After breakfast, Jacob, Bates and Rouland clean the car and rearrange their scant belongings in back. When Rouland tries to dump a bag of cookies that he says are stale, Jacob stops him and warns, ”You can`t throw those out; my mother made them.” They look up to see the NBC cameras recording the interchange. The guys are still laughing about it as their Dodge wiggles through the winding streets of Redondo Beach and out onto the Santa Monica Freeway. The cookie incident may have been their lucky break, the only way they`ll make it on the TV special. (They didn`t, though part of the car could be seen in a film clip.) Jacob recalls NBC`s 1985 version of the One Lap with little enthusiasm. ”It was like a travelogue,” he says. ”They didn`t show how competitive the rallye gets.” As an example, he points to their close call the previous morning in Barstow, Calif., when they`d made a wrong turn during a TSD and gotten stuck in about a foot of loose sand. Bates and Jacob had leaped from the car while Rouland held steady at the wheel. With sand cascading everywhere, the two exerted more energy than they ever thought possible, pushed the car out and leaped back in to avoid losing any more time. Chalk up some penalty points. But those challenges under pressure are what the race is about, says Jacob, and they are precisely what NBC failed to show.
As the morning euphoria wears off, the three settle down to evaluate their present situation. They share a sense of frustration. Those TSD legs in Ohio really did them in; they accounted for two-thirds of their penalty points. Blowing those two legs cost them a competitive shot. Now they are in 33d place with little chance of climbing much higher, and that`s quite a downer after last year`s showing. Perhaps to buoy their spirits, or maybe to get their minds off the present, they begin talking about next year. The subject they debate off and on enroute to Reno for that evening`s TSD is whether to approach the 1987 One Lap from a purely competitive angle or go at it for the glamor. Jacob owns a 1966 Maserati, a real beauty that he wants to restore. Wouldn`t a stunning car like that bring them more attention than they`d gotten this year? And could the Maserati be more than a pretty face?
Could it be competitive? And if it couldn`t be competitive, could they put their egos aside and drive the One Lap just for show? And would it be easier or harder to attract a sponsor if they were just going for the glitz?
The questions and answers go round as the Dodge wends through the glorious snow-covered Sierra Nevadas. The scenery here is the prettiest they`ve encountered since Skyline Drive in Virginia, and it`s amazing how much more they can appreciate it coming off a good night`s sleep and a leisurely breakfast. ”My stomach`s in shock,” says Bates. ”It hasn`t had a greasy hamburger for 24 hours.” He asks Rouland to break out the brownies. The tricky part will come later tonight, after the TSD, when one of them will have to curl up in the back seat while the other two stay up. That`ll be difficult. It took three days to adjust to dozing on demand–and just as long to learn to stay awake when you wanted to sleep. Now they`ll have to discipline themselves once more.
The temperature drops, and ears pop as they climb to more than 9,000 feet above sea level, snowy peaks on one side of the road, bubbling creeks on the other. The population is sparse: 43 in one town, 100 in another. Pulling out of a drive-through Wendy`s near Mojave at lunchtime, the hazards of rallying are apparent. The waitress has delivered the wrong order. Instead of cheeseburgers, they`ve gotten chicken sandwiches and a BLT. Oh, well. No time to go back and complain.
An abandoned gas station in a desolate mountain stretch catches their attention later that afternoon. They have some time to spare, so why not take a picture? A sign in front says ”Last Chance”–another ”No Tresspassing”– but that does not stop Bates, who bounds through the empty building extolling its curious virtues. In response to Bates` exuberance, a woman accompanied by a very large dog walks out of a ramshackle house in back. Jacob, who`s preparing to photograph this hidden treasure, rapidly shoots. ”This is private property,” the woman shouts, and the team heads for the safe little Dodge.
Shortly before 7, the Dodge crosses into Nevada. ”Don`t have to worry about speeding here,” Jacob advises. ”It`s only a five-dollar fine.”
Another 45 minutes and they hit Carson City, the starting point for the TSD. Smokies line the side streets as the rallyists roll in at a nice easy pace. Jacob and company check out the rallye starting line and then back up to Pinkie`s Pizza Parlor for a light repast. They go next door to an arcade and watch some of the locals put quarters in the slot machines.
An hour later the atmosphere of the rallye changes. After the peaceful transit run, the 32-mile TSD is all business. The tension begins to build when the cars group at the ”Xebec” sign on Virginia Road for the 9 p.m. start. Each is to leave a minute apart, according to their car number. Since Jacobs` vehicle is No. 36, it is to depart at exactly 9:36. Jacob sits in the back seat with the computer next to him, a legal pad in his lap and a fluorescent lightstick in his hand. Rouland is at the wheel. Bates is in the passenger seat rereading the route instructions. Earlier in the day he had calculated the number of miles between that evening`s five checkpoints. The checkpoints are hidden from view and can pop up at any point along the TSD. That`s why driving fast is unimportant. Driving at the stated speed is the key.
Bates begins reading the directions aloud. During the actual TSD, he`ll repeat them to Rouland three times at least. Rouland will be so intent on driving he may not hear Bates the first or second time. Rouland, meanwhile, is regretting that the crew doesn`t have a special rallye computer on the dash. Sure, they`d gotten the lap computer gratis from Hewlett-Packard, so they shouldn`t complain, but this setup forces Jacob to convey the information to Rouland from the back seat. It`s an awkward arrangement at best, and Rouland says, ”Next year we`ll use a rallye computer. Why am I talking about next year?” Before he can answer his own question, they`re off. Within seconds, Bates is yelling at Rouland, who is turning a block too soon. Rouland rights the car, swings around and surges ahead to make up for lost time. They find the proper turn and then have to brake hard as Bates sights the first checkpoint. An errant car is smack in front of them, out of turn. Never mind. They yell their car number to the two timekeepers, are given a computerized sticker listing their exact time and move on. Right on the money. Perfect time.
Bates yells the next set of directions and the new speed, and Jacob types the information into the computer. ”I need help,” Rouland calls, and Bates repeats the directions. ”Can you read me the numbers,” Rouland yells to Jacob, who rejoins, ”I am reading you the numbers.” He is reading each hundredth of a mile in a hypnotic singsong as his eyes follow the screen: ”1 one-hundredth, 2 one-hundredths, 3 one-hundredths,” etc. Rouland is matching the computer figures he gets from Jacob with the odometer reading. If he gets behind–if Jacob reads ”6 one-hundredths” and the odometer reads 4–he speeds up to keep on pace. They hit another checkpoint 6 miles down the road. One second off. They pull away and spot a patrol car hidden in the rocks along the edge of the road. No sweat. The rallye speeds are slow along this desolate stretch. Even so, the guys don`t slow down when they hit a corner and have to make a hairpin turn. Jacob hangs onto the computer so it doesn`t slide. They climb higher and higher and hit another checkpoint. One second off again. Doing fine, right there in Buffum`s league.
Fifteen minutes into the TSD, the red Dodge hits Virginia City, Nev., population 600. There`s a 10-minute pause in the heart of the restored Western town, enough time to regroup–but not refresh–at the Old Original Bucket of Blood Saloon. Patrons peering out the windows watch a modern wagon train assemble before their very eyes. Do they ever get a show. One competitor leaves his car in disgust and throws his instruction book on the ground. ”We missed the turn,” he shouts at his codriver. ”That`s 180 points.”
Pauses are written into the route to allow the competitors to keep out of each other`s way. For instance, if several cars get stuck at a red light or aren`t able to pass a school bus, they`ll bunch up and lose the minute gap between them. The pauses are a way to uncork the bottleneck. When the 10 minutes expire, the Dodge is on the road again. After a few miles, there`s another pause–this time 2 minutes–for what the instructions term a ”scenic overview.” They cross the road to the dirt patch that forms the overview and try not to look. The elevation here is about 7,000 feet, and the view is straight down. Three seconds, 2 seconds, 1. They take off, and before long, change speeds. Checkpoint ahead. Two seconds off. Now for the last checkpoint. Things look great, according to Jacob. They change speeds once, twice, three times and there it is, the final checkpoint. Oooooohh. Awful. Seventeen seconds off the mark. They can`t believe it. Something`s wrong. They should have been right on.
They puzzle over their mistake while heading for the open road. Getting there proves tricky. Do they go right or left? After the tension of the TSD and their wacky score at the final checkpoint, they are still shaken up. They pull over on a side street, examine their route instructions and try to figure out where they are. Okay, there`s the highway not far ahead. Welcome to Reno, reads the sign. Bill Cosby`s appearing at Harrah`s with Charo.
The Dodge pulls into the opulent MGM Grand hotel, one of about a dozen hospitality stops along the route, where doughnuts and coffee await. As the drivers enter the plush red-and-black casino and gather under the fabulous crystal chandeliers, they grouse about the final checkpoint. Several sign a petition protesting their marks and later discover they are right. The checkpoint was actually positioned two-tenths of a mile too far down the road –the fault of the local Sports Car Club of America people who laid out the TSD–and that makes everyone tardy. The last leg of the TSD has to be discarded in the point total. Errors like that are rare on this year`s One Lap; last year, remembers Rouland, there were many, the worst being a 100-mile miscalculation by organizers of the distance between Las Vegas and the Texas line (the route went counterclockwise in `85) and an entire TSD section had to be thrown out. After the trio sign the petition, they leave the hotel. It is almost midnight. They`ve covered 484.60 miles since Portofino. They have 3,000 miles to go.
Yates had warned the One Lappers in Portofino that they might hit snow in Colorado, but it is fire–not ice–that bogs them down. A spectacular barn fire blazes outside Denver, forcing the police to close the rallye route about 2 miles before the last 20 cars can complete the fifth and final leg of this TSD. That means the leg has to be scratched from the scoring total. For one car, getting to Colorado, not through it, is the difficult part. The Dodge Lancer/Quaker State Special captained by professional movie stuntman Cliff Cudney had, up to that point, been best known for its special pit crew, a cadre of beautiful girls in skimpy attire who cheered the team at the start and then again in Portofino. But that was before their adventure in Utah, where they got stuck at a gas station at night with the keys locked inside the car and had to call the police to come and open the door.
Before the TSD in Colorado, a couple of the early birds had built enough of a cushion to pull into a bona-fide sit-down restaurant in Idaho Springs for a real lunch served on real plates accompanied by real forks, real knives and real spoons. They tell the waitress that in less than an hour about 300 other hungry folks will be walking into the quaint little eatery. She just laughs. Forty-five minutes later, she is frantically phoning for help: There is a line out the door.
After Colorado comes Nebraska, and no One Lapper polled can remember much about that state. A big blur. Worse than Texas. Rocky Aoki and his group bust a fan belt there, which is about the most exciting thing that anyone could report. The whole crowd is looking ahead to Eau Claire, Wis., and the Uniroyal Tire plant, where they`ll be treated to a shower–glory hallelujah–and after that, a barbecue and a tour. After that they`ll be in the home stretch.
But during those monotonous swatches in the nation`s middle, where eyes rarely veered from the asphalt, some of the drivers lose communication–with the people sitting next to them. The guys in the red Dodge admit that 300 miles might have gone by without any of them uttering a word. How come?
Combination of things. They were tired. Tired of fast food, tired of driving, tired of being confined, tired of being tired and tired of each other. Thankfully, the last is only a temporary condition. There are other drivers for whom it is a permanent state. These folks are sick and tired of their teammates, and their feelings don`t change when they reach the finish line. One driver later confides that he had taken a good deal of verbal abuse from a teammate. One night, he says, as they sped down a nameless highway, the teammate tossed all their maps out the window. ”We`re no longer friends,”
says the talebearer, who had put $25,000 into the project.
Far more prevalent are the good vibes that pass between these modern-day explorers. Credit the CB radios, which help them get through the night and get to know one another in the process. Cars would convoy down the lonely interstates, and the late-shift drivers would trade witticisms, dirty jokes and gossip while teammates dozed. ”We made some awfully good friends, thanks to the CB,” says Mercedes driver Bruce McCaw of Seattle. In fact, he hopes to link up next year with a team from Virginia he befriended–they drove a lowly Volkswagen, of all things–but the make of the car was hardly an issue; good conversation was.
Passing the time is not a problem for the teams with a chance to win the One Lap or at least finish in the money. For them it`s a matter of keeping their excitement in check. ”Between California and Denver, we realized we had a top-10 finish in sight,” says Kerry Voll of the Yugo team, ”and we could see the end of the tunnel. I was just hoping we could hold on. The hardest thing I had to think about was not thinking about the finish. I was fantasizing about coming over the line and being able to thumb my nose at Brock Yates, who didn`t believe a Yugo could do it. You just have to concentrate on the here and now. I didn`t even want to think about the finish until we were on the road leading to the finish line in front of the hotel in Detroit. I mean, anything could happen.” And it did. Two of the ladies received a rude awakening when a huge crow smashed into the window on the driver`s side as the sun was rising in Utah and Diane Howseal was at the wheel. It took about a half hour to regroup and dig the glass out of the car. Tiny shards still remain when they roll into Detroit.
With visions of a warm bed and a hot wholesome meal in their heads, the One Lappers begin their final TSD, on Michigan`s Upper Peninsula, in the middle of the night, of course. They then press onward in the morning light across the Mackinac Bridge, enroute back to Detroit. Here the speeds accelerate. Buffum later admits doing 130 on that stretch. Again the idea is to build a nice lead so the drivers can stop outside Motor City, grab a shower and, they hope, a little sleep. They are due at the finish line at 2 p.m.
It is a glorious sunny afternoon when the weary adventurers crawl back to the riverfront, where a huge circus tent is set up for a picnic and a country band welcomes them home. The results have been tallied: The Toyota has done it. It has amassed a measly 34 penalty points over 8,282 miles. Buffum`s Audi is in 2d place with 43. Boy Yugo is in 6th place with 63. The Checker cab is 9th with 106. Girl Yugo is in 10th place with 118 penalty points.
”They get a big romantic dinner tonight with candles,” gushes Yugo VP Tony Ciminera. Jokes one of the women drivers, ”Next year we`ll look for a little smaller car.”
Aoki finishes way back, in 92d place with 4,705 points, but he is already talking about `87. Attired in a suit–but shirtless and wearing a tie around his bare neck–Aoki looks refreshed (”I just brushed my teeth”) and says he is thinking about converting a European sports car, perhaps an Audi or a Jaguar, into a limo next year. Kent McCord finishes 47th with 1,076 points and is so tired he can barely talk. ”None of us had had any experience,” the actor mumbles. ”We were playing another man`s game.” The state-of-the-art Rand McNally Road Atlas Warrior–given the highly coveted Diamond Jim Brady noncash award for wretched excess (in this case, technological excess)–ties for 70th with 2,151 points. And how many cars did not finish? More than a handful, but one rallye planner puts it this way: ”We were all so busy, noboby ever counted the number of cars that crossed the finish line.” That`s the One Lap for you.
After he is interviewed by NBC and others, winner Phil Suomu makes his way over to John Buffum, and the two share some champagne in paper cups.
”They just nipped and tucked us all along,” Buffum says of the Toyota.
”They beat us by 10ths of feet and 10ths of seconds. Ninety percent of the credit goes to Phil. He did the job. It`s the computer navigators who make the ride. If you look at the top 10, you`ll see that.”
Would he do it again in `87? Says Buffum, ”After this year and last year, I said `I hope not.` Not unless Brock changes the format to a performance rallye instead of a chicken – – – – TSD. If he changes it, people from Europe may even come over to run it. It would be a great thing for America.”
Even at that moment, Yates is talking changes. ”Corrective surgery,”
he calls it. He`s thinking about dividing the field into two classes, one for seat-of-the-pants amateurs, another for savvy professionals. Thinking about adding performance elements to the rallye, like high-speed laps on gravel tracks. At the awards ceremony, where the Toyota team picks up $12,000 and a sculpture from a Manhattan gallery specializing in automotive art, Yates tells the troops, ”We`ve got some big plans for next year. If you`re ready to go, we`re ready to start right now.”
And the boys in the red Dodge? How did they fare? Tied for 30th, with 488 points. Would they do it next year? Rouland answers for the three: ”You almost have to. It`s like a party. If you miss it, you always wonder what went on.”
