Pleased to meet you …

The Baja Fluffitado 1500

or

The First and Last (?) Race of bc and Mudge

Part IV: A Celebrity Roast, Flambé, Cookout and Funeral All in One! Aww, You Shouldn’t Have!

By bc and Curmudgeon

From the Official Baja Fluffitado Web Site Post-Race coverage:

“Lorenzo Bandini at the harbor chicane in Monaco in 1967…” the speaker intoned as the house lights dimmed, the crowd hushed, and famous faces began to appear on the huge projection screen behind the speaker’s podium.

“Gaston Chevrolet…yes, THAT Chevrolet, on lap 146 at the L.A. Speedway event in 1920…

“Bill Vukovich, Sr., while leading the 1955 Indianapolis 500, trying to claim a third straight victory there…

“Jean-Pierre Sarti in 1966 at Monaco…

“The wonderful Scotsman Jimmy Clark, in his F2 Lotus at Hockenheim in the spring of 1968…

“Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500 in 2001…

“Jochen Rindt, during a practice run at Monza in 1970, the only driver to ever win the F1 World Championship posthumously…

“Ayrton Senna, possibly the fastest of them all, at in the opening laps at Imola in ’94…

“Gilles Villeneuve, the diminutive Canadian with the heart of a lion and the biggest set of steel cojones, during practice at Zolder in ’82…

“Even Edward Glenn Roberts, Jr., who ironically earned the nickname of ‘Fireball’ Roberts for his baseball pitching with the Zellwood Mud Hens before he became a NASCAR driver and died after a fiery crash at the Charlotte speedway in 1964…

“…and who could forget Wolfgang Graf Berghe ‘Taffy’ von Trips, who collided with Jimmy Clark at Monza, and his Ferrari left the track, soared into a crowd, and tragically died with 14 spectators in 1961?

“Spare a moment to reflect on Pierre Levegh and the 81 others who died in that terrible disaster at LeMans in 1955.

“And our own Hermanos Rodriguez: Ricardo in 1962 during practice for his home Grand Prix in Mexico City, and Pedro in Italy during the 1971 Targa Florio.”

Post-race awards banquets are often bittersweet affairs. Yes, there are awards and trophies to hand out, and winners to congratulate, and support teams to honor, and many people to thank, and all the rest. And then there are the Others. The Fallen. Those Who Did Not Quite Make It To The Finish Line. These, too, must receive their due recognition.

The post-race awards banquet of the Baja Fluffitado 1500, held in the grand ballroom of the swank Tijuana el Hotel Seis and catered by Alfredo and Rodriguez’ Casa de AsnoGrande, was no different.

“Tonight,” the speaker continued in a Veddy Proper British accent, suitable for news on BBC 587 or so, “we have the sad duty to add to the list of our fallen comrades the names of two more fierce competitors who have received their final Checkered Flag at the Pearly Gates of Racing History. I think it is safe to say that, in the long history of the sport of motorcar racing, there has never been a racing team quite like the two fine competitors who will go down in the annals of racing under the simple but elegant names of…bc and Curmudgeon… and the name of their…uh…somewhat unorthodox race car, the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer.

“And I think it also safe to say that in the long history of our sport, there have been many tragic, fiery crashes, but until a few days ago, there had never been a crash that was…well, so…spectacular, so macabre, so…fiery. To my knowledge, it is the only motorsport accident to involve a dead whale. And let us not forget those three heroic Holsteins who gave their lives in the name of 21st century technology and alternative fuel development. It was the first racing tragedy to involve a race car towing a trailer with expired plates and loaded with what amounted to a methane still. And I’m fairly certain it was the first racing car crash so devastating that the fireball and concussion knocked approximately 427 buzzards out of the sky. The chief of police told me that the flash was visible 14 miles out to sea, and that the shock wave was felt as far away as San Francisco, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. That this horrific crash should have occurred in a vehicle going only about 9 miles an hour is just one of those inexplicable tricks of cruel fate. Their bodies, of course, were never recovered.

“I am also told that villagers up and down the coast of Baja California have begun to create songs and folk tales about bc and Curmudgeon and their many encounters with our people of the peninsula. I’m sure you’ve all seen the video, taken by a tourist from Dallas, who was on the beach watching and videotaping the whale disposal/dispersal effort, and who happened to be filming just as the Achenblog Beano Flyer soared over the cliff and toward the whale just as the demolition people set off their charges. That video, of course, has been seen worldwide on thousands of news programs, and of course ends with the now famous flash of blue-white light from the explosion, and then moments later, the camera, now lying awash in the surf, records the hard rain of whale chunks and pieces of the Beano Flyer continuing to slap down out of the sky into the shallow water for over a minute through the artificial fog, melted blubber fragments dripping down its lens…”

Just then there is a gasp from the rear of the grand ballroom as the doors swung open, and the crowd turned to see what had caused the disturbance…

From Curmudgeon’s Post-Race Comments on the Baja Fluffitado Web Site (reproduced by permission):

…and there in the open doorway stood bc and myself. We were wet and smelly beyond belief from vulcanized blubber and saturated seaweed caked to us. Our sombreros were torn and blackened, though they had less buzzard guano on them now, especially so in my case, since the brim was all that remained of it. bc’s puffy Seinfeld shirt was tattered, and pieces of dead fish were tangled in the ruffles and frills. Somehow it was on backwards. My friar’s cassock was similarly ruined, the entire hem and collar singed away, the jumper cables I wore for a belt were frayed down to the copper, and one of the clamps was missing entirely. But we were alive.

But I digress.

If you want to know the rest of the story, see my #v%&ing logbook.

*  *  *  *

Excerpt from Curmudgeon’s logbook (post-race): 

That plunge off the cliff was the most terrifying moment of my life, and seemed to last forever. My life flashed before my eyes, the whole long, sordid tale, from the early newspaper days in Spain, the English Civil War and restoration, running around France and Italy, the American Revolution, the Battle of Tippecanoe and the sonic disruptor (and speaking of the sonic disruptor, I’ve seen some pretty impressive explosions in my day, but nothing quite like what happened next), the invention of naval signal flags and the sinking of that whaler (yet another whale explosion; what is it with me and whales?)—the whole thing, like a bad episode of Chiller Monster Theater (oooo, scary, kids, scary).

Albert Einstein is reputed to have once said, “Timing is everything.” What happened at this time was this: The Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer was still in mid-air when the engineer pushed the plunger down and detonated the whale on the beach. That initial explosion was pretty big all right, and the force of it came up to meet us just as we were plunging down to meet it. Being in the cockpit, bc and I were protected from much of it, which was underneath us. The shock wave from the blast separated our race car from the trailer behind us, and started pushing us back upward instead of downward. But the trailer, with all our methane tanks and equipment, was much heavier and with a smaller surface area than the Achenblog Beano Flyer, and continued downward. And when our flying distillery met the explosion, the methane tanks went up. Big time. That was the Big Blue Bang, the one felt in San Francisco. bc and I and the car were already headed out to sea, and when the force of that second explosion caught us, it pushed us up and out even farther like a crazed, smoking Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We surfed the shockwave of our concussion in our now aptly-named Flyer, and our trajectory ascribed big, beautiful ballistic arc maybe 500 or 600 yards out to sea… and landed like the Chicxulub meteor auguring into the other side of Mexico 65 million years ago. Our beloved Achenblog Beano Flyer sank beneath us in a hissing cloud of steam, never to be seen again. Her final act, then, was to save our lives by shielding us with her shrapnel-torn chassis and carrying us out to sea, out of harm’s way.

bc and I were bobbing in the ocean, nearly unconscious with shock and exhaustion, and marveling that we were still alive. All around us, dead fish slowly began rising to the surface, killed by the concussion. And then a strange thing happened: pieces of dead buzzard began wafting down from the sky, along with pieces of seagull, a couple of terns, and part of what looked like a ptarmigan. It had sure been a bad day for the fauna of the Baja peninsula, just as it had been for the dinosaurs of the Yucatán . If there had been any sharks around, it would have been a smorgasbord, but any sharks who been around were either dead or swimming as fast as possible for Hawaii with their ears ringing.

What ultimately saved us were ScienceTim, Pixel, and the crew of the Boodle Porching Hour. As it happened, ScienceTim had been on vacation, and had rigged himself that underwater habitat/biosphere he’d been talking about for years, in the lovely warm waters of the Pacific just south of Tijuana. He’d been living underwater in the biosphere in about 50 feet of water, and had invited Pixel to come visit, and do some underwater photography. When the explosion had occurred, a good bit of the concussion and shock wave traveled underwater, where it is four times louder and five times faster than in air. It was like an underwater earthquake, and shook SciTim’s biosphereic beercan so badly it came loose from its moorings, and popped to the surface, not too far from where bc and I were treading water and gathering our wits. SciTim and Pixel were clinging to it, and managed to drag bc and me aboard. There was a pretty good tide running out to sea, and the last thing we saw as we drifted out to sea were the spectators on the beach beginning to pick themselves up after they’d been bowled over. Where the dead whale had been there was now a giant crater at the waters edge, filled with seawater. Bits of whale blubber…and other parts, whale, car, trailer and cow…covered many of the spectators as well as the beach and the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. And then we bobbed out of sight of land.

We bobbed for a day, a night, and another day as the biosphere developed a few leaks and began taking on water, so that it was nearly awash. SciTim and Pixel used their scuba gear to enter the biosphere and bring up some food and medical supplies, and Pixel used her medical training to give bc and me some much-needed first aid. I captained, or rather - supervised - Tim, bc and Pixel’s rigging a tarp as a sail and one of the tables from the biosphere as a rudder. But it was to no avail, as our vessel was far too heavy and full of water to respond to our improvisations, and we drifted northwestward out into the deep Pacific. I’d begun thinking about Thor Heyerdahl and Easter Island when Pixel spotted a small boat on the horizon. She fired off a couple of parachute flares, and not long afterward the boat hove into hailing range. It was a small charter fishing boat out of Ensenada, and at the helm was a guy we’d never met, named R.P. McMurphy. Seems he’d broken out of a mental asylum and chartered this fishing boat, and brought some of the friends he’s made on the inside with him. And who did those inmates happen to be but the denizens of the Boodle Porching Hour, the whole gang; yellojkt, Wilbrod, cassandra, omni, mo, TBG, PJ, LostInThought, Scottynuke, Yoki, frostbitten, Dreamer, Raysmom, kbertocci, RD Padouk, College Parkian, greenwithenvy, martooni, Ivansmom, Harding, Garfield, Charlie Cheswick, Taber, Billy, and even the Chief, all the usual suspects, out for a little marlin-fishing and a break from Nurse Ratched.

Rescued! They took us aboard, of course, and took bc and me to Tijuana so we could hitch-hike to the awards banquet that evening at the swank Tijuana el Hotel Seis.

As we stood in the doorway of the grand ballroom, with hundreds of disbelieving eyes upon us and the crowd rising to their feet (those nearest us also grabbed their noses), bc whispered to me, “Hey Mudge, didja ever hear of the Mille Miglia?”

“No,” I said, “what’s that?”

“A thousand-mile open-road endurance race through Italy. They discontinued it in 1961, but I saw the other day they’re thinking about resuming it. The real one, not the namby-pamby show ‘n shine vintage run they’re doing now. All you need is an old sports car, a driver, and an on-board mechanic/navigator…you do speak a little Italian, don’t you Mudge?”

“Mudge?”

I hit him with my hat. But I didn’t say no.

© Copyright by the authors 2008, all rights reserved.

The Baja Fluffitado 1500

or

The First and Last (?) Race of bc and Mudge

Part III: Manny, Moe and Hack

or

Two Fuels for Love

By bc and Curmudgeon

From Curmudgeon’s Official Logbook:

Mile 487.8: With new water pump, two fan belts, and a broken piñata half that has been stuffed with refried beans, we make good time heading south in the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer . After our grueling day doing yardwork, our clothes were torn and sweaty, so in the last moments before we left, the townspeople donated more cast-off clothing for us to change into. bc is wearing a discarded toreador’s shirt of white silk, with puffed-up sleeves and chest ruffles, similar to a shirt Seinfeld once wore. The padre, meanwhile, has given me an old cassock of his, and a piece of rope to use as a belt, so I look like an ill-tempered Friar Tuck. But at least we are back on the road…er…path…er… cactus-strewn wagon track.

Mile 781.6: We reached the halfway checkpoint dead last, and now we’re heading back north to Tijuana and the finish. Clearly in the mood for a celebration, bc pulls out a flask he’s had hidden under his seat and offers it to me with a lopsided smile. Just as I reach for it…another disaster, as the engine begins to sputter, miss and then stall completely. bc thrusts the flask to me, stops the car, jumps out and works furiously under the hood. He emerges with something in his hand. “Fuel filter,” he says. “Clogged, and then part of the mesh shredded, and it’s leaking. We need a new one. That old carb will clog muy pronto without it.”

With no choice, we start walking down the track, and after two miles (19.3 kilometers, if my math is correct) we come to a small town. There are many old, abandoned buildings, but no obvious sources for a fuel filter, so we go into the cantina.

“Ola,” bc says. “We’re looking for an auto parts store, like Trak Auto, or NAPA.”

“No comprendo,” the owner says, eyeing bc’s frilly shirt and my cassock.

“El Trako Auto-o,” I say. The cantina owner looks back at us dully. “No comprendo.”

“Pep Boys,” I say. “Uh, Peppy Hermanos.”

“Peppy Hermanos? No comprendo.”

“Tres Peppy Caballeros,” bc says. “Um, little Caballeros. “ He makes a gesture, belt-high, indicating short people.

“Manny, Moe and Jack,” I say. “Or would that be Manny, Moe and Hack?”

The cantina owner looks from bc to me to bc again. “No comprendo.”

“Peppy…little hombres…tres hombres …uh…tres peppy hombreslitos.”

“No, no, Mudge,” bc says. “That’s all wrong. Let me try it. We want—Deseamos – let’s see, peppy is like excited…excitado –“

“Excitado? You’re kidding me, right?” I say. “Like fluffitado?”

“Yes. But no. Shut up,” bc says. “Senor, por favor, deseamos tres …uh…pequeños hombres excitados.”

In Spanish, the bartender says, “You want to excite three little men?”

“Whaddy say, whaddy say?” I ask bc, but before he can answer the bartender reaches under the bar and brings out a rusty-looking old pistol and lays it on the bar.

“Vamos,” the bartender says, threateningly. And again in Spanish: “And you, padre, you should be ashamed of yourself!”

“What’s going on?” I ask bc, but he’s pushing me briskly toward the door.

“C’mon, Mudge, I think we better get out of here,” he says, breaking into a run.

Buzzards follow us through town until we find a gas station. It’s closed, unfortunately. Rummaging through the station’s trash dumpster rewards us with a used but serviceable fuel filter, 3/4 of a Twinkie and two sombreros. Then the buzzards follow us back to the car. Never seen so many buzzards.

I took my sombrero and hit bc with it.

But I made sure not to drop the Twinkie.

From bc’s diary:

We are not going to note this in the Official Logbook, but I feel compelled to make a confession here in my personal account of the race: The Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer does not run on pure pump gasoline. Due to the unusual requirements of the big old Merc Grand Prix engine, the fuel is a blend of gasoline, alcohol, and nitroglycerine. We buy pump gas, and have been supplementing it with home-brewed Tequila purchased at gas stations and roadside stands (Mudge is a very experienced haggler. He’s clearly in his element there, probably something he’s learned at docks all over the world.) as well as a prodigious supply of medical-grade nitroglycerine pills that we found secured underneath the chicken truck as we came across the border. Apparently, we were someone’s smuggling asses - I mean, mules. So, we decided to get rid of the pills by dissolving them in the fuel tank, throwing a bottle’s worth in with every fill-up. We can use every erg of power we can muster, and I think the nitro must be helping. I suspect Mudge slipped a few under his tongue when we were flying along the cliff roads near the start, too.

[Insert blurry “Mad Max” fast forward time sequence.]

From Curmudgeon’s Official Logbook:

Mile 1,296.2: We’re out of gas in the middle of nowhere about 200 miles south of Tijuana. There’s an abandoned service station a hundred yards away, with a cluster of free range cattle jostling for shade around what’s left of the building. The cattle don’t even look up when the buzzards take a break from the circling and perch on the roof of the service station. The half-piñata of refried beans and Twinkie are gone, hundreds of miles back. Well, I ate the refried beans and the Twinkie and bc ate the piñata they came in, claiming that at this point, anything other than refried beans was “comfort food.” We are stuck, despondent, out of gas ourselves, out of energy, out of strength, out of ideas. Hungry. Tired. Thirsty. Starting to acquire significant accretions of buzzard droppings on our sombreros.

“What’s the name of this bustling metropolis,” I ask bc. He looks at the sign over the abandoned gas station.

“Santo Guano de Buitre,” he says.

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he says. “I’ll look it up.” He thumbs through his little Spanish pocket dictionary. “Near as I can translate, it means ‘Holy Buzzard Poop.’”

“Sounds better in Spanish, doesn’t it?”

“Si.”

Near the gas station, one of the scrawny cattle breaks wind. It was the only breeze we’d seen or heard for hours, and we were too far away from it to even feel it.

“We’re doomed, aren’t we?” I ask.

“Si.”

“Even a plate of refried beans would be good right about now.” I say.

“Si.”

Suddenly, bc sits bolt upright. “Maybe we aren’t so doomed after all,” he says. With that, he jumps up and runs into the abandoned gas station. There isn’t any gasoline in the building, but there is a room full of Freon Classic in there, for recharging ancient American automotive air conditioners, along with some empty propane tanks. I hear noises, crashes and incoherent cursing as he begins rooting around in the junk and rubble. I go investigate.

bc starts rigging the portable Freon compressor with several inline condensers for the inlet side and a box around them more or less the size of a 19” monitor. I ask what I can do, and bc hands me 100 feet of air hose and a tin funnel, and says “The cows, Mudge. Hook this up to the cows. Cattle flatulence! Don’t you get it? We’ll pull their methane in, and send it out from the compressor through our Freon condenser box, which should liquefy it, and then we’ll use this electric fuel pump to compress it into these old propane tanks, which will be our fuel tanks. I’ll have to adjust the fuel system to get it to run on methane, but I think we can do it.”

“OK, Mr. MacGyver Smartypants, how do we carry this contraption to the next dairy farm?”

bc points at a small utility trailer outside the garage, “It’ll take me a couple of minutes to rig up a bumper hitch. I know that it’ll look funny for a race car to tow a little hay trailer, but I don’t think we can load the portable refinery onto the MG.”

I sighed. “I suppose that’s appropriate for a car powered by intestinal bovine disturbance.”

bc flipped the compressor on and hummed “Yakety Sax” while working on the liquid methane and carburetor/supercharger systems and watching me chase the cows around, trying to get a positive seal on the bovine posteriors.

About 45 minutes later, the MG had a running engine, and a trailer containing three full tanks of liquid Mexican cow flatulence and the Portable Very Natural Gas Refinery. 

I sat in the passenger seat fuming, pretending to look at my race notes and sporting a shiner from a bull that didn’t like my approach to his nether regions with 100 feet of rubber hose.

The exhaust smells awful and has a visible brown tinge, but we’re back on our way. ScienceTim keeps insisting methane doesn’t smell. Hah! Have I got a bulletin for the British Journal “Nature” for him!

Mile 1,498.4: I can’t believe we’re gonna make it! We’re almost in sight of the finish line up ahead in Tijuana, just over that hill. We’re rocketing along the coastal cliffs (OK, rocketing along at about 8 miles an hour, towing a trailer with three scrawny cows facing aft, with hoses running from bc’s methane tanks, over the trunk, over  the cockpit, over the windshield, and down into the engine compartment in front of us. But we were going to finish, and the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer has become an alternative-fuel vehicle at that. Our “Beano” sponsor would be so proud! We were a day or two behind the leaders, but by God, we were sure as hell going to finish.

bc looks over at me and says, “Let’s finish with a flourish, Mudge. Open ‘er up!” So I turn around in my seat and dump two bottles of nitro pills into one of the methane tanks, then tighten my seatbelts and buckle my chinstrap. bc’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel. We accelerate to perhaps 9 miles an hour.

Looking down at the beach, I could see the huge dead whale we’d passed on our way south, a few hundred feet below. There were lots of people down on the beach, but none within a few hundred yards of the whale, which was REALLY bloated now after several days in the scorching sun, and really rank. In fact, you could probably have powered the entire Baja Fluffitado 1500 field with the gaseous interior of the poor dead cetacean. There were red flags around it, and some sort of cables running from it. I nudged bc and pointed, and we looked, trying to figure out what was going on down there. Suddenly, it dawned on me: the only way they had to get rid of that whale was to blow it up, and let the shattered smelly fragments of minced whaleburger get washed away by the tide in manageable pieces, or input to the local buzzard guano distribution system.

“bc,” I said, “I think they’re going to—Look out!”

Up ahead, they’d blocked off the road because of the demolition project. There were a couple of saw horses and barricades temporarily blocking the road – after all, all the other race cars had finished a day or two earlier. bc saw them at the last second and jammed on the brakes, but it was too late! With that overloaded trailer of methane tanks, refining equipment and Lady Holsteins behind us, our old friends Euclid, Pappus, and Ike Newton reminded us we weren’t as smart as we thought we were. We fishtailed wildly as bc fought to retain control, all flailing hands, flying elbows and pumping feet, and then jack-knifed. I’d been used to looking back for the last few hundred miles at three cow butts, but now I looked to my right and there was the trailer, with one of the Bessies looking at me contentedly, chewing on some tumbleweed, as we swerved right, then left—and after what seemed like a nauseous eternity - off the road and over the cliff!

“AAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” said bc, in a manner that I would have described as lacking his usual aplomb.

“AAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.” I believe I may have replied somewhat whimsically. Then I started hitting bc with my sombrero.

Down below, but rapidly coming up to meet us, was the immense carcass of that bloated dead whale, and the last thing I heard was one of the demolition engineers shout, “Despida en el hoyo!” (“Fire in the Hole!”) as he pushed the plunger…

Coming in Part IV: A Celebrity Roast, Flambé, Cookout and Funeral All in One! Aww, You Shouldn’t Have!

© Copyright by the authors 2008, all rights reserved.

The Baja Fluffitado Saga

or

The First and Last (?) Race of bc and Mudge

Part II: 40 Miles of Bad Road. And Another 40. And Another 40…

or

More Than One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

by bc and Curmudgeon

When we last left our intrepid heroes in Part I, they had over-prepared Mudge’s beloved 1954 MG-TD convertible into a finely tuned, supercharged and utterly desecrated off-road racing machine, about to participate in the grueling 1,500-mile off-road rally race from Tijuana, Mexico, down the spine of Baja California to its southernmost tippy-tip, and then back again, across desert, mountain and burning wasteland. With their leather “Snoopy”-type flying helmets, goggles and flying silk scarves, they are a dashing pair.

Extracts from Curmudgeon’s race logbook:

Mile 0.0, 7:40 a.m.: The Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer crosses the start line! We’re off! Wish us luck!

Mile 1.6: The route hugs the cliffs above the Pacific Ocean; bc is learning to steer the overpowered little car on the throttle, throwing the tail out from one turn to the next in a pendulum motion, arcing smoothly from a wide entry point, to corner apex on the inside, to corner exit on the outermost edge of the road (and then some) and back again in big beautiful broadslides, roostertails of dust and tire smoke pluming from the rear tires. Ethereal in the morning sun. I’m sure it’s beautiful from the mountaintops above, but it’s utterly terrifying from in the car. I think I’m going to hurl. Hitting him with my hat does not get him to slow down at all. Rounding a sharp bend, I’m leaning out of the car and deciding whether to blow chunks or not, and see down on the beach the carcass of a dead whale, with perplexed villagers wondering what to do about it. Looks like a full-grown gray whale, very big and getting bigger as it bakes in the sun. Must have been there several days already; smell rises to cliff road: very pungent. Not helping at all. Ugh.

Mile 17.6: Quick stop for me to deal with Montezuma’s Revenge. I notice several buzzards overhead, circling us. Three race cars pass us, including a V-16 Cadillac. bc asks why I am now wearing only one sock.

Mile 34.8: Quick stop for bc to deal with Portnoy’s Complaint. Buzzards still circling. Four race cars pass, a bathtub Porsche, a Hudson Hornet, a Rolls of some flavor, and a Stanley Steamer. Both of us now wearing only one sock.

Mile 56.3: Batteries crap out in my hand-held GPS, so must navigate old-fashioned way, with map and pencil. Pencil breaks, forgot to bring sharpener. Using yellow highlighter and Post-it Notes stuck to dashboard for navigation data; having difficulty reading yellow writing on yellow Post-Its, especially with goggles fogging up. Stop for Montezuma’s Revenge again. Notice buzzards circling; seems like a few more than before. Now sockless. Seven cars pass including a BMW Isetta driven con considerable brio.

Mile 71.2: bc eats last of Slim-Jims. Swerving to avoid armadillo in road, several Post-it notes fly off dashboard. Going full speed on straight-away in top gear. Looks like bc installed an axle and final drive out of a Chalmers-Allis tractor. “It was the only old, cheap rear end I thought would be strong enough,” bc explains nervously. “Aside from yours, of course.” We set new low in race car performance, being passed by a barely modified 1926 Peugeot. Very humiliating.

I hit bc with my hat to spur him to greater speeds.

Mile 118.9: Not supposed to, but we stop at small Mexican village looking for lunch. Nothing available but refried beans at small cantina. Villagers want to hire us to drive away band of marauding bandits led by nasty man named Calvera. They say previous seven gringos they hired are now buried in their churchyard. We decline job offer. Lots of buzzards up there in the sky. Wonder why.

Mile 123.7, Mile 129.6, Mile 134.6, Mile 140.8: Various stops to deal with problem re: refried beans. Not only are our socks gone (including those we packed), but we had to ditch our pants for expediency’s sake. Sure are a lot of buzzards.

bc found a purple crayon during one of his Personal Pit Stops, which he proudly brought back to the car and silenty laid on the dash like a bird dog presenting a duck. I had hopes that this was a sign things were beginning to turn our way.

Then the crayon started to melt.

Mile 196.4: The Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer is seriously overheating, steam coming from under hood. bc pulls over into shaded area behind billboard, scowling and muttering that he wished he’d just spent the extra half-hour on the car, whatever that means. Buzzards perch on top of billboard, watching us. We inspect engine, discover fan belts to water pump and radiator fan had broken and were gone. We craft makeshift fan belts using the belts from our discarded pants, reinforced with duct tape. Radiator takes most of our water supply. When we look up, two banditos are standing there, with shotguns and perfectly straight, blindingly white toothy smiles. They take our wallets, and drive off in their pickup, laughing. Now we have no money, credit cards, driver’s licenses —nothing. When we get back on road, I discover buzzard poop on several of my most important Post-it notes on dashboard, including route to next checkpoint.

Mile 226.4: At top of a rise, water pump gives out again. bc puts car in neutral, turns off engine, and we coast downhill into small village. We have no money, so attempt to barter with garage/gas station owner for new water pump and fan belts, but we have nothing he wants. Then he gets idea. He leads us around the back, and points to his hacienda on a small knoll. The house has a beautiful lawn and is nicely landscaped. “Chew,” he says, pointing to bc, “Usted lo cortará.” You will mow it.

“¿Qué? What?” bc croaked.

He pointed to an ancient lawnmower nearby.

“Corta,” he said, addressing bc directly in heavily accented English, “Mow.”

He turned to me and continued in Inglés, “And you, trim,” handing me a pair of blunt children’s scissors. “And mulch.”

There were many, many flower beds around the outside of his hacienda, and in its interior courtyard as well.

“That’s a lot of mulch,” I said.

“Si,” he replied. “Es muy mulcho.”

“Who normally does this work?” I asked.

“My muchachos.”

“Your children? They must be very macho. In fact, one might say, ‘Your macho muchachos got muy macho from muy mucho mulcho.”

Not having much choice, bc and I go to work. A few minutes later, I look up and notice a dozen villagers have gathered to watch us. They are pointing, laughing, cheering, and apparently making bets. Several more villagers arrive, and I notice the gas station owner collecting money from them for letting them watch. Since we don’t have belts, the gas station owner has given us old jumper cables to hold up pants that the villagers have donated to us. We work in the broiling sun, while under shade trees hundreds of villagers have gathered, sitting in lawn chairs and on picnic blankets. Vendors are moving through the crowd selling fajitas and chimichangas, while children with sticks try to break a piñata that looks remarkably like…well…me, complete with leather flying helmet and long white scarf. The padre has arrived from the little church in the square, and proclaimed a miracle, to be commemorated every year as a feast day, La Fiesta de la Briggs e Stratton, the day two gringos came to town and cut Senor Lopez-Portillo’s lawn and mulched his flower beds, in exchange for a water pump, two fan belts, and two heaping, steaming plates of refried beans con queso.

And pants.

Coming in Part III: Manny, Moe and Hack

or

Two Fuels for Love

© Copyright by the authors 2008, all rights reserved.

The Baja Fluffitado 1500

or

The First and Last (?) Race of bc and Mudge

Part I: Eat My Dust, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Here Comes the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer

By bc and Curmudgeon

Several weeks ago bc happened to mention he might have a chance to participate in a major long-distance off-road race, the Baja Fluffitado 1500. 

From the Official Baja Fluffitado Race Committee:

“The Baja Fluffitado 1500 is one of international racing’s most grueling off-road rally-type races. Beginning in Tijuana, Mexico, race cars depart at 10-minute intervals, and must race 750 miles down the rugged, heat-blistering terrain of Baja California, to the southernmost tip near Cabo San Lucas, and then 750 miles back to Tijuana. Along the way, a marked route will cross burning deserts, arid mountains, and cactus-strewn foothills. The route will be mostly off-road or use minor roads, paths and trails over the countryside, occasionally wending through small villages. Along the route there will be 10 checkpoints, similar to pit stops, where driver and navigator may stop for bathroom breaks, re-fuel their race cars and make any necessary repairs or adjustments. These pit stops are not timed, per se, but may not exceed 30 minutes; the time spent in the pit stop does not count toward the racers’ time. However, clocking in and clocking out of Time Control is obviously critical….”

“Vehicles must be a basic stock automobile manufactured in any country before 1960, and may be modified within limitations to adapt to race conditions (see Appendix A). Race teams are comprised of a driver and a navigator, who may not exchange positions during the race. Race teams may acquire sponsors, and may decorate their vehicles with sponsor decals and markings in any way they wish….”

bc said that he had been scouring local junkyards for a car to adapt to race-worthy condition, but was having no luck. Curmudgeon replied that he’d offer up his beloved old MG if he could come along as the race navigator. What follows is a four-part report on What Happened Next, as told from excerpts from official race documents, bc’s diary, police reports and from the logbook kept by Curmudgeon during the race.

from bc’s diary:

“I gave in to Mudge’s predilection for open-top Brit sports cars, settling for his 1952 MG TD. But being an incorrigible tinkerer, I couldn’t leave the MG and its wheezy 1250 cc, 4-cylinder 57-hp engine alone. Relying on my skills of international horse-trading, I acquired a supercharged 5.66-liter straight-8 engine as used in the 1937 Mercedes M125 Grand Prix racing cars, rated at 645-hp at 5,800 RPM on full boost, in exchange for a pristine Rambler American dashboard.

The original plan to swap the engine over a weekend, test, de-bug and paint the car turned into a three-month thrash, six hours a night after our day jobs, and 12 hours a day on weekends. Swapping our vintage Teutonic tower of power into an MG chassis with the structural rigidity of al dente ziti caused us to consider the effects on the rest of the car. So, in a mere 665.5 hours we replaced everything that we didn’t think would hold up. Which was everything.

What we ended up with was a car that looked like a veddy fussy MG-TD with an elongated snout (painted the traditional American racing colors of white with blue trim), had a stout German metal heart, the chassis of a Midwestern short-track sprint car (after all, we were going to be on dirt as much as macadam), the soul of a California T-bucket hot rod, and sounded like a flatulent blender set on ‘frappe.’ At 100 decibels.

Curmudgeon’s intermittent spells of weeping every time he looked at his beloved MG were heart-rending, if not a bit pathetic.”

from Mudge’s Logbook:

“Race Day minus 3: Search for sponsors hasn’t gone as well as I’d hoped. Unable to attract major national/international sponsors. As matter of principle, we agree NOT to accept sponsorship from any tobacco companies. Refused $25,000 sponsorship from AnnCoulter.com, which would have required putting life-size decal of her face on car doors, and accepting ‘1692′ as official race car number. After all, must retain one’s ethics and morals. Accepted smaller sponsorships from adult Web site ‘Big ——-,’ and from pharmaceutical company that makes ‘Beano.’ bc has local friend who agrees to be our major sponsor:  Stostakiewzchewski’s Funeral Home and Peach Orchard, motto: “Where Death and Fine Fruit Are the Pits.” Old Man Stostakiewzchewski had one other condition: must name car after his two daughters, Thelma-Louise Stostakiewzchewski and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski. After much weeping, bc convinced me to agree to conditions. My beloved MG will henceforth be known as the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer.

Memo to self: Bring lots of Kleenex, Chapstick for cheeks (both sets – it’s going to be a long ride).”

from bc’s diary:

“Race Day minus 1: I am an idiot. Mudge and I bring the small-but-mighty Flyer down to Mexico on the back of a borrowed flatbed truck normally used to haul chickens, and arrive at the Tijuana border crossing only to realize that I inadvertently mailed our passports to the Fluffitado organizers with our entry forms and fees. The Mexican border police ask to see our paperwork, and after much thrashing, swearing, and sweating, I manage to convey the idea that I had nada. Mudge is rightfully furious with me, and keeps hitting me with his hat (he’s the Skipper, after all). The Mexican border police are having none of it and send us on our way, so we head back towards San Diego to think. We pull into a gas station, and in the men’s room we bump into a nice chap with a passport who is willing to drive the truck and the Flyer into TJ for a Benjamin, which I agree to pay out of my Gift Shop trip budget. Mudge and I rearrange the flatbed so we can strap ourselves under it with duct tape and spool of rusty chicken wire we find in the bed of the truck. We go across the border that way. It’s dark, hot as hell and burning chicken guano vapors sear our eyes, noses, and throats. I burn my shoulder on the truck’s exhaust system and Mudge takes a speed-bag beating from the truck’s driveshaft u-joints – whap-whap-whap-whap. The bumpy ride seems to take forever. I don’t know what our driver says at the crossing, but there is much laughing and the guards don’t look under the truck. When our friend stops in an alley to let us out and collect his pay, he starts laughing while holding his nose with one hand, reaching out for his cash with the other. When I look at Mudge through my burning, teary eyes, I realize we’re covered with warm pasty chicken crap and feathers from the bottom of the truck. Fowl-smelling ambulatory chicken s^!t featherduster nightmares is what we are. I hand the driver his money and he walks away laughing and shaking his head. Mudge hits me with his hat again, making a brief snowstorm of feathers. We hustle through town to make the traditional night-before-race banquet and parade through streets of Tijuana. Race crews and cars parade through town, throwing strings of beads to local senoritas, hoping to get Mardi Gras-like responses from them. Alas, senoritas do not seem to be in Mardi-Gras-like mood where we were concerned. I guess a shower might have helped.”

But we’ve finally made it into Mexico. If we work hard and have some luck, all of our dreams will come true. That’s the American Dream, isn’t it?”

At Pre-Race banquet, starting positions are drawn randomly from big drum. We draw fourth starting position, at 7:40 a.m. That means three cars in front of us, 86 cars behind us. We have made all possible preparations: Canteens and jugs of drinking water, major supply of Slim-Jims for snacks, tools, extra rolls of duct tape, J-B Weld, etc. We also borrowed ScienceTim’s fishing vest, thinking that whatever we didn’t remember to bring would probably be in one of his pockets. Mudge seems to have his weeping under control, as long as he doesn’t have to look at his car or breathe near me. Bleeding from cut on his forehead where a senorita threw a beaded necklace back at him has stopped after some quick repair work (she had a wicked sidearm motion!). It’s a good thing I had that safety wire and some plyers — he can take out my spiffy stainless steel stitches after the race. We’ve gone over the Achenblog Beano Thelma-Louise and Hortense Stostakiewzchewski Flyer one last time. We really think we’re ready.”

Coming in  Part II: 40 Miles of Bad Road. And Another 40. And Another 40…

or

More Than One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

© Copyright by the authors 2008, all rights reserved.

P.S. If you enjoyed this, please come back soon for Parts II, III, and IV, and don’t forget to stop by Joel Achenbach’s Achenblog and say something nice about him in the Comments section (aka the Kaboodle). He has a new boss at the Washington Post, and it wouldn’t hurt for someone to say something positive about him in public. It’d be a nice change, too.

bc