desert race

The speedometer dial is pushing its way to 120mph. I am in the passenger seat of a Mazda 3 sitting next to the driver, a 20-something dude from southern California I met a couple hours earlier. His brother, a team-mate of my big brother, is racing in this desert.

There aren’t many rules for the athletes or the spectators in the Baja 1000 in 1980s. I’m not sure it is any different now. Anyone daring enough to drive this fast can be a chase car. The registered race vehicles, cars, buggies, and motorcycles must pass strict inspections and a 24-hour impoundment before the race starts. I know this because my brother’s race bike had some parts damaged in transport. Under pressure, a few hours before impoundment, I, with my academic Spanish and a little Kentucky twang got to request a new part using the words I knew, “el circulo metal para var.” Moments later, we were racing out of the parts shop with a sprocket in hand.

This desert race is one that some don’t finish. This is the reason we are chasing to begin with. If our brothers have trouble and it goes unnoticed, the desert can finish them before they are found. Our Mazda 3 was not inspected. We were both surprised at how fast it could go. We were even more surprised that we were catching up with the back row of racers. The tan colored cloud that had been way off on the horizon was suddenly engulfing us. Every window became a wall of sand. My exhilaration turned to panic. I gripped the vinyl arm rest on the door and shut my eyes. My huge inhale was frozen. I couldn’t make a sound. I expected us to hit a car or bike at any moment.

I didn’t breathe again until his foot let off the gas and we waited for the dust to settle.

We were not racers. We were the younger siblings of off-road professionals. Neither of us spoke of the moment we accepted this. We didn’t speak to our powerlessness to save our brothers either. Without a word, we did what we always did on race day. We plugged into the sporadic reports and scrambled to find a pit stop or broadcast or race team with walkies. We silently waited. We were the first on the scene at the podium. We were the first to cheer when the trio of sand-encased Honda team-riders stepped onto the podium. I watched through tears as the red, white, and blue jerseys emerged from a champagne shower. We’d both raced as kids. We knew the thrill in our bodies, in the emotions, in the soul of the sport, a fire that coursed through our veins. We were not racers that day and yet, we won.

2020 Brooke Summers-Perry
spark #342