Race of Fools 2009 - The Recap

I spread the Race of Fools story out all over the place. So, here's an easy way to access it from the beginning.

Part I - A Good Start
Part II - Elephants In Godfrey
Part III - Muddin'
Part IV - No Joy In Midville

Also you can view the route of the Sunbeam on this Google Map.

And you can view photos (including the fire truck!) on this Flickr page.

Race of Fools 2009 - No Joy In Midville

The story of an underground road rally as told by the navigator of a cranky '64 Sunbeam Alpine.To read Part III, go here.

We proceeded, carefully following the path of the Triumph (minus the turn towards the tree), through the mud and water and came to the next intersection.

"You've got to be kidding", Ballard screamed.

"I swear this is the only way in or out", I replied.

We passed the test of mud and now faced by all appearances a single lane logging road.

My driver had no choice. He had to follow the seemingly insane instructions of his navigator. We rumbled across the ruts and washouts and saw our Triumph adversary approaching from the opposite direction. I burst into a smug smile and Ballard kept mumbling about the car rattling to pieces.

At the end of the lane was a single house and two men dressed as WWII aviators.

My first thought was, "This guy really wanted to get away from it all".

My second was, "How the hell did that fire truck get in and out of here".

I dutifully showed the monitors our pictures of the fountain and the elephant and we were handed our next packet.

Our next destination was Shawnee, Georgia but we had three choices for our intermediate checkpoint. I instructed Capt. Ballard to proceed towards Wrens while I figured out just what the hell to do next.

My decision was to proceed to the checkpoint via the Bellevue Plantation near Millen, Ga.

It was here I made my first error. Pumped full of adrenaline, I steered us south towards Louisville. After a few moments of careful study I realized my error would cost us about 15 minutes but Ballard was already tear-assing down US-1. The die was cast and I set out to find a short cut.

It appeared as something called the Eden Church/Magruder Rd. I explained the situation to Ballard and included the fact that I had no idea if my short cut would suddenly turn into another hellish mudhole. Filled with the lust for victory, he was ready to roll the dice.

South of Louisville, we were pleased to see a beautiful two lane blacktop peeling off to the left. My shortcut was indeed a fine county maintained by-way. Flying down the paved backroad, it was easy to ignore the growing heat flowing through the holes in the firewall.

In the distance, a bad sign emerged - literally a bad sign - one that said pavement ends 1000ft. We thumped off the pavement onto another dirt road - albeit a dry, firm one.

Capt. Ballard slowed the Sunbeam to a halt, but not because of the sudden change in terrain. He said in a slow voice that something didn't sound right. He also pointed to the temperature gauge which now registered an alarming 260 degrees.

I believed the road ahead was good and firm and would lead us to our destination, but there was no town of any size down that path. We looked around at the surrounding desolate forest, then down at our cell phones registering no bars and made the difficult decision. We found a cut through back to the main road and headed towards the nearest town of any size - Midville.

The Sunbeam now labored - wheezing and gasping with frightening regularity.

The town of Midville is a crossroads with two gas stations and little else. Our immediate concern was the 'Beam's now white hot engine block. The first store had no exterior water spigot but the second did. A couple of water filled gallon jugs later, the temp gauge dropped to an acceptable 220.

But the poor thing still sounded sick.

I called the race officials to let them know our status and that we still intended to make the next check point. Ballard unloaded the massive collection of tools stored in the small trunk and we peered under the hood. We determined three things: the mixture was too rich, the distributor didn't look quite right and one cylinder was completely dead. Not good.

We reached the limits of our mechanical ability quickly. Attracted by the clang of tools and howls of frustration enveloping the strange little car, a pair of gentlemen, in a strange twist also travelling from Athens, stepped out of a massive SUV and asked if they could help.

They admitted they knew little about cars and the sight of two grimy, wild eyed fiends beating on the engine block of a psychedlic convertible filled their eyes with wonder and possibly fear, but they had a cousin who worked as a mechanic and they were willing to fetch him.

"Please god, yes!", I moaned.

They peeled out of the parking lot leaving me prostrate under a shade tree and Ballard madly searching for more tools and parts.

Minutes changed to hours and I began to believe our saviors chose discretion over valor by fleeing the weird scene as quickly as possible.

Then, the SUV appeared and out of it stepped a man in a blue and gold Goodyear uniform. He would not have been more beautiful if he were a white-clad angel bathed in the glory of grace and rapture.

In practically no time, our new best friend returned the distributor to its proper position, changed all the plug wires and performed a full tune up on the carbs. He said there was little he could do about the bad cylinder but he believed it would get us back home.

I wanted to hug him. But in the fashion of southern men, we all heartily shook hands and laughed about the craziness of it all. Ballard gave the mechanic the little cash we had left and he graciously accepted.

I called the race officials to tell them we would not finish but instead stagger back home. Capt. Ballard turned the Sunbeam northward, we waved goodbye to our new friends and started for Atlanta.

Darkness fell on us at Rutledge and the haggard Capt. Ballard handed me the driving duties for the final push.

Traffic increased, the deepening night cooled and the luminous skyline of Atlanta suddenly appeared on the horizon. Though the sting of disappointment in not finishing remained fresh, we bathed in the salve of the safe return home.

We also immediately began planning next year's mad run.

Race of Fools 2009 - Muddin'

The story of an underground road rally as told by the navigator of a cranky '64 Sunbeam Alpine.

To read Part II, go here.

Omaha Springs - a place so exotic and hidden, it baffled the GPS.

Ballard and I left the elephants of Godfrey in the dust and headed towards our first official check point. Although the GPS remained clueless, I quickly located the village on the map and we pointed the Sunbeam towards Eatonton and beyond.

As we approached the Jefferson County line, a scream erupted behind us. A Triumph which began the race ahead of us was now hurtling towards us from the rear. I pumped my fist and screamed at my driver that superior navigation will always...well...triumph.

Our celebration was short-lived as the six cylinder beast tore past us. Ballard floored it and the Sunbeam squealed in angst. Although our little machine was a gamer it could not match the speed of its larger bore brother.

The Triumph flew around a bend in the road and I knew we had them once again - they had passed the turn off to Omaha Springs. I motioned for Ballard to make a right but he hesitated. It was a dirt road and it was not in good shape. The biblical rains of the previous week left many a mud puddle in between the washboard ruts.

We pulled over to discuss the situation. I explained I was 100% positive the little hellhole road was our route but if there was doubt, I could find an alternate. Ballard looked at me and grinned with that toothy smile that could scare the devil.

"Let's try it", he grunted.

We proceeded down the dirt path at a reasonable pace until we reached a puddle the size of a small lake. We stopped to inspect its depth and ponder the wisdom of plowing a 40 year old British car with British wiring through a fair sized water hole.

At this moment the Triumph re-appeared.

Having discovered their error, our competition circled back and followed our track onto the side road. Now, they were again travelling full tilt boogie towards our position. Where as the slowness of aged wisdom caused our pause, the bullet-proof stupidity of youth led the Triumph's team full speed towards a collision with mud.

It hit the water and immediately went wobbly. The back end spun wildly towards the ditch and fearfully appeared destined for a tree. Ballard and I watched helplessly as the driver frantically spun the steering wheel. Then with the grace of the angels who watch over idiots who drive too fast on country roads, it straightened and flew out of danger in an eruption of rooster tails.

I looked at Ballard and said, "I think we can make it if we follow their ruts."

"But not quite as fast", I quickly added.

To continue to Part IV, go here.

Race Of Fools 2009 - Elephants In Godfrey

The story of an underground road rally as told by the navigator of a cranky '64 Sunbeam Alpine.

To read Part I, go here.

Eventually we passed through the wreckage of broken yard sale dreams but the experience left Captain Ballard muttering. He began gobbling what appeared to be either tic tacs or possibly white crosses.

I attempted to steer us onto the bypass but he insisted it was a highway and that was just not allowed. Despite the temptation to smack sense into him, I charted a side street course. It was simply too early for violence.

We arrived at the botanical garden just behind the Mercedes and frantically searched for the Kugel Fountain. Dozens of steps later, with generous help from the resident Garden Club of Georgia members, we found the object and snapped the appropriate picture.

I wanted to buy some begonias to adorn our ride but the Captain screeched there was no time.

We then reached a mission crossroad.

Our choices were to proceed towards Omaha Springs via either Godfrey or Tignall. Godfrey appeared to be a more direct route and travelling to anything so weirdly named as Tignall was unthinkable.

The Sunbeam puttered past the pastures of Oconee County on the way to Madison and points beyond.

Our clue stated we had to take a picture of an elephant in a metal warehouse.

As we approached the outskirts of Godfrey, it was decided to leverage the local knowledge. Fortunately, a man hauling hay appeared on the side of the road.

He stared at the strange little car and fortunately for its navigator didn't let loose a hail of bullets as an obvious maniac emerged from the cockpit and sprinted towards his truck.

"We're looking for the elephant!", I wailed.

"The whut?", he responded.

"The elephant, man! The elephant!"

Blank stare.

"For gods sake where in town is there a metal warehouse?".

"Uh, yeah. There's a big metal building down by the tracks"

"Many thanks".

We drove to the other side of Godfrey (about half a mile) and indeed a fabricated metal building sat attached to the ubiquitous general store.

A man and his young daughter stood near the entrance. She promptly pointed at the psychedelic roadster and sputtered, "what the hell is that?"

Ballard responded, "It's a '64 Sunbeam Alpine..."

"There's no time", I whimpered, "Have you seen the elephant?"

"It's in there", she pointed Alice in Wonderland-like at the dark door.

Inside lay possibly the grandest taxidermy shop in the whole wide world. And on one wall was the head of an elephant.

"There's a bigger one through there", the little girl, who had followed us, pointed again.

In the next room was a full sized, stuffed bull African elephant.

Stunned at the weirdness of it all, I gently shoved the near catatonic Ballard in front of the monstrosity and snapped the required photograph.

We thanked Alice and her diddy, then sped away towards Omaha Springs and glory.

To continue to Part III, go here.

Race Of Fools 2009 - A Good Start

The story of an underground road rally as told by the navigator of a cranky '64 Sunbeam Alpine.

A night of molotov cocktail bonfires, fire engines, stilettoed co-eds and the demons of Irish whiskey led to a staggering morning of a shattered alarm clock, a non-existent wake-up call and a trip deep into the unknown.

The 2009 Race of Fools began at a farm 15 miles north of Athens with a promise of a finish line somewhere within the bounds of the Carolinas, Tennessee and Georgia. The format was a treasure hunt style road rally where we would only discover our goals as we passed from checkpoint to checkpoint. Our final landing strip never revealed until the final hurdle was cleared.

Months ago, I signed on as navigator for a 1964 Sunbeam Alpine with a technicolor paint scheme, wires crawling up and down the barely existing firewall and carbs which were replaced by a Rastafarian mechanic less than 72 hours before the checkered flag was set to drop. The pilot, Captain Ballard, promised his machine now hummed like a prom date slithering into her first back seat and had at least a 50% chance of making the entire journey.

The field spanned from the sublime (a mint Mercedes 560SL) to the truly bizarre (a fire truck with kegs of beer in place of the water pumps) - 23 vehicles in all, including an ungodly amount of little Triumphs, a sprinkling of MGs and the aforementioned weird roadster with two hideously hungover southern gentlemen in its tiny cockpit.

The fire engine, sirens blasting, generating a furious response from near-by trailer court pit bulls, led off.

At one minute intervals each team blasted from the start in a spew of gravel. Team Sunbeam began its journey in the 20th slot but the race was against the clock, not the well tuned German beasts and whining British bumblebees, so confidence was high.

The official's clock counted to zero, she handed me our first orders and our little car wheezed towards US-441. Our first destination was the UGA Botanical Garden. Good, I thought. Familiar territory. This small jog across town would allow my addled brain to catch up.

Five miles towards Athens, the first obstacle of the day presented - two non-participants cars intent on turning into a yard sale at the same moment had tangled in a mass of saturday morning trashy despair.

Johnny Law held up his hand and refused passage past the wailing scene until the ambulance jockeys made sure all the occupants retained their teeth - a challenge on this side of town.

Chewing our lips, cursing the depression era madness of the siren call of yard sales, we stared at the nightmare as the enemy clock ticked away.

Continued in Part II.