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.

Destination Unknown

Sunbeam Alpine

As the Gold Dome scoundrels hurtle towards Sine Die, I'm getting the hell out of town. Even wild eyed political junkies have thresholds and the wailing from Capitol Avenue could drive Tantulus to drink.

The only salve is a high speed burn to parts unknown. I'm navigating the above two wheeled piece of weirdness through the wilderness areas of no less than four states. I'll be back Monday to pick up the pieces.

Dodging Storms

Enough of the dark and seedy. It is time for something a step up the sleaze scale from politics. Gambling.

I'm headed south for the Gulf Coast Poker Championship. So, go ahead Democrats and take a few more days to thump your chests. The touchy one won't be here to hear.

Fishin'

Time to stop wishin'

Time to go fishin'

Goin' South

Scallops are in season and I'm heading down 75. See you when I get back...maybe.

Leaving New Orleans

New Orleans is still a great town and it is almost impossible to have a bad time, but the business did not fare so well this week. So I'm headed to the farm to contemplate next moves. Look for changes around these parts next week.

New Orleans

I've got my suitcase in my hand

Now, ain't that a shame

I'm leavin' here today

Yes, I'm goin' back home to stay

Yes, I'm walkin' to New Orleans

Headed South

Going to catch the Braves in spring training. See you in a few.

Tunica: Day Three - Stax

I'll admit as I stood in Studio A listening to the session tapes of Dock Of The Bay and gazing at photos of the late Otis Redding, I choked up a little.

Arrival Tunica

Normally 6.5 hours. Today it took 8.5 hours. The wonderful weather you are now experiencing is what I drove through today. A tornado touched down only ten miles from me at one point. If I had stayed on the highway I would have driven right into it. Fortunately I found a little country cafe in Eldridge, Al and some very nice people let me hole up for an hour.

Now I'm finally in Tunica and forgive me but I need a drink. Or six.

Departure Atlanta

With the legislature rolling into town next week, I feel the need to prep by going to a place where people are cautious with money and completely honest. I'm going to a casino.

See you in a little while.

Departure New Orleans

Time to leave. I wish I could write more about New Orleans the city but my week has been limited to hotel - casino - Bourbon Street. Saying anything beyond I had a good time would be dishonest. It's one of the downsides of being a travelling poker player. You visit great cities but you never see them.

Now it's back to the real world. A quick stop in Moultrie to take care of some farm business and then back to Atlanta. See you tomorrow.

New Orleans: Day 4 - The First Rule

Easy day today. I accomplished everything I came to do except qualify for the main event, but the thought of another eight hour day of poker had no appeal.

So instead I played one single table with a small thought of winning my way into a bigger satellite but mostly just to have fun. I was richly rewarded with a table full of guys who were good players but also wanted to have a good time.

We cut up, splashed around in the pot and just about drove the dealer crazy since we were playing such junk. Every hand looked like a mongrel. The poor dealer could never tell right away who was the winner since every hand was such junk. But she was a good sport and laughed right along.

I punched out in fifth. But it was so much fun I hung around and kept ribbing the remaining players for taking too long to knock each other out. They were taking things "much too serious".

I later explained to one of my poker cohorts about the difference in players. Players who don't really get it take everything far too serious. They will wear their shades and stew over a hard call and bitch and moan even when they are playing a $65 single table. What they don't understand is it is supposed to be fun and everything has its place.

Those who have passed through the veil of poker enlightenment play with grace, play with respect and do play with a certain seriousness. But they also play because it is fun. And most of all the know there is always room for a good laugh.

New Orleans: Day 3 - No Regrets

Event 8

Buy-in: $1000

Entrants: 260

Finished - 11th

The day began with low expectations and ended with no regrets.

As I made my way into the poker room yesterday morning I was shaky, tired and my brain was foggy. Knowing I would be playing in the toughest event I had ever faced, I planned to go to bed early the previous night. Instead I was out long past midnight watching idiots ride some mechanical bull. I was actually looking forward to punching out so I could return to the hotel for a nap.

This maelstrom of idiocy led to one of the stupidest incidents ever. I looked down at QQ and raised the standard. One older gentleman followed me into the pot. The flop came 10-10-10. About as good a flop as I could expect. I bet out anyway and the gentleman called. Uh-oh. I had already doped out he was a caller by habit so this could mean he had Ace high or he could have the case 10. The turn was a Q making my boat even better. I bet out again and he called again. At this point I knew I had him. I knew he had AK and was chasing broadway. The river was a J and then it happened.

He bet at me. Exactly as I knew he should but the the brain froze. I looked down at my chips and realized I would have very few left if I just called. So I moved all in. He instantly called and flipped over AK. As the dealer began pushing my full house cards forward, I was gathering my things together. That's when the players at the table all started saying, "no no no". I had become so fixated on him making the straight, I completely forgot I had him crushed.

Later I apologized to him telling him it was not intentional. He just laughed and said, "it happens to everyone".

The mistake woke me up. He doubled me to twice the starting stack. Over the next 5 hours I would work my stack up to twice the average stack and stayed there.

The most fun was the table just before the dinner break. One end of the table was like a library. I was not at that end of the table. At my end were two high limit Omaha players, a local and a gentleman from Mt. Hermon, La. named Travis. Travis was a dead ringer for a friend of mine back home even down to both working in the cattle industry. Travis is about as nice a fellow as you could meet and kept us in stitches the whole afternoon.

Unfortunately for us all, following the dinner break Travis and I clashed.

We were two of the larger stacks at the table. Travis had position on me and smooth called the blinds. I looked down once again at pocket Queens. I put in a substantial raise. Everyone but Travis folded. He immediately came over the top of me for another raise. A jolly gentleman who check raises is a great danger. I said, "If we tangle, it could get really ugly". Travis said, "I know" and was uncharacteristically quiet. With this change in manner I immediately knew he had either AA or KK. But I could not lay down my ladies. Even though a call in this situation is not the best play, I had enough chips to not hurt if I had to get away after the flop.

The flop came Q-9-3. Travis immediately moved all in. I immediately called. He flipped over the pocket Aces. I flipped over the pocket Queens. Travis muttered, "I knew it". My fourth Queen came on the turn dealing Travis the death blow. He actually had me covered so he wasn't eliminated until the next hand. But he left with grace and told me if he saw me later we'd have to have a beer. A man of his word, later that night as I was still playing, I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around and Travis was standing there, a grin on his face. He said "I just want to see how you are handling my money" and laughed.

The grind down to the money was taxing. I had enough chips to survive so I was not worried but this was easily the toughest field I ever faced. Most of the players were local or nearby ring game specialists with a few travelling pros mixed in. But at about midnight the bubble burst and everyone relaxed.

After two of the most stress filled hours I've ever played, what followed was two of the most fun hours I've ever played. Everyone was a good player and tactical play was rewarded. But unfortunately for me, the cards went dead. I limped along, grinding out a few pots here and there but the blinds and antes were slowly chewing my stack.

It happened just before 2:00am CST. We were down to 11. In New Orleans the final table is 10 so the next person out would miss.

I was the second short stack in the tournament. The big stack was to my left. I had played with him earlier and knew him to be aggressive and any move I made would probably result in a push.

I don't know if was frustration at not seeing cards for an hour or just a tired brain, but on the button with A-5, I raised to 10k (about one third of my stack). Big stack, who was from Tallahassee, immediately moved all in. I went into the tank. I looked over at man from Texas who was the short stack. If I folded we would have about the same. I knew I was behind but had the vague hope that the big stack would call with anything. Maybe he had K-J and it would be a race with me slightly ahead. Pulling everything together, despite my desire to make the final table, I realized my only play was to call and gamble.

Big stack turned over A-Q.

I was crushed. Completely dominated. Only a Five or two pair on the board would save me. Hope sprang as the flop came out with a pair of rags. But it was all dashed with two more unpaired rags on the turn and the river. He shook my hand and everyone else let out a huge sigh of relief. The last man had gone down.

Many who do not understand poker might not understand why I did what I did. All I can say to those people is poker is a test. Always a test. I faced my test on that last hand and instead of meekly walking away from the adversity, I looked it right in the face. This time the test was the better of me. Next time, it may be different.

New Orleans: Day 3 - Sniffin' It

Event 8. Finished 11th. One off the final table. Final play was pretty stupid but no regrets. More tomorrow.

New Orleans: Day 2 - Satellite Success

Playing single table satellites is a good way to blow off steam. They are super-aggressive, generally friendly and over in under an hour. The complete opposite of playing in a big event which may last 13 hours.

My first single table was completely ridiculous and barely merits a mention. Let's just leave it at I got crippled in the first five minutes and eliminated in the next five minutes.

The second was a hoot. Sat next to what I call a gregarious guy. He's the type of guy who gets on many a person's nerve and that's probably his game. But I've been next to far worse so he didn't bother me at all. I think he recognized this fact and we settled down and had a grand old time. We laughed. We poked fun. And most importantly for a couple of gamblers, we won. When we were down to four, I knocked out two with one hand, then me a my new friend chopped the winnings.

So today I enter Event 8 at half price. I'm not sure what's going to happen as I am still recovering from a late night on Bourbon Street.