| South American Race |
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Page 4 of 6 
Eventually the cars cross into Chile, where the skies are gray but dry. After a lunch break at the Hotel Termas de Puyehue, the drivers prepare to head back over the snowy mountain pass. “No such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing,” Robert Dean says cheerily from the open cockpit of a 1927 Bugatti T43, which has a crank starter and the gearshift lever outside of the car. The Bugatti is leaking fluid and sounds like a coffee grinder. Beside Dean, looking unconvinced, is his bride, Martha. The couple are on their honeymoon.The key to winning the 1000 Millas Sport, besides not going off a cliff, is to hit certain checkpoints at precise times. The difference of a few hundredths of a second may determine the winner. There’s an official race clock near the starting line at Llao Llao, and a gaggle of drivers cluster tightly around it, like so many sperm around an egg, trying to synchronize their dashboard race computers. Some of the drivers have two, three, or even four specialized timers in their cars, swapping them out with the precision of a surgical team. One team has brought along its own private support truck with a crew of mechanics. The Longfields, by contrast, are trying to make do with the sweep hand on a simple wristwatch and a borrowed cell phone that has a calculator function. With those and a speedometer that wags like the tail of a happy puppy, they appear to be doomed. Someone passes out the results of yesterday’s first stage, and the Longfields are ranked 137th—dead last. Ross Longfield is remarkably cheerful for a guy in last place, perhaps because he hasn’t yet figured out the scoreboard. “Oh, yeah, we’re having a great time,” he says, beaming. Mark, meanwhile, is studying printouts of today’s route as if they are Egyptian hieroglyphs. I ask Mark the secret of his team’s lack of success. “A staggering ignorance of the Spanish language and consequently every rule, regulation, direction, and guideline of the race,” he says. “That, coupled with penalties for both the late model and enclosed roof of our car, as well as our complete lack of preparation, put us at the back of the pack.” Asked how many of the drivers are out for blood, the race director shrugs: “Maybe 40 of them. Another 40 would like to win but don’t really care. The rest are here to have fun.” In 119th, the Rowans fall squarely into the rest. “We’re not doing too well, but we’re having fun,” Ed says, as if on cue. The look in his eyes says something different. Hours later, at a dusty crossroads called Confluencia, I’m helping push the Rowans’ Bentley to the only gas station for many miles around. The problem, especially for the older cars, is that they were built with really dinky gas tanks. Ed and Ned carry a spare jerry can, but it was used up on the last climb. “We were running on fumes, but we ran out of fumes,” Ed wheezes. “We had to roll through the last checkpoint just to make it here.” |
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