capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
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Mood: Sling time!
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one fine day at the races.....the mint 400 '82
The following true tale is not specifically about Baja, per se, but it is in part about off-road racing, and as such contains indirectly some elements
of Baja that are endearing to all of us. Several of the names in this story have been changed in a conscientious effort to protect the innocent as
well as those who are hoping to one day achieve parole. I myself continue to aspire to higher office one day in spite of what follows.
A Day At The Races, or ?Anyone care for a Mint?
One Man?s 1st Time with Off-Road Racing
The year as I recall was 1983 or ?84, maybe ?82?. can?t remember exactly which as the 80?s were a time of voluminous excesses in my life. I could of
course consult my logbook into which I?ve recounted the various misadventures accumulated in over 2000 hours of small plane travel and experiences
these past 25 years, but for this diatribe suffice it to say it was about then.
As a somewhat intrepid and still relatively new to-the-skies private pilot I fervently jumped at the chance to go anywhere, anytime in my regally
presented Piper Cherokee 180, a 4 place club plane of which I owned a 1/50th share that, with its combination of low cost to rent ($28.50/hr. wet ?
that means including gas!) and generous load capability allowed the flexibility to choose from a variety of weekend raids to all parts of the greater
southwest including mainland Mexico and Baja, and with my choices of either rowdy guys looking for wild times and women, or doing a ?couples? thing
with friends and our more ?restrictive? but better halves.
So, when a buddy from Kansas who?s wealthy family with a long history of participation in the big and glamorous off-road affairs suggests we plan a
trip with 2 others up to Vegas to see the ?Mint 400?, I?m on it like a mad dog after ducks. Vegas had long been a frequently targeted place to have
fun with the aid of a light plane. Only 2 hours away and featuring fantastic scenery along the way with usually ?chamber of commerce? weather patterns
most of the year, Vegas would be a perfect destination for my at- the-time VFR only status, as far as the legality of my tender wings. A couple of
phone calls later to get two more suckers, err -that is I meant conscripts roped in, and the weekend plans are set. The plan is rolling into motion
with the four of us; Tim E., myself, Cary W. and Pete G. All we gotta do is get there and the race team of ?Egbert-Dovel-Potter? will regale us with
rooms, tickets, pit passes, and all the hooch and beer we could pound down. The ingredients for a grand time would include the four of us ? buddies
all in our late 20?s and early 30?s raring for action Vegas style!
The flight up was typical ? everyone excited, 1st for the plane ride which is kick-ass for those that don?t get to do it often, and 2nd because we all
were rather experienced at partying with the big dogs and just frankly couldn?t wait to get there and get it all started! As soon as we landed early
that morning at Vegas? McCarren Int?l we were whisked immediately over to check in at the Circus Circus Casino where our room blocks were being held,
followed by a ride out to the start finish line to see the big doin?s by then having already started with festivities well under way.
The Mint 400 that year started and finished not far from the main strip at a section of paved road that, with an adjoining and very large commercial
parking lot, provided much of the arena necessary for staging, pits, vending and untold crowds milling about in the ever present race fashion that
says ?watch me, I?m watching you?.?. The course and race consisted of (4) one hundred mile laps out and around an area of the Nevada desert adjacent
to the town. The exact layout eludes me as I paid little attention to it after the 3rd or 4th round of early afternoon drinks, but recall that you had
a general idea by looking out into the distance at what had to be the most immense hovering dust cloud one could ever hope to see.
The danger at this and presumably other similarly like-minded events lies in paying too much attention to some things, and not enough to others.
Specifically, when it?s sunny and hot out, and you?re thirsty, you have a tendency to concentrate on the beer cooler, how much you?ve had, how much
more you?ll require and whether it needs to be re-filled. Hydration IS important, after all. While you?re guzzling suds you at the same time are in a
state of constantly being distracted by the never-ending parade of scantily clad gorgeous women race fans wearing the shortest shorts and skimpiest
tops available anywhere this side of the French Riviera. Some of these darlings of the ?circuit? are frequent practitioners of that rare and lovely
art form known as ?the flash? whereby they subject a target group of alpha males to a reality shot of what goodies lie beyond the confines of those
mammary restrainers known simply as ?halters?. This in fact happened on more than one occasion much to my sheer amazement and gratitude. I?ve since
learned to enjoy this spirited behavior at the numerous motorcycle rallies I?ve attended, but other than in Nevada have never seen as much of this
truly enjoyable custom demonstrated with as much abandon. Perhaps it?s because of the gamboling atmosphere - don?t know and don?t care, I just like
it!
My most vivid recollection from that afternoon was when, while my attention was being diverted by a stunning example of that described in the
foregoing, someone simultaneously yelled at me, and grabbing a piece of my beer soaked shirt pulled me from out of the path of a big yellow ford
Bronco rounding the curve at the lap line. I later learned that I had nearly been unceremoniously crippled, or worse, by none other than the then and
still living legend of off-road, one Walker Evans. To say I was momentarily scared chitless into sobriety is an understatement! The truck missed me by
less than what at the time seemed to be a mere 5 feet, am sure my safety margin was a bit wider but who knows? Needless to say I was gratified to have
been rescued from the clutches of sure death, and reverently kept my distance from the actual road course the balance of the day.
The drinks and beers continued however well in to the late afternoon and evening. We watched the big time racers barrel past all day, names I?d heard
of but really didn?t know anything about ? Roger Mears, Mickey Thompson and Parnelli Jones to name a few. The only time I saw my ?team? ? entered as a
pair of drivers in a sand rail like contraption, probably a class name for it but I wouldn?t know it ? was when they made the 3rd lap past the start
finish with only one wheel in front! The other one missing completely and its axel pointing straight out supported by God only knew what! They waved
to us in sort of a frantic style as they blasted past, with the 4 of us looking on in disbelief, laughing out loud in uncontrollable spasms at the
sight! To think of the prospect ? those fools tailored that glorified dune buggy all the way out to Nevada from Kansas just so they could tear it to
pieces off-road racing. And because they obviously enjoyed many varieties of similar torture they were about to compound their excitement by going
back out for yet another 100 mile circuit with only one useable wheel out front! You have to appreciate the irony in all of this as, aside from Tim E.
who actually once won his class in motorcycles at the prestigious Baja Mil and is otherwise very savvy on the subject, the rest of us yahoos didn?t
know squat about this sport. We other 3 spectators thought, no ? understood, after watching Delmer and Charlie round the turn with less than three
fourths of their car left in tack and hanging on by metal threads, that they were certifiable loco, nuts, crazy!
The rest of the day and night ended up for the most part a faint blur on the window of my cranium, or what was left of it. Our team of rail drivers
broke down totally on the last lap some 50 miles out on the track and were not picked up until 3:00 in the morning we were later told by one of the
pit/chase crews. I had little knowledge of, nor remembrance of what all transpired as we continued to party the night away that Saturday in Las Vegas.
The real fiasco was to come the next day as it later turned out.
We awoke to rooms featuring the disarray and stench of a women?s midget wrestling league?s locker room after a steel cage match. Booze, barf, room
service food, clothes, overflowing ashtrays and slumped bodies littered the premises. As a long time then and still suffering insomniac I was up
before dawn on I?d guessed 2 to 3 hours sleep. I couldn?t focus, but based on the 1st sights appearing before me didn?t really want to either. Knowing
that I had to fly in a few hours precluded me from reaching for an iced cold red beer, my favorite dog haired morning after drink ? desperately needed
to ward off the evil spirits pounding on my scull. It honestly felt at the time like my brain was on fire while simultaneously being tattooed beneath
the scalp cap directly onto the mushy gray matter. I knelt in pious thought and asked for gonzo strength from my higher powers, God and his sometime
sidekick Bachus, lesser Greek god of wine, to whom many sacrificial offerings had surely been proffered the night before. The only big and immediate
question on my feeble mind remaining unanswered that early morning was which of any of us might have gotten laid during the night?s debauchery clearly
in evidence ?
I went down to the coffee shop for a cup o? joe and to buy some aspirin to help clear my aching head. An hour or two later I returned to the rooms to
find my compatriots up and basically appearing not much worse off than me. One guy and girl who I did not even remember meeting, were still passed out
on the floor ? where did they come from? Were they even alive? At that point did I care? No. I thought briefly about rifling their clothes for money
to get even on all the booze and other stuff they probably mooched from us, but decided against such a display of bad form in the company of my
charges. Someone has to set the standards. And set them I later did??.
We took turns showering and preparing to get the hell out of Dodge, so to speak. But wait ? doesn?t Circus Circus have some kind of killer all-you-can
scarf breakfast-quasi lunch brunch for a give away price? Sort of a loss leader? Yes! And frankly at least 2 of us did not remember having eaten any
dinner the night before. In short ? we were all suffering from those killer hunger pangs that specialize in attacking the seriously over-hung. We then
proceeded, stumbling merrily down to the hotel?s world famous buffet, the one proudly exclaiming that for a measly $1.99 in U.S. currency one may don
a feedbag of Clydesdale sized proportions, and fill it repetitively until the gut is replenished and the soul then satiated. And this, dear readers,
we accomplished.
Filled to the brim with an assortment of epicurean treasures from the chaffing dishes and pastry trays of the dining room, we made our way finally to
the airport and our intended departure for the comparative sanity of Phoenix. No zany characters, no garish neon, the absence of annoying slot
machines sounding their constant cacophony of clanging coins and bells ? just laid back streets and quiet neighborhoods to come home to. We loaded the
plane with the remnants of whatever we started with ? some clothes, the ice chest ? and added the few trinkets and souvenirs some actually bought and
didn?t lose or break during our stay. Cleared to the active runway I re-checked how much time had actually elapsed since my last known consumption of
alcohol and, confident it had been at least 8 hours, fire-walled the throttle to the stop. We were air-born in less than 45 seconds, climbing on
course for the Valley of the Sun. ?Farewell Vegas! You won this round, maybe, but you?ve not seen the last of this group.?
Technically it had been 8 hours but frankly felt like a little less. Oh, I was certainly ok to fly ? we were after all already cruising nicely in the
clear air south east of Las Vegas about to hit the mighty Colorado River and Hoover Dam. But somehow I, other than still feeling fairly hung over,
began to feel very uneasy, an uneasiness that began to well up inside me akin to a panic attack in the making. I started to sweat profusely. ?What
about the others?? I thought to myself. ?Do they sense I?m not at all well? Suddenly it became all too apparent and real! The food at Circus?s
free-for-all buffet was slowly taking its revenge. I was about to be in seriously deep doo-doo, or so I felt.
But wait a minute, maybe its just gas? ?Gas can be dealt with?, I cautiously said silently to myself. Can?t disrupt the boys on board ? they?re
nodding out to the drone of the engine and should sleep all the way home. I am now in great intestinal pain, the spasms coming every 2 or 3 minutes
like the birth pangs of a mother to be, suffering timed labor contractions. I now fully realize that soon the chit will hit the fan, literally. Still
hanging on to slim hope that it?s merely gas, or at the most a water bubble, I prepare to cautiously test my control. ?Careful?, I say. ?Don?t blow it
now. You only have an hour and a half and you can be in the cherished sanctity of your own bathroom.? I decide action of some kind must soon follow,
and quickly before I lose it altogether. The pain is reaching an unbearable plateau. I attempt to control what I hope is a simple release of pent up
gas when all of a sudden and without warning I completely crap all over myself! I?m absolutely devastated. I?ve never so much as barfed before in a
plane, let alone totally filled my pants like an infant! I?m actually sitting there for a moment dumbfounded, wondering just what the hell I?m
supposed to do.
Then comes from the back seat a howl like a cat being neutered. Its Pete who I thought was asleep. He is shouting, ?What?s that smell?? Soon the
others have stirred and all are gasping for air, starring at one another and me as if impending death and doom are upon us. The vent system in a small
plane circulates air from front to rear. The overwhelming stench from my evacuation was spinning through the cabin madly like a cyclonic cesspool of
hot turbid steam. Shock soon turned to the reality that someone among us had committed the most heinous of deeds. But who was the guilty party? I sat
stone-faced for a minute, but the gags and gasps coming from the 3 others were too much and I began to emit belly laughs ? they all knew then the
guilty party was I. Pete was nearly suffocating by now and violently choking he started to gag. He reached for the plastic one-gallon zip locks I keep
in the seat back and in an instant threw up whatever he had not yet digested. Now we had two problems. His additive chapter caused a chain reaction
when both Tim and Cary simultaneously exclaimed they were gonna get sick, and where were the extra barf bags? I was by this time laughing
uncontrollably and was having difficulty driving the plane with all the distractions. The other two managed to hold it in although they clung tightly
to the plastic vomit receptors, just in case. Pete looked like death warmed over, his sunburned face from the prior day?s activities now turning a
ghastly white. The cabin was awash in odors that would cause any 1st year medical student to re-access his career goals. We soldiered on towards
Phoenix.
Now I?m starting to get really uncomfortable in the seat. I?m sitting in excrement and everything is wet. Its at the same time starting to burn and
itch. I wonder if this is what a baby feels like and why they cry so much. Suddenly I hit on a brainstorm. For years we?d flown day trips up to Lake
Havasu. Back then you could land on the peninsula airport past the London Bridge and the Nautical Inn would send a golf cart to pick you up. The
runway was only a few yards from the water. Since then the McCullough Corporation closed that runway as the land was too valuable. They turned it into
Condos and the town built a new airport north on highway 95. My plan was to divert to Havasu, land and hit the lake running. It was only about 30
minutes ahead of our position and would at least offer some chance at regaining some measure of dignity ? mine was gone by then. I told the crew of my
plan ? all agreed, ?Get us the f*** out of this plane now!?
We turned into the pattern and set up our landing. Touchdown was the sweetest I?d ever had. We taxied just short of the ramp and all bailed out headed
for the lake and scattering like illegal aliens ducking the INS at a construction site. I doffed my soiled pants and underwear, and washed off as best
I could in the cooling waters of the lake. Wearing a fresh set of shorts I joined the others who by now had recovered and seemed refreshed given what
they?d just experienced. My ruined clothes I abandoned on the lakeshore as a testament to my misfortunate deed. Our flight the rest of the way home
was with out incident. None of the 3 has since ever ventured aboard my plane. I still love off-road racing and continue to go to events whenever I
can.
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Ski Baja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 652
Registered: 8-19-2003
Location: Rosarito Beach
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What's the poop.
Too f%#ing funny Mike. I have some pretty funny incidents regarding the above myself.
I have found a few Gargoyles but without Camera, I will try and get some pics. and prices for you. We have been busy with the rental but will have
some time soon. J.R.
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capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
Member Is Offline
Mood: Sling time!
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thx JR! glad you liked it.
i will write one again soon too.
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Anonymous
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Great writing Mike. More, More!!!!
It had me ROFL!
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