(2013 Baja 1000) I did not make the Check Point 3...
November 24, 2013 at 1:23pm
There
is a blind man walking every day by the Casa Esperanza women’s shelter
near Ensenada. He walks the rough gravel road with no cane and no guide.
He walks his couple of miles using his memory of the road. The road did
not change from the time he lost his eyesight. So he is walking his
road day after day.
From the first time I went to Baja 1000 in 2011 and saw him, I could not get him out of my mind. I do not know why, but I just could not forget about his daily trips. I will try to be like him; not to complain and not to look for excuses, just to try to walk through the 200 miles I and Carlos drove in this year's Baja.
At 5 o'clock on Friday afternoon Carlos, I and our Mexican chase vehicle arrived at our designated place; about 200 miles from Ensenada and a few miles from Check Point 1. By that time Crusty and Romy had been in the car for about six hours, making their way from the start to our rendezvous point. The waiting began. Each minute I realized more and more how much I hated waiting for the car. When you drive, you never realize that there are others - your service crew, your team drivers, the friends following you on the internet, all hoping but helpless, just trying to push you forward by their wishes. I was now in such situation. Going around,mumbling my "come on, guys, where are you, come on" and helpless like everyone else. There is a lot to be said for the mental strength of the service crews whose race life consists of waiting, and waiting, and waiting for their car.
There was that other thing too. For the first time (knowing I would drive for over 10 hours) I purchased an external racing catheter. This "contraption" used by many racers consists of a condom-like part attached to a tube to allow for… let us say for continuous driving without interruptions.
I guess, the older you get the more benefit you derive from the catheter proudly named "Freedom". Those of you who know me might have also noticed that my legs are 4 feet long. So, when purchasing the catheter, an interesting discussion ensued about the properties of the catheter. I am sure I specified the length of the tube as a point of interest, but “there is just one size” answer probably related to the other part. Only in the desert I realized that the tube is just about two inches short, ending straight above my shoe. Always a perfectionist, I was not happy with such a result, tossed the catheter and opted for a Depend diaper.
Then the night came. And then we saw the first Class 11 car, the second Class 11 car and finally our 1107 was here. There was only one thought on my mind: “I have to make Check Point 2 on time”. We got into the car and drove away. And the whoops started: there were small whoops and long whoops, low whoops and tall whoops, the whoops full of silt and the rocky whoops, but always whoops.
I started slow, since I had not driven the bug for over a year. After a few miles we got into a deep silt with big rocks here and there. While avoiding a big rock, I made a mistake and went to the side where I immediately buried the car in the silt. We got out. The car’s wheels and the skidplate were buried in the silt. In front of us was a buggy buried the same way we were. They had given up. There was no way out. But I guess in Class11, when there is no way out, you try. And try. And try. Obsessed with the idea of getting the car out, we dug and dug. Then we put the Max Tracks under the rear wheels. Nothing. We buried the spike and used the winch. Nothing. We stepped on the spike. Nothing. We jacked up the rear and tried to drive. Nothing. By that time I could see beads of sweat all over Carlos’ face. I looked probably the same. But you try. Finally we jacked up the car, got the silt from below the skid plate, put the Max Tracks under the wheels, used a winch and drove off the jack. It worked. We were on our way to Check Point 2 again.
Over the time you get to the rhythm of the whoops – down on gas, up on gas, down on gas, up on gas…and then the distance between whoops changes and you have to adjust. And so it goes. We passed a few waiving spectators when Carlos shouted at me: “Paul, Paul, la chica (the girl).” Not knowing what he meant, I asked him: “Que chica (what girl)?” and found out that we have just passed our refueling point where our Chase 1 with Stuart and Fiamma were waiting for us. Driving in the silt with no chance to stop we had to drive another mile or two, then turn and come back. Luckily, Fiamma and Stuart were still waiting. They used a refueling place set up by the trophy truck crew, whose trophy truck DNFed, but they were still willing to help the Class 11 car. We got refueled and discovered that we were missing a top suspension nut. They also wanted to change a banged rim, but I was worried sick about getting to the Check Point 2 on time. I was asking over and over: “How far is the Check Point 2? How much time do we have?” Finally I got the answer: “12 miles and 40 minutes”. I was happy, got into the car and drove away. 12 miles and 40 minutes…plenty of time. Then the rocks started. The big ones and the small, the sharp ones, the whoops with rocks, the rough road full of rocks. Carlos was great helping to navigate through the rock and shouting his right, left, derecho, izquierda and cuidado (watch out) to guide me through. But we also lost the driver’s side rear suspension there.
Never in my life I wished for a race, any race, to be over. But this time you could hear me muttering: “These f---ing rocks will never end, these pieces of s--t will go for ever.” Then came about 3 miles of fast gravel. “I am a rally driver”, I thought, “I own this road”. Yep, but I did not own the two booby traps (one with a bit of a wooden construction) and a barbed wire across the road. Luckily, we saw them all in time and crawled slowly over each one of them.
So we made the Check Point 2 on time.
From there we drove on the asphalt road that slowly changed into a gravel road leading to Cocos Corner. Unfortunately, the graded road was full of little bumps. At 45-50 miles per hour with no rear suspension one has to keep the stomach muscles tight – no small feet for a lazy old man treating gym with the highest level of contempt. But the full moon was shining and the life was good. We got refueled by the chase manned by Chuck, Gill, and Toby, and drove into happy times ahead.
They say that ignorance is bliss. I believe it now. I also know why so many cars got pulled by their chase vehicles trough Calamajue. But I had never seen Calamajue before. So we entered the Calamajue river happily and blissfully. There was mud everywhere with streams 2-3 feet deep all over the place and tall grass and weeds so as to obscure your vision. If I ever end up in Hell, I know one thing; it will probably be called Calamajue. You could not step off the gas or you would get stuck in the mud, but at the same time you did not know what was coming. Sometimes it looked like there are two or three roads and you had to take your pick. And for that matter, take your pick quickly or you spend hours digging in the mud. Did I mention that it was quite slippery too? Of course, some did not make it through so you had to avoid these buried marvels of racing technology here and there.
We lost our way once but returned to the proper road and almost made it through the river. Almost. Coming out on a path about one and a half car wide, with high banks on each side, we saw braking lights. There was Class 5 buggy stopped in the middle of the road and no way around it. And no other road to get out either. Behind the Class 5 was a Raptor pulling another buggy through Calamajue. After a moment of confused desperation all of us moved the Class 5 a bit to the side.The Raptor and the buggy made it slowly around. I looked at the gap. We had to go with two wheels on the bank with our car leaning sharply against the Class 5 car. And we had to gun it. Otherwise we would not make the embankment and hit the Class 5. I was unsure and I was scared. So I went to the driver of the Class 5 and asked him to show us the way. He waved me off with that “f--k you” wave. I got nervous. This time it was not “you try and try and try”. We had to make it on the first try and at a relatively high speed. I asked Carlos to show me the way and stepped on the gas. We made it, and all I can say about my driving skills is: “sometimes you get lucky”.
So we were out of the river. Yes, there was a few miles of solid whoops, our auxiliary lights disintegrated and fell off, the alternator/cooling belt disintegrated too, as well as some other small stuff, but we drove on. The sun came up and I knew: we will not make Check Point 3 on time. I was just too damn slow.
If racing is an obsession, then the Baja racing, to me, is the most beautiful obsession I know. I wanted to keep the car in one piece but I damaged the suspension. I wanted to clear all the Check Points on time but I did not make the Check Point 3; and all of it in the best race I have ever run. But, like that blind man, I will keep the memory of the road forever.
From the first time I went to Baja 1000 in 2011 and saw him, I could not get him out of my mind. I do not know why, but I just could not forget about his daily trips. I will try to be like him; not to complain and not to look for excuses, just to try to walk through the 200 miles I and Carlos drove in this year's Baja.
At 5 o'clock on Friday afternoon Carlos, I and our Mexican chase vehicle arrived at our designated place; about 200 miles from Ensenada and a few miles from Check Point 1. By that time Crusty and Romy had been in the car for about six hours, making their way from the start to our rendezvous point. The waiting began. Each minute I realized more and more how much I hated waiting for the car. When you drive, you never realize that there are others - your service crew, your team drivers, the friends following you on the internet, all hoping but helpless, just trying to push you forward by their wishes. I was now in such situation. Going around,mumbling my "come on, guys, where are you, come on" and helpless like everyone else. There is a lot to be said for the mental strength of the service crews whose race life consists of waiting, and waiting, and waiting for their car.
There was that other thing too. For the first time (knowing I would drive for over 10 hours) I purchased an external racing catheter. This "contraption" used by many racers consists of a condom-like part attached to a tube to allow for… let us say for continuous driving without interruptions.
I guess, the older you get the more benefit you derive from the catheter proudly named "Freedom". Those of you who know me might have also noticed that my legs are 4 feet long. So, when purchasing the catheter, an interesting discussion ensued about the properties of the catheter. I am sure I specified the length of the tube as a point of interest, but “there is just one size” answer probably related to the other part. Only in the desert I realized that the tube is just about two inches short, ending straight above my shoe. Always a perfectionist, I was not happy with such a result, tossed the catheter and opted for a Depend diaper.
Then the night came. And then we saw the first Class 11 car, the second Class 11 car and finally our 1107 was here. There was only one thought on my mind: “I have to make Check Point 2 on time”. We got into the car and drove away. And the whoops started: there were small whoops and long whoops, low whoops and tall whoops, the whoops full of silt and the rocky whoops, but always whoops.
I started slow, since I had not driven the bug for over a year. After a few miles we got into a deep silt with big rocks here and there. While avoiding a big rock, I made a mistake and went to the side where I immediately buried the car in the silt. We got out. The car’s wheels and the skidplate were buried in the silt. In front of us was a buggy buried the same way we were. They had given up. There was no way out. But I guess in Class11, when there is no way out, you try. And try. And try. Obsessed with the idea of getting the car out, we dug and dug. Then we put the Max Tracks under the rear wheels. Nothing. We buried the spike and used the winch. Nothing. We stepped on the spike. Nothing. We jacked up the rear and tried to drive. Nothing. By that time I could see beads of sweat all over Carlos’ face. I looked probably the same. But you try. Finally we jacked up the car, got the silt from below the skid plate, put the Max Tracks under the wheels, used a winch and drove off the jack. It worked. We were on our way to Check Point 2 again.
Over the time you get to the rhythm of the whoops – down on gas, up on gas, down on gas, up on gas…and then the distance between whoops changes and you have to adjust. And so it goes. We passed a few waiving spectators when Carlos shouted at me: “Paul, Paul, la chica (the girl).” Not knowing what he meant, I asked him: “Que chica (what girl)?” and found out that we have just passed our refueling point where our Chase 1 with Stuart and Fiamma were waiting for us. Driving in the silt with no chance to stop we had to drive another mile or two, then turn and come back. Luckily, Fiamma and Stuart were still waiting. They used a refueling place set up by the trophy truck crew, whose trophy truck DNFed, but they were still willing to help the Class 11 car. We got refueled and discovered that we were missing a top suspension nut. They also wanted to change a banged rim, but I was worried sick about getting to the Check Point 2 on time. I was asking over and over: “How far is the Check Point 2? How much time do we have?” Finally I got the answer: “12 miles and 40 minutes”. I was happy, got into the car and drove away. 12 miles and 40 minutes…plenty of time. Then the rocks started. The big ones and the small, the sharp ones, the whoops with rocks, the rough road full of rocks. Carlos was great helping to navigate through the rock and shouting his right, left, derecho, izquierda and cuidado (watch out) to guide me through. But we also lost the driver’s side rear suspension there.
Never in my life I wished for a race, any race, to be over. But this time you could hear me muttering: “These f---ing rocks will never end, these pieces of s--t will go for ever.” Then came about 3 miles of fast gravel. “I am a rally driver”, I thought, “I own this road”. Yep, but I did not own the two booby traps (one with a bit of a wooden construction) and a barbed wire across the road. Luckily, we saw them all in time and crawled slowly over each one of them.
So we made the Check Point 2 on time.
From there we drove on the asphalt road that slowly changed into a gravel road leading to Cocos Corner. Unfortunately, the graded road was full of little bumps. At 45-50 miles per hour with no rear suspension one has to keep the stomach muscles tight – no small feet for a lazy old man treating gym with the highest level of contempt. But the full moon was shining and the life was good. We got refueled by the chase manned by Chuck, Gill, and Toby, and drove into happy times ahead.
They say that ignorance is bliss. I believe it now. I also know why so many cars got pulled by their chase vehicles trough Calamajue. But I had never seen Calamajue before. So we entered the Calamajue river happily and blissfully. There was mud everywhere with streams 2-3 feet deep all over the place and tall grass and weeds so as to obscure your vision. If I ever end up in Hell, I know one thing; it will probably be called Calamajue. You could not step off the gas or you would get stuck in the mud, but at the same time you did not know what was coming. Sometimes it looked like there are two or three roads and you had to take your pick. And for that matter, take your pick quickly or you spend hours digging in the mud. Did I mention that it was quite slippery too? Of course, some did not make it through so you had to avoid these buried marvels of racing technology here and there.
We lost our way once but returned to the proper road and almost made it through the river. Almost. Coming out on a path about one and a half car wide, with high banks on each side, we saw braking lights. There was Class 5 buggy stopped in the middle of the road and no way around it. And no other road to get out either. Behind the Class 5 was a Raptor pulling another buggy through Calamajue. After a moment of confused desperation all of us moved the Class 5 a bit to the side.The Raptor and the buggy made it slowly around. I looked at the gap. We had to go with two wheels on the bank with our car leaning sharply against the Class 5 car. And we had to gun it. Otherwise we would not make the embankment and hit the Class 5. I was unsure and I was scared. So I went to the driver of the Class 5 and asked him to show us the way. He waved me off with that “f--k you” wave. I got nervous. This time it was not “you try and try and try”. We had to make it on the first try and at a relatively high speed. I asked Carlos to show me the way and stepped on the gas. We made it, and all I can say about my driving skills is: “sometimes you get lucky”.
So we were out of the river. Yes, there was a few miles of solid whoops, our auxiliary lights disintegrated and fell off, the alternator/cooling belt disintegrated too, as well as some other small stuff, but we drove on. The sun came up and I knew: we will not make Check Point 3 on time. I was just too damn slow.
If racing is an obsession, then the Baja racing, to me, is the most beautiful obsession I know. I wanted to keep the car in one piece but I damaged the suspension. I wanted to clear all the Check Points on time but I did not make the Check Point 3; and all of it in the best race I have ever run. But, like that blind man, I will keep the memory of the road forever.
Photo courtesy of Dennis Hollenbeck Chairez
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