When the big wheels cease to turn
- AR
- 12 hours ago
- 8 min read
This particular Monster Truck Tour promised quad wars, incinerated cars, moto cross and miles of smiles. What was received was miles of half-assery.
What’s more anxiety riddling than 12,000 pounds of monster truck spinning its wheels in clay dirt with a growl loud enough to wake the dead? A stadium crowd demanding their money back.
Driving up a pitch black two-lane canyon with no civilization 20 miles in either direction is enough to make anybody throw the engine-greased towel in. We almost missed the turnout when we approached the speedway that looked more like a detention facility; thanks to the barbed fencing and matching sheriff's truck parked out front.
If it wasn’t for the single sign, only illuminated by the cops headlights, we’d still be driving up in no man’s canyon.
The bloodshot eyes, short temper, missing teeth and the exaggerated pronunciation of meth in the word methanol were explicit signs that pointed to the fact that this is redneck country, also known as Lakeside San Diego.
Folks from all walks of life are jaunting around the grounds adorned with VIP badges, but a camera and a little confidence are kind of the same thing.
No questions asked, no badges needed.
After doing my due diligence of making sure my entourage is situated, I sneak off to get a sip of the pit party, where drivers are revving their engines and wrench monkeys are tinkering around the monstrosities they claim to be automobiles.
I maneuver myself down an unmanned creaky set of stairs to the broadcasting box and catch a glimpse of a toolbox next to a group of men scratching their heads.
A few guys with about three teeth between the lot of ‘em are wrenching on the trucks and talking shit, but all conversations come to a halt when the girl with a notepad comes skipping up.
That usually only happens when somebody's hiding something or something's wrong — or somebody’s hiding that something’s wrong.
It’s about 30 minutes till show time so I figure I'm not intruding.
But with a camera and a pen, anything seems intrusive.
Stonefaced and beady eyed, the man in a checkered racing jacket, seemingly the head hauncho, looks perplexed that I've invaded his powwow.
I blame it on the securityless stairs.
Then I start asking questions — great.
“How’s it runnin’ boys?” I ask.
“Well everything looks alright. We had one truck drop out of the earlier race but it’s almost ready for this one. We also got a spare tire for it,” said one of the wrenchers.
Sounds good, but a spare tire won’t save what's about to go down on the dirt.
“Alright, well if it all goes to shit I know who to blame,” I said, looking at the beady eyed head hauncho, only half serious.
Beady eyed and up in arms, Mr. Hauncho replied with a “hell no, you go after this guy right here,” pushing a man with a headset, presumably the announcer in front of me.
“What’s going on?,” Mr. Headset asked, while being pushed to the center of our chit chat.
That interaction was a clear foreshadow of the night. I walked away to get my finger on the pulses of more folk while the monkeys wrenched around.
Up on a hill I spotted an EMT truck — finally, some authority.
Enrique’s been an EMT at the speedway for 29 years. He’s seen kids grow up here, then their kids and now, their kids; who are flattening the hill with shovels and riding toy scooters down the freshly beaten path.
Enrique’s not worried about these drivers or potential decapitations tonight.
“You know Dale Earnhardt? Well he’s responsible for the HANS device. He sped into a wall at 200 miles per hour. It broke his spine off his head,” he said without a flinch.
In body decapitation.
The HANS device is a head and neck support apparatus that even the most daring of monster truck drivers now wear.
“They’re also strapped into a cage and aren’t going anywhere in that,” Enrique added. “I haven’t seen anything too bad in my time here. Kids in tiny toy cars go on and enjoy the track and they get right under the trucks without a scratch.”
I move on to the kids slinging shovels in the air and sliding down the dirt in busted scooters.
“We’re building a track right now,” says one of the youngins when I asked what they’re flattening out the dirt for.
When I asked if they’re excited for the show they just shrugged and went back to sliding.
They say a child’s intuition is best, and that shrug was just another indicator of what’s to come.
One guy is giving rides in something they call American Thunder. Not exactly a monster truck for stunts but it’s damn tall and holds 10 seats in the back.
I asked if I could get up there and eventually talked him down from $40 to $20. Luckily, I’m not a checkbook journalist and judging from the driver’s jokerish grin, I might’ve been on the last ride he ever did.
We have a few minutes till show time and I get to a nice observation perch for judging purposes.
The National Anthem begins. I love an event where the audience not only stands for the anthem, but faces towards the flag. It shows lucidity, and at a show like this, in a town like this, that could be hard to come by.
Five cars were promised, but only three are on the track to start.
First up, with an American flag on its back and mud so thick you could barely see the red, white and blue paint job is USA-1. Starting off the first few seconds strong with roars from the engine and the crowd it made its way over its first ditch, catching a few inches of air — and then nothing. The engine shut off as soon as it hit the ground, and the roars from the arena ceased. USA-1 made a fast getaway to the pit area after turning back on, not to be seen again until after intermission.
Next up, looking straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon, donning a ferocious set of teeth and growling for carnage was Lone Wolf. But the only carnage was the disappointment felt by fans when Lone Wolf jumped over the ditch a couple times, then, like its counterpart USA-1, hauled ass to the back of the arena. Lone Wolf turned Shy Sheep.
Bear Foot was the saving grace, or hoped to be. A clean red truck with a loud purr.
The performance was the same. After a few seconds of air time over that darn ditch, an intermission was called. Seemingly confused, the crowd waddled over to the hot dog carts, where I met the first of my disgruntled fans.
With a VIP badge dangling around his neck, a man with a long face came up to me like I was responsible for the calamity.
“Who do I talk to get my money back? I’m serious” the man clamored, seeing that I thought he was joking. “I’m up to $500 on this thing and I want my money back. My family’s here. This is bullshit.”
Probably being the worst person to come to with a matter like his, I motioned him over to the wrench monkeys below the broadcasting box, who were still scratching their heads where I left them earlier.
He climbed down the unmanned stairs straight into the pit and began going off on one of the drivers.
“I’m just a hire-in, man,” said the driver with a gummy mouth.
They went back and forth for a moment before Mr. Refund came back up to me and told me about the hire-in situation. I suggested he find the front desk tent and take it up with one of them.
He walked off mumbling about the horrible review he was going to leave.
In-lieu of the promised motocross and quad wars, American Thunder kept whatever was left of the crowd's morale high.
Back in the pit, I walked over to the wrenchers and asked what was going on, just as promised.
Ole Beady Eyes said nothing unusual was happening and everything was going. Not going well or going bad — just going.
“Yeah this happened earlier too, people were preeetttttty pissed,” said a lady watching the fall of the speedway. “They started coming back here asking for their money back. I get it, they were promised a lot and now only one car’s working. I think they’re going to set a car on fire though.”
An ambulance pulled up behind us and I went to talk to EMT Enrique and his rookie, Ben.
“When’d the burn unit get here?” asked Ben. “I didn’t get a call or anything,” he said looking at his high tech watch. We both went down to investigate.
Alas, the ambulance was part of the show and was getting geared up to send flames through its jet engine in the back, which would incinerate a car and hopefully make up for the lack there-of.
I caught a glimpse of a fair faced man. All teeth where they should be and a professional demeanor. Not too common around these parts, and he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“What? My neck isn’t red enough to be here?” he said jokingly.
He drove the truck affectionately named USA-1. Professionally, he drives for Hot Wheels and just got done with a two month tour in Dubai.
“Don’t mention Hot Wheels around here…. It’s a different scene,” he warned me. “Most of these guys own these trucks and work on them by themselves,” he explained. “There isn’t a lot of money for upkeep and to keep the show running at the same time.”
It made sense now. These guys are running on pure adrenaline and drive — to drive. They’re doing what they can with what they got. No strings attached and no refunds offered.
Considering San Diego was the meth capitol of the world, and reverting back to the way one of the wrenchers pronounced the meth in methalone when asked what the trucks run on, there might be a little bit of that too.
All in good fun at the speedway, all in good fun.
After about 15 minuted of intermission, the wrenchers decided to send the jet fueled ambulance out with Mr. Gummy Mouth driving.
The ambulance made a lap around the track and got to the dilapidated car, ready for incineration. The anticipation made the crowd go wild.
But then, nothing.
The ambulance didn’t start heroically spitting out flames from the back.
The car stayed un-incinerated.
The crowd went silent.
The ambulance shyly rode back to the pit.
And the wrenchers were still scratching their heads.
“Alright what happened this time,” I asked the beady-eyed honcho.
“It didn’t fire,” he replied.
Next thing I know gummy mouth is sticking his head in the back of the ambulance right in the jet engine, scratching his scalp, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
The last truck standing, or working at this point is Bear Foot, geared up behind the gates of hell with the driver strapped in for the last 45 minutes, watching it all go to shit.
As a last ditch effort to revive the crowd, The Foot is let loose through the gates, almost as a chariot of hope. The last light before dawn.
He does as his great predecessors have done. A few laps through the speedway and a couple jumps over that damned forsaken ditch catching mere inches of air before hitting the ground and rolling back behind the gates of hell.
F for effort.
Mr. Headset announces that the show is over and those that have survived the chaos can grab an autograph from the drivers before hitting the dark road home.
No deposit, no return and sure as hell, no refunds.
