Roughing It

Some Important Notes Before You Get Started:

I've combined all four chapters of the "Roughing It" story here.  And they're in chronological order.  So, if you've read one or more of the chapters (and THANK YOU!), you can scroll down to the next chapter in the series.  Or, you might want to review the previous chapters to remember what happened earlier in the story.

As a reminder, this entire story is true, to the best of my knowledge and memory, and a minor embellishment or two.

This is my first official attempt at a blog.  I hope you like it.  If so, please comment!  If you don't like it, please tell me (really, I can take it!).  Also, please consider this material copyrighted by me.  Reproduction of this content is against the law, and it will really piss me off.  I may not come after you with lawyers, but I'll probably mention your sorry ass in a future story!  Be warned!!!  On the flip side, some of the photos and videos here are borrowed from other sources.  I don't claim to own them and use them only to help illustrate the story.

And finally:  For those of you who don’t know me well, these are stories from my younger days and include a primary character Lars.  Lars was my brother, who died of cancer on Christmas Eve, 2005.  Lars and I were very close.  In many ways, this is a tribute to his memory and the hole left in my heart when he died.  But enough of the sappy shit; on with the story!

 

Part 1:  Setting the Scene

My 35-year hindsight is a little fuzzy, so I’m guessing the year was 1976.  And it had to be summertime, because it was racing season and we ended up camping.  If you want to call it “camping.” But I’ll get to that.

This would put me at about 14, and Lars had just started his illustrious racing career. So put him around 18.   The third character in this tale was our mutual friend, Leroy Marques (a.k.a. “Elrod”).  Elrod was midway between Lars and me and had grown up with us.

Looking back, I guess we were just some dorky teenagers navigating that awkward path from punk-ass kid to independent (yet still somewhat punk-ass) young adult.  Hell, we were probably all virgins. Elrod and I made no secret of it.  And Lars, although a major-league bullshitter, was unpopular and frumpy.  He probably joined us in the V-club despite his grand humping tales.  We were pretty sure they were just “recycled” stories from the Forum section of Penthouse magazine (he had quite the collection).  But this story isn’t about anyone losing his virginity.

I was spending the summer working for my oppressive older brothers on the ranch (the hog ranch in Commerce City, where we all grew up).  I don’t know if you’d call it my “first job,” considering I was working for my brothers on the property where I lived, making $7 per week.  Yeah, it was pathetic pay, even in 1976 dollars.  But I got free lunch on Fridays, which was a huge perk.  At least according to Rick.  Working for him and Chris was like being a slave to two different masters with constantly changing (and usually conflicting) demands.  It was a lesson in unintentional mental and physical torture, and I was the pupil.  Not that I’m bitter.  And, I do have to give Rick credit:  He ingrained in me the notion that staying in school could prevent me from having to spend the rest of my life doing hard labor.  Like this work that paid $7/week.  That point stuck.  Anyway, that was my job, and it’s a whole other story.

I was actually pretty happy to be making enough money to get in to the drag races each week, without having to hit up my folks for the cash.  Besides, living at home and having no driver’s license, I didn’t have many other financial burdens.  I did own a beat-up ’65 Pontiac Tempest convertible, but you only needed so much gas to drive it around the ranch. Gas was about 40¢/gallon, so I could make hundreds of laps around the ranch on a dollar’s worth of gas.

Lars was working at Brink’s Automotive, and I’m guessing Elrod was too.  In our neighborhood, everyone worked for the Brinks at one time or another.  And, just as likely, most of us ended up getting into cars and drag racing.  Anyone who knows Elrod or me, or knew Lars, also knows that drag racing would become a huge part of our lives.  So this story will be a pretty good snapshot of what that looked like in the early days.  Let me paint the picture for you.

At this point, Lars was in his first or second year of racing.  He drove the Brink’s parts truck during the week, picking up water pumps and delivering master cylinders for a couple dimes over minimum wage.   Then, on weekends, he entered the same ’62 Chevy pickup in the drag races.  OK, I know what you’re thinking.  But, not only did the Brinks know Lars was doing this, they encouraged it!  Now that’s a perk!  Sure beats the hell out of my free Friday lunch!

Now, about the ’62 Chevy truck.  You might be picturing a super-cool, chopped, chromed-out ride with a hopped-up big block under the hood and fat tires in back.  After all, Lawrence Brink (owner of the truck and Brink’s Auto) was a drag racer and was famous for building screamin’ hotrods.  But this truck was not a hotrod; it fit none of the afore-mentioned criteria. 

It was not super cool, and it had no flames.  Big block and fat tires?  Not quite.  “Chopped”?  Only if you refer to the floorboard.  That’s because, at some point, the original 4-speed transmission had been removed and replaced with a Powerglide automatic (which had 2 speeds: slow and slower!).  The resulting “conversion” meant that there was a large hole in the floor where the shifter formerly resided.  And when I say “hole,” I mean you could look down and see the road (a lot of it!) passing underneath.   The good thing was that all three of us could chew sunflower seeds, and we each had our own window to spit the shells through!  I mean, these were the days when a truck had one bench seat and two doors.  There were no “crew cabs,” no “club cabs,” and no “super cabs.”  This one had a regular old cab that was not super, and the “crew” sat side-by-side three wide.  So, for the “middle guy,” getting a place to spit his shells was a minor consolation for not having a door.

Ironically, it was the transmission conversion that made the truck a viable race vehicle.  The automatic tranny made the truck more consistent than a standard tranny could, and Lawrence didn’t have to worry about Lars blowing out the clutch on Saturday (and having no parts truck on Monday). Lawrence is many things, but he’s not dumb--especially when it comes to business or drag racing.  And that’s why he let Lars race it.  It’s also why Lars preferred it over his own vehicle, which back then would have been his ’63 Galaxy.  The Ford’s manual “three on the tree” rendered it un-raceable.

But, raceable or not, the truck was a complete eyesore.  In addition to the Flintstones floor, it sported rusted-out fenders, a windshield so cracked that you’d think it had a permanent spider web engraved into it, and half-missing, dented chrome trim that was splattered with grey primer from multiple experimental bodywork sessions.  Between the dents, rust, and primer spots, the body was an ugly metallic green.

Now, I said this truck was slow, but that begs some explanation.  In technical terms, it was powered by a stock, 194-cubic-inch, six-cylinder engine with a 1-barrel carburetor.  Yes folks, they did make a one-barrel carburetor.  You may never have heard about a “one barrel” because it’s so un-notable.  It’s not exactly something you’d catch in a Beach Boys tune.  Let’s face it: my lawnmower has a one-barrel.  Your lawnmower has a one-barrel!  Still, in the carburetor’s defense, it was appropriate for the pathetic 194-c.i. engine.  Like the carburetor, you’ve probably never heard of one of those.  It’s not exactly the size you see proudly displayed on the front fender.  Ladies, this is like the A-cup of engines.  Guys, in horsepower terms, it falls somewhere between a leaf-blower and a shop-vac! (Take your pick:  It blew or it sucked!)  I don’t think it would even be rated in “horse” power, since even a sick horse has more power than this thing had.  If you can imagine “kicking a dead horse,” that horse would be this engine.

So here’s the bottom line.  For those of you who are familiar with drag racing, this whopper topped the quarter mile in 24 seconds at a blinding 52 MPH.  That’s right: it would have taken a longer race track just to get this truck up to highway speed, even back in 1976 when the highway speed limit was 55!  Yes, folks, this was Lars’s very first race car.  Keep this image and performance data in your mind as you read the rest of this story.  There’ll be a test later.

So, off to the races!  In those days, here’s what it looked like:  We’d pile into the truck, after Elrod and I called a coin flip to see who got “shotgun” and who had to sit in the middle and straddle the hole.  We’d head up to Bandimere Speedway and pay the entry fee, then pop off the air cleaner and drop the tailgate (important performance-enhancing modifications).  We then proceeded to spend the day running time trials and eating hotdogs.  Elrod and I were Lars’s “pit crew,” a job that involved going to the concession stand for Cokes and hotdogs, checking out the cool “real” race cars, and generally hanging out as Lars made lap after lap in what the announcers had labeled the “Lumbering Chevy Truck.”  

Then, “eliminations” would roll around.  One by one, Lars would race against faster (and nicer) cars that had to give his truck a ridiculous head start because it was so slow.  The drivers usually got frustrated with the wait or overconfident because of the truck’s appearance or (lack of) speed.  Hell, I’m sure there were a few who figured the truck wouldn’t even make the full quarter mile!  But, for whatever reason, they failed to catch the old beater before the finish line.  Lars won quite a few races this way.  But he was not without skill, either.  We’d all spent the majority of our summer weekends at the races and had learned from the best.

At the end of the night, we’d screw the air cleaner back on, flip a coin again, and aim the headlights toward a pizza joint on the way home. Lars would splurge and spend some of his winnings (which usually amounted to about $20) on pizza and a pitcher of pop.  (It’s not like I could contribute much; my $7 weekly salary was burned up by now, between the entry fee and the hotdogs.)  Aside from reliving the night’s victories, we pondered ways of making the truck quicker, maybe even fast enough to hit 55mph on the track.  Finally, after the night’s excitement, and still buzzed on Coke, we’d go home smelling like gas and picking specks of tire rubber from our teeth and hair.  Ah, good times!

And the next weekend, we would go out and do the same thing all over again.

Before long, we were marginally accepted within the local drag racing crowd, despite our pathetically slow and ugly entry.  (Lawrence’s endorsement may have had something to do with that.  He was a local legend, and we might have earned some credit by association.)  And, as we hung out in the pits and talked with these “real” racers, we listened in on many tales of epic road trips.   I mean, these guys had raced as far away as Kansas, Minnesota, and even California.  Sure, we’d been out of Colorado, but summer camp didn't count!

Since “out of town” meant going at least as far as Colorado Springs, that’s where we set our sights.  We didn’t have a lot of money for gas, and let’s face it: we weren’t terribly confident that the old truck could make the trip without breaking down.  I mean, there was a reason it was relegated to Denver-area commutes and 24-second strip rides, and Lawrence would totally shit if we called him from out of town to get the truck towed back to the shop.  But Colorado Springs was still a road trip, and we got excited about the prospect.  We were going to take our show on the road!  We were going to show those guys how drag racing is done in Denver!  Seriously, Lars was pretty darn good and had gotten into the money several times, so there was no reason to think we couldn’t do some damage down there.  Yeah, we had it all figured out.

So, now you know what this story is about: Our first road trip. Yeah, “roughing it” could refer to the way we raced back then, but it really pertains to this road-trip adventure.  Read on to see what I mean!

Part 2, Achieving Goals

Lars, in the ranch house where we all grew up.  Circa 1976.

As the summer of ’76 wound down, we reflected on our accomplishments.  Yeah, we were teenagers, but hey—we had goals (OK, call them wild-ass ideas)!  And we’d accomplished most of them.  All, in fact, except that big one: the epic road trip to Colorado Springs.  But let me review the others first.

One goal we met was that Lars had won an event in the “Street” class at Bandimere Speedway.  (This class was for the slowest vehicles at the race, most of which were street legal and driven to the track—not on hauled on trailers like real race cars).  Miraculously, Lars had actually won a few events, despite being disqualified from competition midway through the season.  And, actually, the disqualification allowed us to achieve two additional goals!  Yeah, it turns out, disqualification rocks!!!  Here’s how it went down.

During that season, as Lars started winning rounds in the old pickup, he also began to agitate some of the “regular” racers (the guys—and ladies—who had been competing in the class for years).  The way they saw it, it was bad enough that some punk-ass kid had shown up to race with this broken-down heap of a pickup.  And I could see their point:  Some guy showing up at a drag race with an old wreck is a bit of a curiosity.  But seeing him come back week after week is something different, especially if said “broken-down heap” isn’t something you can easily beat.  And it’s just salt in the wounds (or transmission fluid in the eyes) when you have to watch him win rounds and finish in the money.  But watching him beat the “regulars” (including you!) week after week, well, that was just too much.

So, it was just a matter of time before someone decided to take action.  One of these agitated “regulars” paged through the rulebook in hopes of finding a rule Lars was breaking.  And, apparently unknown to the other racers and even track officials, the rulebook stated that the Street class was designated for vehicles running elapsed times (ETs) in the range of 15 to 24 seconds.  More specifically, it was 15.00 to 24.00 seconds.  And the “lumbering Chevy truck” was stopping the clocks about 24.70 seconds.  (Remember my description of the truck in the last chapter?  I told you there’d be a test later!)  I guess that, over the years, not many racers showed up with vehicles so slow that they actually pushed up against this ceiling.  So it eventually became forgotten.  Until now.

Without having to go through a whole “Drag Racing 101” education, let’s just say the truck was nearly a full second too slow to be competitive.  So, that fateful Saturday, when that unnamed popular “regular” racer pointed this rule out to track officials, Lars was toast.  Technically, he wasn’t disqualified; he just had to “dial in” at 24.00 seconds.  But, since the old truck couldn’t run that quick, it would be easy for the quicker competitors to overcome the head-start and drive around him for the win.  And that’s what happened.  Lars’s career was over.  I’m sure many of the “regulars” did some cartwheels that night—they’d gotten a huge victory off the track.

Now, I wasn’t party to the resulting conversations after that race, but I’m sure there were a few different issues that played into what happened next.  First, there was Lars, who had gotten to be a real contender in the Street class.  Now, he had to be disappointed and straight-out pissed by this latest development.  But this also had to be a little humiliating for Lawrence Brink.  He was a drag racing legend and had launched his empire by building fast cars.  And by now, Lars had gained some notoriety in this truck, which everyone knew was owned by Brink’s Auto, Lawrence’s company.  Yet it was too slow to compete.  Ouch. 

So, considering these two issues, what happened next really isn’t a surprise:  The truck was right back at it the following week, making mid-23-second time runs. I was there for that.  I watched as jaws dropped, heads were scratched, and the cartwheels ceased.  And when Lars returned from that first sub-24-second pass with his ET card in hand, he sported what could only be defined as the original shit-eating grin. 

It turns out that a quick “valve job” during the week, coupled with a healthy milling of the 194’s cylinder head, boosted the compression while making the old engine more efficient.  Don’t get me wrong, the truck was still pathetically slow.  But now it was just a little quicker and less pathetic. It was competitive again, and we were back in business. More than that, we’d instantly accomplished one of our goals by breaking through the 24-second barrier (and we didn’t even have to remove a couple hundred pounds in body parts, as we’d figured).  To celebrate, we accomplished yet another major goal:  Lars did a burnout.

If you’re not familiar with the term,  a “burnout” is when a car (or truck) sits stationary but is able to spin the rear wheels (usually with the aid of the wetted surface in a “burnout box” behind the starting line) until the tires begin to smoke.  Drag racers do this to heat the rear tires so they grab the track surface better.  But we wanted to do one just because they’re also kick-ass cool!

A modern-day truck performing a burnout.

But there was a problem: a burnout takes a minimal amount of horsepower and, well, the old truck didn’t have much of that.  Sure, we had done some tests back in Commerce City, but we knew the truck lacked the cojones to spin the wheels on any surface that excluded snow, ice, or mud.  (For my lady friends, here’s a translation:  You can buy a C-cup bra, but you still gotta fill it with something!)  Still, we were hopeful that the new injection of power had changed that, so Lars attempted a burnout before one of his time runs. 

Now, before I describe what happened next, let me explain something.  In the “Street” class, none of the cars were quick enough to require a burnout; they just didn’t have the power.  Yeah, some cars had racing slicks for traction, but even they didn’t require burnouts or heated tires.  “Street” cars just drove around the burnout box and up to the starting line.  So, when Lars pulled into the burnout box, driving the slowest vehicle in the slowest  racing class, it immediately turned some heads. I’m sure it didn’t help that the truck was still decked out in old winter tires!  (Seriously, I am not making this stuff up!) 

Lars knew how ridiculous this all looked, but he didn’t care.  He was energized by his resurrected racing career. His jaw was set and he had that “I’m gonna kick your ass!” look in his eyes.  And, at the appointed time, he feathered the brakes and gunned the old dog for all it was worth.  And I’m telling you, Lars gave it everything he had: power-braking, rocking vigorously forward and side-to-side, and hopping up and down in the seat.  But alas, despite his effort, the truck just grunted and the tires sat motionless.  (Lars, on the other hand, about died from exhaustion!)  Obviously, this was a major setback.

But this was a day of success and accomplishment, and we would not be denied. So, when Lars returned from that run, still red-faced and panting, we worked on a plan. Hell, we had to: thanks to the previous failed attempt and Lars’s wild gesticulating in the cab, word had gotten around and dozens of people were commenting on the hilarious performance.  Or lack of a performance.  Needless to say, there was a lot on the line when the next time run came around and Lars again pulled from the staging lanes.  And sure enough, people took note.  Surely the dumb shit would not try again! But, when he again pulled into the burnout box, that small group of curious onlookers flashed into an actual crowd. Seriously: other racers killed their engines and emerged from the cars to look on.  People ran from their places in line at the concession stand, lest they miss the spectacle.  Mothers set their children aside and looked on in anticipation.  Yes, everyone knew they were about to witness something big.  Then, when the moment arrived, a silence settled in.  Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked.  At the appointed time, Lars clenched his teeth (and flexed one or two other body orifices) and revved the engine against the truck’s bulk of steel, rust, and Bondo. 

Again, nothing.

But this time, we were ready. Elrod walked up to the truck and lifted on the rear fender to lighten the weight on the rear wheels (at least that wheel on the side where he was lifting).  Slowly, the tire below began to slip, bit by bit.  After a few heaves, it was making full rotations without stopping. Before long, it was simmering with smoke and its momentum allowed Elrod to let go and stand clear.  And as the truck revved, a large billowing white cloud rolled out from behind and the on-looking crowd roared with approval.  Yeah, so only one tire was spinning, but that tire smoked up a storm.  You could almost see the snow treads flying off!  And as much as I’d love to tell you about the expression on Lars’s face, the truth is that I couldn’t see.  No-one could see.  That’s because a lot of the tire smoke had made its way into the cab via the large hole in the floor, filling the cab with smoke and completely obscuring his face.  Behind all that, though, I’m sure that “shit-eating grin” had made its second appearance of the day.

Lars, circa 1976.  Remember those 25¢ photo booths?

Yes, we were the decided victors that day.  So, later on, when eliminations came around and the racing was for real, it didn’t matter how Lars did or who won the race.  Our pizza-joint celebration could not have been more jubilant.

Other accomplishments that summer were not as dramatic.  Hell, some weren’t even planned! For example, we broke a few rules, some of which weren’t even in the rulebook.  In fact, we were pretty sure some were made on the spot, in direct response to Lars’s on-track adventures.  Still, any time we did something that resulted in a rule change, we considered it a major accomplishment.

So, here are the Top 10 rules that did not exist until we arrived on the scene.  Okay, I know this is going to sound like Jeff Foxworthy and his "You know you're a redneck if..." routine.  And, actually, if you imagine him talking you can see a great similarity between what a redneck might do and what we did to inspire this list! Anyway, it is what it is.  On with the list!

1. It is against the rules to race with your window down and your arm resting on the door.
2. It is against the rules to leave the starting line with the driver’s window down (although we learned that no one will chase you down the track to make sure you don’t open it at some point during the 23-second run!)
3. It is against the rules to eat a hot dog while drag racing (although, as above, the rules couldn’t be enforced once you left the starting line!
4. It is against the rules to race with your tailgate down unless you have cleaned all the trash out of the back of your truck.  OK, that one kind of makes sense.
5. During a race, it is against the rules to zig-zag back and forth in your lane so that your opponent is afraid to run next to you and risk a collision.
6. Believe it or not, it’s even against the rules to honk your horn while sitting at the starting line to distract your competitor or (more likely) agitate the track officials.
7. It is against the rules to write obscenities on your rear window in white shoe polish, in hopes of aggravating your opponents or track officials.  Some stupid rule about “obscured vision.”
8. It is against the rules to race with an open cup of Coke in the driver’s compartment (what the hell are the cup-holders for, then?  They sure made it hard to wash down that contraband hotdog!).
9. It is against the rules to litter the track by tossing hotdog wrappers out the window or through the hole in the floor.  (We found this rule ironic, considering there was no rule prohibiting littering the track with broken car parts!  We actually considered keeping some broken parts in the truck and having Lars toss them out during a run.)        And then, of course:
10. It is against the rules to have a pit crew member lift up on the fender of your vehicle to aid a burnout!

Ironically, there was no rule prohibiting a hole in the floor of the driver’s compartment!  It would have been an easy fix with a patch of sheet-metal and some rivets.  But that would have ruined the spectacle that occurred later in this story.  Seriously, this one makes the burnout episode look like a warm-up (so to speak).  So read on!  I promise I’ll cover the Colorado Springs road trip in the next chapter!

Part 3:  The Race

This was big.  It was the biggest contest of the year, and a lot rode on it.  It was me against him.  My palms moistened with sweat as we prepared for the showdown.  I stared into his steely eyes and he gazed back with equal determination.  We circled one another for a moment, each sizing the other up.  Yeah, we both wanted this victory in the worst way.  Suddenly, his fist went into his pocket.  I think my heart stopped.  An instant, quiet calm took over the parking lot.  It was as if time had slowed down.  Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

It was Lars who broke the silence, looking over from the driver’s seat and spitting profanities at us—probably something like, “Would you queers just get the fucking thing over with?!!!”  (OK, so Lars had an eloquent vocabulary.  But this was pretty typical for guys our age.  The fact is that you weren’t accepted in teenage social circles unless you could cast out a stream of degrading obscenities on queue. So it didn’t faze us.  Besides, what did he care?  He had nothing riding on this coin flip!)

Still, before I knew it, Elrod had pulled out the quarter and flipped it into the air:  “Call it!” What???  Shit!!!

“Heads!” I hollered without thinking.  It all happened so fast!

The coin hit the ground, where it plopped, bounced, twirled, and finally rested on “heads.”  I’d won!  Not just that, but I’d won the BIG one!  This wasn’t just a ride to Scottie’s Drive-In for lunch or the Adams City field house for swimming.  It wasn’t even a movie across town.  This was our epic road trip down to Colorado Springs, and I’d won “shotgun” for the long drive!  I was jacked!

So here we were: it was Sunday morning, Labor Day Weekend, and we were casting off.  Lars had won money at Bandimere Speedway the night before, so we were on a hot streak (even though the cash prize didn’t last beyond our post-race celebration at the Shakey’s Pizza on West Colfax).  The truck had a full tank of gas (unwittingly courtesy of Lawrence Brink!) and we jumped on I-25 southbound.

Now, we’d never gone on a very long trip in this truck.  So, it wasn’t long before we began to regret that we couldn’t make this trip in Lars’s ’63 Galaxy.  To start with, in addition to its afore-mentioned shortcomings, the truck boasted a stock AM radio, power-enhanced by a bent-open clothes hanger in place of the broken-off antenna.  This meant that we got to listen to The Captain and Tennille screeching through the one raspy speaker on the dashboard.  And that radio station faded into static by the time we reached Castle Rock.

The Galaxy, on the other hand, had a state-of-the-art 8-Track stereo.  OK, so Lars’s collection of tapes was pretty pathetic: hand-me-downs highlighted by Joan Baez, Deep Purple, and BTO.  Most of his tapes were obscure bands like MFSB.  I only remember that one because we liked to say that MFSB stood for Mother F*cking Son of a Bitch. (It was actually Mother, Father, Sister, Brother. Now there’s some obscure music trivia for you!)

Aside from the music, we really missed that the Galaxy had more than one seat, so we wouldn’t have to look like dorks sitting “three wide”!

Lars and Elrod, returning from another road trip, circa 1976.  The Galaxy was no head-turner, but it had a nice 8-track stereo and a rear seat!  Unlike our race truck, the Galaxy also sported a C-cup 351-inch V-8 and a “three on the tree” transmission with overdrive (grunt, grunt!). 

Even with the crappy AM radio, the trip went quickly at the speedy 60 mph (pushing the 55-mph, 1976 speed limit).  Before we knew it, we were at the race track east of the Springs.  (The track has been out of commission for a couple decades now.)  The ensuing routine included paying the entry fee and heading over to “Tech.”   

Tech: Short for “Technical Inspection,” this is where track officials look over your vehicle to be sure it’s safe. They quickly go through a checklist that varies according to how fast the car (or truck) is. Naturally, fast cars have many more safety requirements because of their high speed, increased likelihood of crashing, and resulting danger to the driver, other racers, or spectators. Once you clear the inspection, you’re ready to race.

We’d gone through Tech at a total of two race tracks before this day.  But, come on, this was a stock, street-legal pickup!  For a vehicle like this, for the most part, the rules consisted of making sure the vehicle had seatbelts (well, at least one—for the driver) and no missing lug-nuts.  Hell, the driver didn’t even have to wear a helmet!

So when the balding, pot-bellied, middle-aged tech inspector set his fresh donut down on the truck’s fender just long enough to hand Lars his inspection card and inform him that the truck didn’t pass, we were shocked.  We had never failed Tech before.  Now what?!!!

[So now that I’ve built up a little suspense, we’re supposed to cut to a commercial here.  That’s how they do it on those stupid reality shows.  So, imagine a zoom-in on Lars, his jaw dropped in horror through a line of suspenseful music, then a cut to an ad for Cialis.  “If you experience an erection lasting longer than four hours…”  Okay, back to our story!]

When I Googled “balding, pot-bellied, middle-aged man with donut”, this is what came up.  And actually, this is pretty close to how the guy looked!  Now, 35 years later, I think I solved the mystery of why he was so obsessed with the truck’s tires—soft, round, donut-shaped…

Time for a quiz:  I know you’ve been paying attention, so you probably assume that the truck had failed inspection because of the hole in the floor.  Right?  Nope. That would have actually made sense.  The fact was that, in addition to the standard Street Class rules, this racetrack had a rule about tires—winter tires.

Okay, they didn’t want powerful cars with winter tires spinning out and chewing up the starting line.  We could respect that.  So Lars calmly explained that he regularly raced up in Denver, and that he could assure the inspector that the truck couldn’t spin the tires.  Case closed, we were off the hook.

Or not.  Mr. Donut wasn’t buying it.

Then, Lars pointed under the hood at the 194-inch, “A cup” engine and explained that the truck only ran in the mid-23-second range.  He exclaimed that he couldn’t spin the tires even if he wanted to.  Mr. Donut wouldn’t budge.  Are you kidding me???  Hadn’t Mr. Donut read my blog???

OK, it was time for Elrod and me to get into the action, and we didn’t hesitate to engage in the debate.  We added that the truck couldn’t even spin the tires in the burnout box—where there was water on the pavement.  We proceeded to recount previous events, when Lars actually did a burnout, but only with Elrod’s fender-lifting finesse.  To illustrate, Elrod even yanked repeatedly on the fender while I imitated Lars’s jerking back and forth in the cab.  We were SURE this would sway him!

No deal.

Ugh, this was so frustrating!  Our case was so obvious, yet we couldn’t convince Donut Boy that Lars had a better chance of making it with Olivia Newton John than spinning the tires of this truck. Ladies, stay with me here.  Relating back to my bra analogy: Track officials were concerned that our A-cup lady would self-inflict facial bruises if she were to attempt jogging braless!  And we just couldn’t talk any sense into this guy.

At the end of this ordeal, we finally got the guy to give in, at least a little. Or, maybe it was just the “love drug” kicking in from the chocolate frosting on his donut.  Either way, he relented and told Lars to just swap the rear winter tires for the front tires.  Even he agreed that the offensive winter tires would be pretty harmless on the front of the truck.  It would look extremely dorky, but looks were the least of our concern!  (By now, you’ll probably agree that appearances were not a priority for us.)

So, okay, all we had to do was move the rear wheels to the front, the fronts to the rear.  No sweat, where’s the jack?  The truck had no jack.  We were going to have to borrow a jack.  And, unlike Bandimere Speedway on a Saturday night, we knew no one at this track.  Ah, so this is what a road trip is like!  Fortunately, there was one race car that we recognized (a Maverick called “Show Grabber”), so Lars went over and mooched a jack and some jack stands.  (“Oh, and can we borrow a lug wrench too?”)  So, at the end of all this drama and thanks to some racer generosity, we were back in business and Lars proceeded to make some time runs.  With winter tires now on the front of the truck.

Shortly after noon, eliminations began.  Based on all his time runs, Lars chose a “dial in” and wrote it on the truck’s windshield for handicapping.  As we’d anticipated, even in Colorado Springs, we had the slowest vehicle at the track.  So, all the other drivers ended up giving Lars a head start.  The good news was that none of these guys knew Lars or had seen him race.  So, just as had happened at the beginning of the season in Denver, Lars took advantage of this over-confidence and won one round after another.  Elrod and I would see his “win light” glow and hear the announcer acknowledge, “Another win for the pickup from Commerce City.”  In no time, he’d made it to the final—the last two vehicles out of the field of about 30.  That was pretty stinkin’ cool, especially for our first road trip.  We were jacked up!  In 1970s terms, we were “feelin’ groovy.”  OK, maybe that’s a stretch.

The truth is, he won that final round too.  I swear he did.  Elrod knew it too.  He and I were slapping fives (the proverbial “high-five” hadn’t been invented yet) because Lars’s win light had come on as he crossed the finish line ahead of his opponent.  But, this is where the bad news comes in.  This time, there was no acknowledgment from the announcer.  In fact, over the noise of all the race engines, we actually thought we heard the announcer say that he’d lost.  That can’t be!  Sure enough, Lars wheeled back to where we were waiting, holding his time slip.  There was a big fat checkmark in the “LOSE” box.  Lars explained that he’d crossed the finish line ahead of the opponent’s car, and we acknowledged that we’d seen his “win” light come on.  And he hadn’t “broken out” (gone quicker than his “dial in” and been disqualified) because his time was written right on the slip.  Something was wrong.  So, we stormed up to the officials’ box in the “tower” to protest.

Up there, the head track official calmly informed us that Lars’s opponent had crossed the finish line first.  Lars ranted and raved.  We yelled that we’d seen his win light come on.  The official didn’t care.  He said that, on the “official equipment” in the tower, the opponent’s win light indicated that he’d crossed the finish line first.  So, apparently, only the “official” equipment in the private confines of the tower indicated the truth; the equipment outside, for hundreds of people to see, was inaccurate.  How convenient!

To make things worse, this official was also not willing to call a “rerun”—a rematch based on equipment malfunction.  Now it was becoming clear. And it really stunk!

If all this weren’t bad enough, they paid Lars for his second-place finish not with cash but with a $40 check—a check that, once we got back to Denver and tried to cash it, would be considered an “out of town” check.  And it was Sunday, so we couldn’t even try to cash it in the Springs.  Yeah, Lars pleaded for cash, but by this time they were having none of it.

And here was more salt for our wounds:  As we stormed out, we ran into the guy Lars had just raced against—he was coming in to collect his winnings.

“Why don’t you just tell them I beat you!  You know I crossed the line ahead of you!”  Lars was done being diplomatic.  The guy just shrugged his shoulders and walked past.  And we watched as he went to claim his winnings.  There were handshakes, pats on the back, “congrats” from all in attendance (everyone but us).  So at this point it was absolutely clear: Lars had been screwed over in favor of a local guy who was buddies with the track owners or operators (we didn’t know which, and it didn’t matter).

As mad as we were, we realized that we were out of our league in more ways than one, and that the best thing we could do was high-tail it before we lost control and made (more of) a scene.  You could just about see the steam shooting out our ears as we stormed out of the tower and stomped over to the truck to put this place—and day—behind us.

Two minutes later, we tore out through the gates, “flipped off” the track, and hauled ass (okay, lumbered) west toward the Springs for a beer.  Okay, a rootbeer.  Okay, it was a rootbeer float at the A&W.  Remember, these were the days when the rootbeer was brewed fresh and you couldn’t get it in a can or plastic bottle.  So stopping for a frosty mug was a real treat.  And we really needed a treat after this day.

We wasted no time getting to the nearest A&W, where Lars yelled our order into the scratchy speaker under the car-side menu board.  As we waited, we recounted the good and not-so-good events of the day.  We were so preoccupied that we were well into our floats before we realized what was happening outside the truck.

Now, you know the pickup wasn’t exactly a “chick magnet,” and none of us were very skilled at turning girls’ heads.  Add to these facts that we’d just spent the day in the hot sun, pushing the truck up and down the staging lanes between racing rounds and inhaling exhaust fumes and tire smoke.  We looked like we’d spent the day wrestling with pigs in the dirt—and lost.

So we were surprised to discover a couple of the young car hops giggling and looking over at us as we slurped our floats.  Elrod and I were especially slow to figure out that they might be interested in one or more of us.  But Lars, our leader, quickly took action; he had the best chance of getting something going with the young ladies (being not only the oldest but the driver).  He nodded at them and returned their flirtatious smiles, and even waved them over.  After more giggling and what appeared to be a dare, one of the cuties finally headed over.

Lars and Elrod, posing for a “Lars punches Leroy” photo.  I shot the pic with my Kodak “Instamatic” camera.  You can see why we didn’t turn a lot of girls’ heads.

We all straightened up in our one seat and tried to look as non-repulsive as possible in our caked-on dragstrip grime.  Lars leaned toward the window and cleared his throat, poised with the best line he could recall on such short notice.  But, before he could even ask her name, she took the initiative.

“We were just wondering why you have winter tires on the front of your truck instead of the back.”  Over her shoulder, we saw her co-hop burst out laughing.  Lars was generally great with comebacks, but this caught him completely off guard and left him speechless.

“Oh,” he finally stuttered.  “Yeah.”  Now recovering, he went on.  “We were racing out at the dragstrip today, and they made us move the tires to the front so I wouldn’t tear up the track.”  He finished with that shit-eating grin, pleased with his response.

The girl looked confused, then took a step back to survey the truck.  She then reached out and flicked the clothes-hanger radio antenna with her finger, looked over at Lars, and smiled broadly.  “Drag racing, in this thing?  Gimme a break!!!”  She looked over her shoulder and laughed, “Julie, this here is a bad-ass dragster!”  She ran back to her friend and they continued laughing hysterically.

I think Lars would have driven away right then, if it weren’t for the food tray still hanging on the driver’s-side window!  Elrod and I waited for his lead, and he finally said, “Serves me right, telling the fucking truth!” At this we all busted out laughing ourselves.  We all realized how utterly ridiculous this all had to look, and we just decided to roll with it.  In fact, between us, we agreed that the car hop should have been inspecting cars at the track—she had some common sense!

The laughing died out at about the same time as the floats, so we sat with empty mugs and full bellies, and someone finally asked, “So now what?”  It was mid-afternoon and tomorrow was still a holiday.  It didn’t seem right that we would now head on home, and arrive before sunset.

Besides, this was our first road trip.  And getting home before dark was totally anti-climactic!  Oh, sure, we’d heard stories about out-of-town racers who got screwed in favor of local boys.  But we figured it was the product of story embellishment, not reality.  Now we had our own story to tell!  That was cool.  Still, there was something missing.

So, the continued conversation went something like this:

“We can’t go back now.”

“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do, Einstein?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t fucking go home tonight.  That’s not a road trip!”

“So let’s take our time and get there tomorrow.”

“How fucking slow do you want me to drive, asshole?  It’s 70 fucking miles!  We could push the truck and get there by morning!”

“So let’s stay somewhere overnight.”

“And where are we supposed to stay tonight, for twenty bucks?”

This was true:  Between us, we had $19.83.  The $40 check was basically worthless to us now.  We could probably find a $9.99 room, but that left little for dinner or gas. And we could have called my aunt Kathy, who lived in the Springs.  But you just didn’t stay at your aunt’s house on an epic road trip.  Not good style.  And not good story-telling material!

I really don’t know who to credit for the dumb idea, but someone suggested that we swing out west into the mountains and camp overnight. It was a ridiculous notion.  Then again, this was the same brain trust that had devised the two-man burnout stunt a month earlier! So we gave it some serious consideration.

So what if we had only 20 bucks between us!   We could make that work.  So what if we had no tent or sleeping bags, or even a change of clothes!  It didn’t matter—it would be warm enough and clean clothes were overrated (c’mon, we were teenage boys!).  So what if we didn’t have any food or a way to light a fire!  We figured that 20 bucks would just about cover that, in addition to filling the truck with gas.  The more we debated, the more plausible it started to sound.  Finally, we ran out of reasons not to do it.  All the arguments had been spent, and the three of us sat in silence—right there in the A&W parking lot.  We looked at one another and started to smile.  Somewhere in the distance, a dog…, nope, no bark. I guess the dog was licking his, um, “stuff” at that particular point in time.  Screw it!  We didn’t need the dog’s approval!

So that was it: We would go camping.

I hope that by now, you’re starting to understand why I’ve called this story “Roughing It.”  In my final chapter, I’ll tell you about this crazy campout and the trip home.

Part 4:  Getting Bombed (Twice)

So there we were, three punk-ass kids in the A&W drive-in, putting our best ideas together to formulate an impromptu camping trip.  Mind you, we were drinking root beer.  Not shots of tequila or even real beer, but root beer!  I mean, you’d expect us to spawn this kind of redneck, half-cocked idea during an alcohol-inspired discussion.  (And trust me, we would have plenty of those over the years!)  But we weren’t drunk; we were just young and naive.  I guess that, what we lacked in drunkenness, we made up for in youthful exuberance and maybe a smidge of stupidity.

Anyway, once we had the logistics all ironed out, Lars cranked the engine and we were off.  First stop: Getting supplies.  There was a gas/convenience store just down the block, so we could get everything we would need in one stop.  Now, remember that we were teenagers and not old enough to buy beer.  But that didn’t matter.  Besides, we had to be more practical on our limited budget.  That’s why our carefully selected, practical list of supplies consisted of this:

·         One full tank of gas

·         One package of hotdogs

·         One case of Pepsi (+ styrofoam cooler and ice)

·         One disposable lighter

But wait, there was one more thing!  Still a little jingle in his pocket, Lars made an impulse buy on the way out.  But first you’ll need a little background…

I’m sure you’re familiar with those vending machines in the restrooms at gas stations—especially the stations frequented by truckers.  I suppose that, in the Women’s room, they’re stocked with various forms of “girl Band-Aids” and other feminine maintenance materials.  But in the Men’s room in 1976, they were filled with condoms, flavored lotions, and other sensual products promising everything from increased arousal, to miraculous male performance, to ultimate female satisfaction. 

Remember, in 1976, there was no Internet and no e-mail.  So, they were not marketing options for those products that today fill men’s spam folders.  This despite their sneaky spelling tactics to try and fool spam filters:

To: Male Sucker
From: Your Best Friend (Seriously, Trust Me!)
Subject: M@ke Yصr Peni$ £@rger!

You get the idea. But I digress.

I'm not sure where the vending machines are located in the Women’s room, but in the Men’s room they’re right above the urinals—probably the best marketing strategy ever devised! So, even at 14, I’d studied the marketing information posted on the machines and had become very familiar with these products—at least the advertising material. OK, so the truth is, I’d never gone so far as to put money in and see “the real thing.” None of us had. That would change today.

Elrod and I were waiting at the truck when Lars appeared from the store wearing that characteristic shit-eating grin of his. He came over and showed us the package.

“I’ve always wanted to buy one of these!” he said joyously.  In his hands was the original “French Tickler,” the most notorious of the vending-machine prizes.  Oh, boy, here we go. 

Lars hopped into the truck and started the engine before we even had a chance to evaluate the impulse purchase.  I hurriedly flipped a penny to determine who would be riding shotgun (our flipping quarter had been commandeered to support the supply purchase).  Elrod called “tails.”  Unfortunately, the penny dropped, bounced, and rolled right under the truck.  Crap!

“Tails!”  Lars called it from the driver’s seat, peering down through the hole in the floor.  Despite my whining for a rematch as I crawled to retrieve the coin, Elrod and Lars both agreed that the flip had been legal.  So I would be riding in the middle. Within minutes we’d hopped on Highway 24 west for Tarryall Reservoir, on our second adventure of the day.

This is a good time to remind you that this is all true—it really happened.  For years, we would tell people about our “roughing it” adventure.  It was, like, the original MasterCard Moment: 

·         Tank of gas, $8

·         Package of hotdogs, $4

·         Case of Pepsi, $6

·         A night of “Roughing It” to blow away anyone else’s definition, PRICELESS!

Just before sunset, we located a suitable camping spot off the dirt road just east of the reservoir. We quickly gathered wood and piled it up for a suitable fire. This was important as we needed the fire to (1) cook; (2) see, since we had no lanterns or a flashlight; and (3) keep from freezing, since we also had no sleeping bags, blankets, etc. To aid in starting the fire, Lars pumped a bit of gas from the truck’s fuel line into an empty Pepsi can, then sprinkled the gas over the wood. You can probably see where this is going…

Well, if you know anything about lighters, you know that you have to get up close to anything you intend to light with it. But, after you’ve doused a pile of dry kindling with gasoline, getting close to start the fire is not very appealing (we were naive, but we weren’t complete Dorkwads!). So, of course, we had a little debate as to who would get the honor:

Erik: “You light it.”

Lars: “No, you light it!”

Erik: “You bought the lighter!”

Lars: “Let’s get Elrod to light it!”

Elrod: “Fuck you guys!”

Turns out, it really didn’t matter. When Lars finally reached in and flicked the striker, the whole area basically exploded. It was like a Napalm scene from Apocalypse Now. Something like this: 

Watch closely and you’ll see the kid’s hair smoking.  I suspect this is what happened to our eyebrows.

The quick flash of flame briefly engulfed the campsite and even reached the truck. Just as quickly, it died back again and left just a few burning spots and a lot more smoking patches—around the campsite and on our bodies! It was nothing we couldn’t frantically run around and stomp out. And thankfully, we used an old fire ring that someone else had assembled—people who were smart enough to build it away from any trees.

So, after that initial conflagration, the adrenaline began to subside and we took inventory.  Lars had lost all the hair on his right arm, and even Elrod and I noticed that our eyebrow hairs were shorter and more curly.  I would say they also smelled like burning hair, but at this point we all pretty much smelled like a burning Kuwaiti oil well.  As we laughed and recalled the inferno, we all admitted that the same thought had flashed through our minds: jumping into the truck and high-tailing it so that no one would know it was us who started the famous Tarryall Forest Fire of 1976.  Word of advice:  Gasoline is not the same as charcoal starting fluid.  Do not try this stunt.  Not at home, not anywhere.  Ever!

With the fire-starting excitement over, we then set our attention on the next order of business: dinner. We pulled out the pack of hotdogs, found a few pointy sticks, and proceeded with our weenie roast. They were quite yummy, and the 12 franks were gone before we knew it. Now what? The adrenaline wasn’t completely out of our systems, and we’d downed about half a case of Pepsi by this point, so we were too buzzed to even think about turning in for the night. That’s when Lars remembered his epic vending-machine purchase.

After retrieving it from the pickup, he proceeded to open it with Elrod and me looking on curiously. First he read aloud the advertising on the box, emphasizing the words like “sensation,” “pleasure,” and “ecstasy.” Mind you, I doubt that any of us had even seen a real condom before this (aside from the packages behind the counter at the King Soopers Pharmacy). So, we thought we were learning something magical—maybe even something we could share with our friends back at school. And the best part was yet to come!

Lars peeled off the cellophane wrapper and opened it to get to the prize inside. He pulled out the condom, which was rolled up into a flattened pie shape that reminded me of how my mom’s stocking hose looked when she rolled them down from the top to take them off. (I’ll never forget the traumatic moment when I first came across one of these monstrosities while digging through the laundry hamper in search of a not-too-dirty shirt to get me through to Laundry Day.)

At this point, we were all looking on closely. Lars proceeded to flick at the “fingers” protruding from the tip of the condom—the protrusions that made this French Tickler so special. There were four on each side of the center tip that reached out a good half inch. We were fascinated. Still, it was hard to imagine how the thing might look “fully deployed,” so Lars did the natural thing: he unrolled it and puffed some air into it. Oh – My – God!

This was the coolest-looking thing ever! The little protrusions looked like fingers that reached out for an unsuspecting female victim.  Being inexperienced, we were unsure whether this would actually excite a woman, or if the mere sight of it would launch her in the opposite direction at a full sprint!  I mean, it would have been challenging enough if we’d been examining a regular old condom, but this abomination was over the top!  Just trying to imagine it in “full deployment,” I figured a girl would see it as something like this:

Oh, the horror!

After we gazed in amazement for a few minutes, Lars blew more air into it.  In fact, he inflated it all the way up, like a balloon.  If you’ve ever seen a latex glove blown up like this, you get an idea how it looked.  Unfortunately, as he tried to tie a knot in the open end, it got away from him and shot like a rocket right into the campfire.  Just like that, it was the end of the great adventure.

You get the idea!

Mourning our great loss, Lars then returned to the box and read the caution statement.  It basically said that the condom was not intended for actual use.  “Just for show, not for go,” was the phrase that I remember.  I wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but I was relieved anyway!  I mean, that thing was a little spooky.

It’s kind of ironic, now that I think about it:  We could have bought buns to complement our hotdogs with that last 25¢, but we ended up with a condom instead.  You’ve got to appreciate the irony in that!

Anyway, with the night’s entertainment over, we decided to turn in.  It didn’t take a lot of work; there was no tent, no sleeping bags, no pajamas to change into.  Here’s what we did:

There was a piece of plywood in the pickup box, about four by six feet.  It was basically a prehistoric truck-bed liner, in that it allowed people to put engine blocks and other big parts in the box without allowing them to slide around in the bed (remember, this was an auto parts truck when it wasn’t a “Bad Ass Dragster,” as the A&W car hop had put it). The plywood had been well used by this time, so it was soaked in grease and oil from all the crud that had been thrown in there to be hauled.  However, we discovered that the flip side was pretty clean.  So we flipped it over, lifted it up, and spun it sideways, and it fit perfectly on the top rails of the pickup box.  This made a bunk bed, so that one or two people could sleep in the truck bed and another could sleep on the plywood above (as long as that person wasn’t too heavy and broke the plywood).  Since I was the youngest and lightest, I got to sleep on the “top bunk” and Lars and Elrod shared the truck bed.  That’s how we slept.  No one had to sleep on the ground or in the cab (which would have worked in a pinch but was a bit short for any of us).  We’d each brought a light (very light!) jacket, and we used those as our blankets.  So that’s it—that’s how we “roughed it” with what we had.

Surprisingly, the night was uneventful until around dawn, when I flipped from one side to another to make myself comfortable. The disturbance caused the plywood bed to slide and slip off one of the bed rails. It fell directly onto Lars and Elrod.  Oops.  :)  Needless to say, they were none too happy about the rude awakening!  But, we took this as a sign and decided to get up early.

We contemplated stoking the fire back up, but there wasn’t much use for one now.  It’s not like we had anything to eat for breakfast, or coffee to make (we just had a few lukewarm Pepsis left at this point).  So we took a last glance at the campsite, which looked the same as it had when we arrived.  Except for the mild charring and the large stack of firewood that we’d gathered the night before. 

The firewood consisted of long, dead branches (some slightly singed by the gasoline-bomb incident!).  That’s because, when we’d gathered the wood the previous evening, we didn’t have anything like a saw to cut it with.  So we had to settle for thinner branches that we could break by hand. And now, since we hadn’t used it all the previous night, there was a good stack of the branches left. It seemed like a shame to leave it all behind.  So we tossed it into the back of the truck.  And because some of the branches were longer than the truck bed, we had to leave the tailgate down to accommodate them.  This would make good kindling when we got it back home!

Finally, firewood awkwardly stowed, we hopped in and headed for home.  Luckily for me, I’d won the flip and got shotgun.  This was significant, as you’ll see in a bit.

The first leg of the trip home consisted primarily of graded dirt roads.  You could go pretty fast but kicked up a hell of a dust storm behind you.  And most of the drive was through open country, so you could round any corner and see a cow standing right smack in the middle of the road.  That didn’t happen to us.  We didn’t see many cows—at least not on the road.  But we did pass a lot of cow pies as we rode along.  They made the drive a little more interesting, kind of like land mines you had to navigate as you drove.

I’m not sure exactly what got into Lars.  Maybe it was boredom, or maybe he just wanted to see what would happen.  Hell, who hasn’t been driving along and seen that puddle of water at the side of the road, and decided to swerve over just to see the splash?  So maybe that’s what he was thinking. Anyway, for whatever reason, after passing several of the Meadow Muffins, Lars decided to go ahead and hit one.  And Elrod and I both saw it coming.  Hell, it seemed harmless enough!  But none of us had a clue how badly this could turn out.

OK, quiz time!  Since the beginning of this story, I’ve described in detail the “lumbering Chevy pickup” that was our chariot on this day.  And you know that one of its defining characteristics was the large hole in its floorboard, right in front of the seat.  So here’s your final exam:  Can you guess what happened next?  Of course you can! I’ve prepped you pretty well.   You can see it coming.  But we sure didn’t! 

The events of the following few seconds were so horrifically funny that, in all honesty, I could never accurately describe them.  But I’ll try.

First of all, remember that the three of us all grew up around more than our share of pig turds, horse “road apples,” and, yes, cow pies.  So, we were no strangers to domestic animal feces.  We knew that, given enough aging and drying, cow pies are pretty harmless.  Hell, they make good Frisbees!  (I even remember playing softball at a family reunion at Debbie’s Uncle Ben’s farm, when we used a dried cow pie for third base.  Second base was a cooler full a beer, to reward you for having gotten that far.  But that’s another story!)  So as cow pies go, it’s all about the aging.

You thought I was kidding about the Frisbee thing, didn’t you?!

But we also knew that without the aging—if they’re fresh—well, that’s another story. Then they’re mushy, smelly, um, poop.  Not useful, not fun—something to avoid!  And, riding in a truck at 50 mph, it’s not possible to know whether you’re hitting a Frisbee or a Cow IED. What we hit was the latter.  Now, by “Cow IED” I don’t mean an “Improvised Explosive Device” but an “Impending Excrement Detonation.”  And just as the nasty IEDs deployed by the bad guys in Afghanistan explode  when you drive over them, this one exploded when we hit it with the right, front tire.

I remember hearing the thud, followed instantly by what sounded like a bucket-full of gravel hitting the truck.  I would soon discover that it wasn’t gravel, and that it hit the inside of the truck!  When we were hit with the rush of poop stench, I quickly looked down at the hole in the floor and saw Elrod’s shoes, splattered with the brown stuff.  Ugh!  I immediately thanked the God of Coin Flipping that I’d gotten “shotgun” for this leg of the journey.

“Shit!” Elrod cried, looking down. He was unaware of his own pun.  Cuz it really wasn’t funny.  Well, maybe a little.  But not to him!

Elrod and I stared at his shoes and pants, surveying the damage and thinking, “man, this sucks!” Then, we realized that Lars wasn’t laughing.  Hell, he wasn’t even talking! As we looked up to his face, we realized that the horror didn’t end at Elrod’s feet. The feces’ trajectory continued up past him and directly in Lars’s vicinity.  Yep, Lars’s arm and face were similarly splattered. Remember how I’ve described Lars’s famous “shit-eating grin”?  Yeah.  Well, he wasn’t grinning this time.  He did bear a resemblance to chocolate-chip ice cream, though!

Yeah, this is pretty close, except that Lars wasn’t dressed up as a comic-strip Super Villain.

Lars pulled the truck over, and we did what we could to clean up the mess with used A&W napkins and some pages of an old newspaper that had been stuffed under the seat.  More importantly, Elrod and I quietly and sympathetically helped clean Lars up.  We tried not to laugh too much and dared not mention the poetic justice in this event, considering Lars had made the decision to aim the truck for the Cow IED and ended up getting the worst of the “excrement detonation.”  No, we stayed quiet.  We knew better.  We would have ended up walking home. And I’m not kidding.

Beware of these things!  This is just like the one that got us.

Once we’d gotten everyone and everything somewhat clean (considering what little we had to work with), we inventoried the situation.  And we were a mess. By now, we’d completed the aroma spectrum ranging from tire rubber, to gasoline-bomb soot, to now cow-pie cologne. I can only imagine what that A&W car hop would have done if she’d gotten a whiff of us now!

That’s when Elrod noticed something.  About half of our firewood load was missing.  Best we could figure, a few bumps along the dirt road probably sent the branches flying, and the trailing dust cloud kept us from even noticing.  We hoped no one was following us too closely!  We even briefly contemplated backtracking to clean up what we’d dropped, but we decided to just quit while we were…  well…  still alive.

Back in Commerce City, we cleaned ourselves up and proceeded to clean up the truck.  As it turns out, we had to hose out the inside.  After all, it had to return to duty the following morning.  So we left the doors open all night to let the inside dry out.  I don’t remember whether Lars ever told Lawrence about the Cow IED episode.  Hell, He may still not know.  Until he reads my blog.  Surprise, Larry!

Anyway, by the following weekend, we’d all but forgotten about the epic road trip.  On Saturday, we were back at the races for the Grand Finale.  No, it wasn’t the last race of the season; it was the last time we would trigger a new rule to be added to the rulebook (refer to the list in Chapter 2).  Here’s how it went down.

After Lars launched down the track on his first time run, Elrod and I noticed that a track official picked up some debris that had fallen onto the starting line.  We were puzzled. Could it have been parts that fell off the truck?  Tools?  It became clearer when, on Lars’s time slip, there was a note that warned him about dropping additional “dirt clods” on the track surface.  We were quite perplexed, until it hit us. Of course!  We debated, but ultimately decided that we didn’t dare tell them that it wasn’t dirt!

The Cow IED: the gift that keeps on giving!