The racing housewife
The first thing I see from the shotgun seat of a race car in the Enduro 100 is that I can see nothing at all. Nothing except for the dust, that is. I'm trapped in a huge brown cloud that's quickly accumulating. The sun is shining brightly, but the dust cloud covers everything: the hood of our car, the cars on either side of us, and whatever the heck is supposed to be up there in front of us. The dust cloud makes my eyes itch and my lungs wheeze. My heart starts pounding like the cylinders of a V-8 engine, and I start wondering out loud:
"Am I going to get killed in a spin-out collision or just get choked to death?"
I Our yellow-and-orange-painted 1978 vintage sedan is in the pole position at the Outlaw Motor Speedway, a three-quarter-mile dirt-track oval hunkered in the heart of the original dust bowl near Muskogee, Oklahoma. My erstwhile companion, Sharon Green, a housewife, pipe-company customer rep, and veteran dirt-track racer who also happens to be the only woman driver in the Enduro, is putting the pedal to the metal.
"Don't worry," Sharon hollers, giggling. "We're going to be just fine. Nobody's been killed in one of these things yet."
That may be a minor miracle. The Enduro is kind of a cross between a stock-car sprint and a demolition derby. Like our aging chariot, all the cars are junkers purchased for less than $1,000 each. As per race rules, every shard of glass has been removed; there are no windshields or windows. Sharon's husband, Ricky, a diesel mechanic and part-time race-car driver, has fitted our junker with a roll cage and shoulder harnesses. Sharon and I are wearing crash helmets and fire-retardant racing togs.
The object of the Enduro is simple: The first racer to complete 100 laps wins. But completing the 100 laps entails doing battle with dozens of other competitors who have nothing left to lose except another bumper, door panel, or one last little itty bit of road-raged ego. Dust-blinded, Sharon and I slip-slide through the first two turns, barely avoiding a fishtailing coupe on our right and then getting side-swiped by a rusted rambler.
This race isn't just about speed — it's about survival!
Suddenly, I see a red light beaming through the dust cloud at the start of turn three. Sharon slams on the brakes. The race is on hold. Strapped in my harness, I can't turn around to see what's happening behind us, but I hear the whine of a siren.
Ricky comes out on the track to inform us that nine cars have already been eliminated by a spin-out collision. The driver of a car without a sturdy roll cage flipped over; emergency medical techs are now extracting him via the trunk section with the "Jaws of Life."
When the race resumes, steam starts to pour from the hood of our car. Ricky waves us off the track for a pit stop. He mends a leaky radiator hose, and Sharon steers us back into the race. Now my competitive juices are boiling. I really want to win this thing. But two laps later, our radiator hose blows again, and we're done for the day.
Only 10 of the original 37 cars finish the race. The winner pockets $1,000. The driver who was extracted from his car is released from a local hospital with only minor injuries. Later that afternoon, he returns to inspect the wreckage he escaped. I ask him if he plans to compete in another Enduro race. As the sun sets and the dust finally clears from the dirt track, he answers with the same two words both Sharon and I would holler if asked that same question:
"Oh, yeah!"
