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.