| South American Race |
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Page 3 of 6 
A silver 1970 Jaguar XKE adorned with a fuchsia racing stripe was next, one of several teams of two women. These women wore matching skintight black leather jumpsuits and fuchsia do-rags. “She’s an Argentine married to a European duke or something, and she breeds polo horses when she’s not racing,” my escort informed me. Later on, a rip in the seat of the driver’s leather pants revealed that she was also wearing fuchsia panties. Shortly thereafter, the Longfields breezed through the start in their Jag, one of the last teams to take the road, and the race was under way.The course immediately climbs Ruta 231, a rare paved road toward the 4,300-foot Paso Cardenal Samoré linking Argentina and Chile, where Ross discovers the malfunctioning windscreen. But at least the car’s triple carburetors don’t seem to be complaining about slurping the thin gruel of mountain air. As the cars growl, hiccup, and fart their way upward toward the border pass, depending on how their ancient combustion engines handle the altitude, the blue skies and gentle breezes that greeted the morning’s festive send-off give way to rain, fog, and chilly gusts of crosswinds. There are snowdrifts on the side of the road. Yet the pilots of open-cockpit cars, like the Rowans in their convertible Bentley, refuse to show weakness. Ed Rowan’s face glows red and intense between his yellow cap and puffy green down jacket. It’s hard to say if Ned looks miserable, because he has pulled a green stocking cap down over his head. In terms of style points it’s not as sporty as the leather helmet and driving goggles worn by Nalbandian, but it has a certain Subcomandante Zero rakishness that will definitely impress the South American border guards. And, sure enough, we’re suddenly at the border checkpoint. But the guards don’t seem impressed by the 1936 Riley Sprite or any of the other exotic cars now stacking up at the crossroads. Nobody has told them to expect a road race, and they insist on checking everyone’s trunks—or rumble seats—for contraband. And because this is Argentina, there are the inevitable trámites. One cannot do anything in Argentina without this bureaucratic paperwork. There are forms to be filled out, passports to be checked, and taxes to be paid on each car, all while the race clock continues to tick. Ed Rowan knows all about trámites: Once his Bentley arrived at the docks in Buenos Aires, he tells me, “it took two days to get the car out of customs.” At the border, however, there’s more at stake: the prestigious silver trophy cups that will be awarded to the overall winner and to the winners of different categories, based on the age and type of car. For the teams that get waylaid by the red tape, at least there’s a booby prize for Best Trámites, awarded to the driver who submits the most complete and legible paperwork. |
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