooooo psyched!”

Asked to reveal her winning secret, she paused thoughtfully and said: “Probably because Hagrid was a bigger hamster than Mario. He’s just a new hamster and he’s full of life.”

Hamster races aside, the show showcases all the latest products and services for pets and there’s tons of entertainment and displays, including presentations by Brad Pattison, the wildly popular host of TV’s At The End of My Leash. I’ll be there signing copies of our new book, Bite-Sized Doug.

The big finale this afternoon is a fashion show in which “outstanding local celebrities” — including myself and pet columnist Charlene Adam — model outerwear from Cabela’s. We’ll share the catwalk with adoptable dogs from local pet shelters that will be sporting the latest canine fashions.

Sadly, I have to end with some devastating news — my wife flatly refused to let me bring Mario home. Which doesn’t seem fair. Because I’m pretty sure the little guy was ready to roll.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca