superbuickguy
Explorer
THE WILD ONE AT GRAVELRAMA!
By Rick Sieman
When we last left Carl and Emma, Carl had gotten lost on the backroads while trying a shortcut visit to Emma's Uncle Howard in Ohio. What with the darkness and the fog, Carl had no idea he had wandered into the competitor's area at the famed Gravelrama event. And when an event official approached Carl, mistaking him for a competitor, Carl thought it would not be a bad idea to enter an event or three. Emma was nearly speechless.
"Welcome to Gravelrama, sir We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."
Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hillclimbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eyes. Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"
A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"
The official held up a hand. "First we have to figure out what class you're going to be in. Sportsman or pro?"
Carl scratched his chin and spit a wad of tobacco about 23 feet, just missing a snoozing dog. The dog yelped and scrambled off. "I'm not sure."
"Well, make up your mind. Have you ever competed for money before?"
"Oh, yes ... all the time."
"Good. Then you're in the pro class. Go over there and have your truck weighed. By the way sir, yours is the most original monster truck I've
ever seen."
Emma dragged Carl off to one side. "Carl, have you lost your marbles? Has someone blown your pilot light out? What's this about racing for money?"
Carl grunted. "Don't you remember when I drag raced that bozo in the red Bronco? Over on that dry lake bed near where we were camping? I won ten bucks and a six pack of WartHog Light beer. No way can I compete against innocent Sportsmen with a record like that!"
Emma looked at the sky. "Carl, you big dummy, aren't you afraid of destroying 'The Whale'? And how do you expect to compete against real professional trucks?"
Carl shook his head from side to side. "Emma, you're forgettin' that I got a 454 under the hood with enough horsepower to probably change the rotation of the earth if I could get the traction. Anyways, 'The Whale will also be worlds lighter than all of those monster trucks. Those things hit the scales at ten or eleven thousand pounds or more. 'The Whale' will have the edge in the quick and nimble department."
A half hour later, Carl drove The Whale off the scales and was handed a slip of paper. "Fourteen thousand, two hundred and eighteen pounds! This can't be right! Hey buddy, you better check those scales!"
The scale man pushed his wire rimmed glasses back on his nose and studied the print-out form from the scales. "Sorry, sir. You're right. Should be fourteen thousand, four hundred and eighteen pounds. You know, it's amazing your rig is that light, what with that boat on the top, and that satellite dish, and those two air conditioners, and that pair of trail bikes, and that TV antenna, and those three roll-up awnings, and the
remote shower, and those fold out barbecues, and those ..."
Carl cut in, "Hey, put it in neutral, will you buddy! I know it's no lightweight, but you don't have to rub it in."
"Sorry sir. It's just that it's so, so ... big. Anyway, take this slip over to sign-up and give it to the officials with your entry form."
Carl got in line at sign-up, while Emma stood alongside, quietly singing church hymns, much to Carl's consternation. Eventually, he got up to the table and stood there in front of the white haired old lady running sign up.
She looked up, smiled, and barked, "What are you, a mute, or just stupid. Gimmee that paper."
Meekly, Carl handed over the weigh-in slip.
The lady peered over her glasses at it. "Hmmm. Over 14,000 pounds. This puts you in the Unlimited Monster Truck class. You'll be going up against USA 1, King Kong, The Virginia Beach Beast, The Festering Boil Mark 11, Big Foot and about a dozen others. Now, do you just want to sign up for an individual event, or hit all three and go for the overall?"
"Uhh, what are the events?"
"Well, since this is the first year we've had a Monster Truck competition, I guess maybe you're not familiar with our format. We got us three events, starting with the sand drags, then it's the obstacle course and, of course, we wrap it up with the hill climb. Double points on the hill climb. Come on now, get your finger out of your nose; what's it gonna be. One? All three?"
"Duhh ... all three, I guess."
"Good. Sign here and cough up some entry fee money. And lots of luck, fat boy. You'll need it."
Competition started with the sand drags. It was a typical side-by-side format. Carl edged up to the lights and looked at the monster truck next to him. It was a huge Dodge pickup with flames belching out of the open headers. On the door was a name: Thundering Dog Breath, and there was a drawing of a rabid hound with flames pouring out of its nostrils. Carl shuddered as he listened to the outrageous engine snarl and bellow.
The lights turned green and the Dodge shot off the line, while Carl sat there with his engine revving wildly. He had forgotten to put it in gear, violating one of drag racing's most important tenets.
Luckily, the Dodge shredded its motor to itsy-bitsy pieces 35 yards out. Carl put The Whale into gear and quietly drove by the smoldering Dodge, being careful not to
run over the melted blower laying in his lane.
Round One to The Whale.
What happened after that staggers the imagination: three of the next four competitors red-lighted on the start and one got a wheel over the marked line and was DQ-d. Carl found himself in the finals against Big Foot. It was not much of a contest, as Big Foot turned in a 7-second flat run against Carl's 18.9. Still, Carl had managed a second place and some valuable points.
The obstacle course was run against the clock, and, as luck would have it, Carl drew the first start. He blasted off the line and did, indeed, keep the pedal to the metal. The Whale lurched, bounced, slithered, heaved, wallowed and plowed around the course.
It cleared a small jump, and the boat fell off the top. On a rough straight, the satellite dish toppled off and rolled through the trees.
Carl lost the front trail bike on the off-camber sweeper and the rear trail bike jiggled off on the short down hill. Through the mud bog, two of the awnings ripped off and five coolers fell out of the rear window.
Fishing rods rattled around inside the cab and copies of Field and Stream fluttered inside like crazed snow. A coffee maker did a U-turn like a boomerang in mid-air, then turned itself into shards of glass when the refrigerator door slammed it against a wall.
By Rick Sieman
When we last left Carl and Emma, Carl had gotten lost on the backroads while trying a shortcut visit to Emma's Uncle Howard in Ohio. What with the darkness and the fog, Carl had no idea he had wandered into the competitor's area at the famed Gravelrama event. And when an event official approached Carl, mistaking him for a competitor, Carl thought it would not be a bad idea to enter an event or three. Emma was nearly speechless.
"Welcome to Gravelrama, sir We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."
Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hillclimbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eyes. Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"
A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"
The official held up a hand. "First we have to figure out what class you're going to be in. Sportsman or pro?"
Carl scratched his chin and spit a wad of tobacco about 23 feet, just missing a snoozing dog. The dog yelped and scrambled off. "I'm not sure."
"Well, make up your mind. Have you ever competed for money before?"
"Oh, yes ... all the time."
"Good. Then you're in the pro class. Go over there and have your truck weighed. By the way sir, yours is the most original monster truck I've
ever seen."
Emma dragged Carl off to one side. "Carl, have you lost your marbles? Has someone blown your pilot light out? What's this about racing for money?"
Carl grunted. "Don't you remember when I drag raced that bozo in the red Bronco? Over on that dry lake bed near where we were camping? I won ten bucks and a six pack of WartHog Light beer. No way can I compete against innocent Sportsmen with a record like that!"
Emma looked at the sky. "Carl, you big dummy, aren't you afraid of destroying 'The Whale'? And how do you expect to compete against real professional trucks?"
Carl shook his head from side to side. "Emma, you're forgettin' that I got a 454 under the hood with enough horsepower to probably change the rotation of the earth if I could get the traction. Anyways, 'The Whale will also be worlds lighter than all of those monster trucks. Those things hit the scales at ten or eleven thousand pounds or more. 'The Whale' will have the edge in the quick and nimble department."
A half hour later, Carl drove The Whale off the scales and was handed a slip of paper. "Fourteen thousand, two hundred and eighteen pounds! This can't be right! Hey buddy, you better check those scales!"
The scale man pushed his wire rimmed glasses back on his nose and studied the print-out form from the scales. "Sorry, sir. You're right. Should be fourteen thousand, four hundred and eighteen pounds. You know, it's amazing your rig is that light, what with that boat on the top, and that satellite dish, and those two air conditioners, and that pair of trail bikes, and that TV antenna, and those three roll-up awnings, and the
remote shower, and those fold out barbecues, and those ..."
Carl cut in, "Hey, put it in neutral, will you buddy! I know it's no lightweight, but you don't have to rub it in."
"Sorry sir. It's just that it's so, so ... big. Anyway, take this slip over to sign-up and give it to the officials with your entry form."
Carl got in line at sign-up, while Emma stood alongside, quietly singing church hymns, much to Carl's consternation. Eventually, he got up to the table and stood there in front of the white haired old lady running sign up.
She looked up, smiled, and barked, "What are you, a mute, or just stupid. Gimmee that paper."
Meekly, Carl handed over the weigh-in slip.
The lady peered over her glasses at it. "Hmmm. Over 14,000 pounds. This puts you in the Unlimited Monster Truck class. You'll be going up against USA 1, King Kong, The Virginia Beach Beast, The Festering Boil Mark 11, Big Foot and about a dozen others. Now, do you just want to sign up for an individual event, or hit all three and go for the overall?"
"Uhh, what are the events?"
"Well, since this is the first year we've had a Monster Truck competition, I guess maybe you're not familiar with our format. We got us three events, starting with the sand drags, then it's the obstacle course and, of course, we wrap it up with the hill climb. Double points on the hill climb. Come on now, get your finger out of your nose; what's it gonna be. One? All three?"
"Duhh ... all three, I guess."
"Good. Sign here and cough up some entry fee money. And lots of luck, fat boy. You'll need it."
Competition started with the sand drags. It was a typical side-by-side format. Carl edged up to the lights and looked at the monster truck next to him. It was a huge Dodge pickup with flames belching out of the open headers. On the door was a name: Thundering Dog Breath, and there was a drawing of a rabid hound with flames pouring out of its nostrils. Carl shuddered as he listened to the outrageous engine snarl and bellow.
The lights turned green and the Dodge shot off the line, while Carl sat there with his engine revving wildly. He had forgotten to put it in gear, violating one of drag racing's most important tenets.
Luckily, the Dodge shredded its motor to itsy-bitsy pieces 35 yards out. Carl put The Whale into gear and quietly drove by the smoldering Dodge, being careful not to
run over the melted blower laying in his lane.
Round One to The Whale.
What happened after that staggers the imagination: three of the next four competitors red-lighted on the start and one got a wheel over the marked line and was DQ-d. Carl found himself in the finals against Big Foot. It was not much of a contest, as Big Foot turned in a 7-second flat run against Carl's 18.9. Still, Carl had managed a second place and some valuable points.
The obstacle course was run against the clock, and, as luck would have it, Carl drew the first start. He blasted off the line and did, indeed, keep the pedal to the metal. The Whale lurched, bounced, slithered, heaved, wallowed and plowed around the course.
It cleared a small jump, and the boat fell off the top. On a rough straight, the satellite dish toppled off and rolled through the trees.
Carl lost the front trail bike on the off-camber sweeper and the rear trail bike jiggled off on the short down hill. Through the mud bog, two of the awnings ripped off and five coolers fell out of the rear window.
Fishing rods rattled around inside the cab and copies of Field and Stream fluttered inside like crazed snow. A coffee maker did a U-turn like a boomerang in mid-air, then turned itself into shards of glass when the refrigerator door slammed it against a wall.
