The policeman would not let the two men and their vehicle pass. With gestures, a smattering of English,
and a lot of Spanish, he stood in the middle of the street in the Mexican town of Ensenada and told Brian Carver
and David Irving to turn around.
The street was closed, said the policeman. Only those people entered in the Baja 1000 were permitted to
pass for the start of North America's best known endurance race through desert, mountains and dried out,
rocky river beds.
Carver and Irving protested and the policeman looked again at the 20 year old Ford Bronco, with a Maine license
bolted securely to the front. He had watched all types of race vehicles, some worth $100,000 or more, parade
past him to the staging area that Friday morning in mid-November.
Senores, he told Carver of Harrison, and Irving of Westbrook, you are not racers. Leave now.
"The policeman was sure they didn't belong," said Dan Newsome of Akron, Ohio, who witnessed the confrontation.
"A lot of people thought that all week.
Those two guys looked as lost as Easter eggs."
But Carver, 29, and Irving, 31, persisted. They hadn't paid an entry fee and driven more than 3,000 miles to be
denied a spot in the legendary event. And while they may have looked out of place, the Mainers soon proved
they belonged by helping the race recapture the spirit of adventure that marked its birth three decades earlier.
"We knew we didn't have a chance of winning," Carver said. "But we wanted to try it. If nothing else, it was going
to give us a front-row seat in one of the biggest races around."
It would turn into more than a front-row seat. These two became more characters than spectators in a story about
childhood dreams? and adult fears. About skeptics, doubters, kindness and generosity.
"It's an absolutely incredible story." said Newsome, who manages the off-road racing program for B.F. Goodrich,
the tire manufacturer. "What they did is virtually unheard of today. People do this race with a quarter of a million dollars and a cast of thousands behind them.
They show up with an old truck, just themselves, and practically no money. When we first saw them, we said, 'man, these guys are in serious
trouble. They're not going to make it out of town.' But before they left for home, they gained the appreciation
and respect of the off-road community."
25 hours and 400 miles
Carver and Irving didn't finish this year's race of 600-plus miles, the 30th running of the Baja 1000. They were forced to drop out after nearly 25
hours and 400 miles. Competitors must reach checkpoints by certain times and the two Mainers had stopped too often
to pull others out of ditches or off cliffs.
"I can't tell you how many people came up to me, wanting to talk about those guys from Maine," said Newsome, who was involved in his eighth Baja 1000.
"It was their purity of spirit. We haven't seen that in a long time."
The adventure began last winter, although the idea had been bouncing around Carver?s head since he was a boy, watching the LeMans endurance race on television.
He knew his chances of racing on the pavement of the famed French road course were zero.
Over the years he channeled his love of speed and engines into drag racing at Oxford Plains Dragway. If wasn't enough.
He loved taking his Bronco off road in western Maine. But that thrill had waned. He imagined running in the Baja 1000,
the legendary race of up to 1,000 miles run without stopping for sleep over the forbidding terrain of Mexico's
long western peninsula.
Last winter he looked at his Bronco and decided to act, "It was a middle crisis, I guess," said Carver,
a self-employed carpenter who graduated from Lake Region High School.
He started to prepare his Bronco for the trip and the race. He doesn't think anyone took him seriously. He enlisted Irving, his cousin, to go
along for support and help with the driving. Irving, a Bonny Eagle graduate and a machinist, has a nose for
adventure and a nodding acquaintance with Mexico. Twice he had flown to Cancun with nothing more than a backpack
and a plan to hitchhike through the countryside.
The Bronco, painted orange and dull red, was old but durable. For a $500 entry fee
they could compete in the amateur Sportsman class for a trophy.
With the help of John Carver, Brian's older brother, the motor was replaced. The suspension was stiffened
with more shocks. A speed shop in Windham installed the roll cage.
Uncle Henry?s Magazine
The tires, suitable for the interstate highway system and sand and rock, were bought used through an ad in Uncle Henry's magazine.
The heaters didn't work, but once they escaped New England, the cousins figured that wouldn't be a problem.
Each contributed $1,500 and Carver had his credit card. When they returned almost four weeks later on Thanksgiving morning, they had
$25 between them and a credit card that in Irving?s words "was decimated".
The two men left Maine on Nov., and the trip west took about a week. They lost the rear drive shaft on their four-wheel-drive Bronco in Arizona
and stopped later to get it fixed. They stopped at a Wal-Mart to get an oil change.
When they arrived in Ensenada three days before the race, word spread quickly through the tight-knit off-road race community of
the two men from Maine who drove their race vehicle to the race.
"We couldn't believe it," said Judy Smith of Los Angeles, a writer and off-road racer. "There were 174 cars and trucks in this year's race
and they were the only ones who didn't tow. And they had no one with them. No one to help them change tires, no
one to dump gas for them or even hand them a sandwich.
"I think we all thought they were just so naive." Carver and Irving didn't think that at all.
"The trip gave us a chance to work the bugs out (of the Bronco)," said Carver, matter-of-factly. "If you can't drive a truck cross country,
you've got no business taking it into the desert."
Since the Bronco was on B.F. Goodrich tires and the tire company is a race sponsor, the Mainers hurried to the BFG command post. The company
provides support for racers but normally after arrangements are made in advance.
"We pulled up and they came out like ants looking and checking over everything," said Irving.
"They didn't say much."
Newsome, who kept chuckling as he recounted the story, was amazed. "We've seen a few low-end
teams over the years but (Carver and Irving) didn't have anything. Oh, they had a lot of extra parts
and some basic equipment, but I remember thinking, 'What are you guys doing down here??"
Newsome offered some advice and Carver and Irving went to work.
"They found window nets and safety harnesses," said Newsome. They put some of the
stuff in backwards, but nevertheless, they were safe. By race morning (the Bronco) was starting to look like something legal and capable. I was very impressed with them. They had a lot of guts."
Case of nerves arrives
Carver and Irving shrugged off most of what they heard, but not everything. Soon after they arrived they learned someone had been killed on the course during a pre-run.
Carver, as unflappable as Irving was excitable, became nervous for the first time. He didn't
sleep much the night before the race started. It was the only time Carver thought he and his cousin
might be in over their heads.
"Hearing about that guy who had just been killed bothered me quite a bit. I heard the odds were 1
in 250 that someone would die on the course. Once a year it was happening."
Irving was affected, too. But talk at the campsites with new friends helped. "They gave us our
courage back," said Carver.
Still, he asked Irving to get behind the wheel when the race started Friday morning.
The first miles were uneventful. But not far outside Ensenada, the racers hit a sand wash
nearly 20 miles long. "It?s big and deep and just eats vehicles," said Newsome. "This was a
tough, tough course this year. We didn't figure the Maine guys would make it 30 miles."
Carver and Irving had heard that, too. They also learned that some of the B.F. Goodrich
people were placing side bets that the Mainers would not make it to the first checkpoint,
60 miles into the race.
"That's when I knew we were going to have some fun," said Carver. "When we pulled in and
saw their faces."
They didn't have to worry about getting their own gas. Now there were helping hands. They didn't have to worry about food or drink. Fried chicken and water bottles passed through their windows.
The Mainers raced on. After about five hours, Carver switched seats with Irving and got behind
the steering wheel. Without the horsepower and sophisticated equipment of drivers like
Larry Ragland, Robbie Gordon, Ivan Stewart and their professional teams, the Mainers stayed
near the rear, driving conservatively.
Top speed about 60 mph
Where the top teams could run at 140 mph over those portions that were relatively flat,
Carver and Irving didn't go much over 60.
"But all that noise and shaking, it was like being in a plane crash for 24 hours," said Carver.
And they had problems. Their two-way radio, the one that cost $600 of their precious funds,
stopped working 10 minutes into the race.
Irving developed a sore neck from the weight of the unaccustomed helmet. The safety harness
bit into his shoulders.
Much later, the Bronco's battery box collapsed on the wires leading to the lights and
had to be repaired by the side of the course. The front skidpad kept hitting the front
drive shaft and had to be removed.
Large rocks were always a problem, particularly the ones hiding under soft sand. Yet they
never had to change a tire. They avoided dirt walls that seemed to spring up in front of them
and negotiated treacherous mountain tracks with their hearts in their mouths.
"David did a lot of yelling and screaming," said Carver. "I was surprised he
didn't lose his voice."
Mostly they kept their wits about them.
"This is a sport of self-reliance," said John Becker, an Oklahoma physician who got to know
the Mainers while running his 15th race. "You hope you fix things with baling wire and chewing
gum and get to a place where you can get proper repairs.
If you can't you must stay with your vehicle and wait for help. Many of us know of those who
staggered around the desert until they expired."
Becker, whose 30-person Becker Brothers Racing Team was in a neighboring campsite to
Carver and Irving, explained the race to the Maine men, who listened well.
"If a person needs help, you stop and help them," said Becker. "It's just something you do."
Apparently, few did it more than Carver and Irving. They claim they helped pull four or five
vehicles out of trouble. Others believe the number is higher.
"They were the Good Samaritans," said Smith. "They generated a lot of good feelings."
"Those guys went above and beyond," said Newsome. "People were just blown away by all the help
they were giving others."
Samaritans fall behind
So much help, they fell too far behind. Saturday morning, racing by themselves, they got word over their
balky radio that checkpoint No. 6 had closed. Carver and Irving would be listed as Did Not Finish.
"It was disappointing," said Carver. "We felt like we kind of let down all the people who
helped us. The B.F. Goodrich guys made us feel like a real race team."
He and Irving were grateful for all the meals others bought for them, but they were
also a bit overwhelmed by all the attention they received.
"They're neat guys," said Becker. "They didn't come with an attitude. They just wanted to
race and to have fun and it didn't matter that they didn't have a lot of money.
I think they reminded us what this sport used to be when everyone drove their own cars to
the race. A lot of us miss what it used to be like."
Irving made the comparison with Indy cars and Winston Cup. Imagine, he said, two guys
like he and Carver taking a car to Indianapolis and trying to race. A long time ago it once
worked that way, racing on a shoestring budget, but not any more.
"Two guys like us were able to race in the biggest off-road race there is," said Irving, "Can you imagine that?"
Afterward, at the awards ceremony, a reporter asked Carver what it felt like now that the race was over.
But it's not, he responded. He and his cousin had another 3,000 miles to drive.
They stopped in Oklahoma to visit with John Becker and his brothers and friends. Carver and Irving
got to sleep in real beds instead of in their tent or the Bronco's rigid, cramped seats.
Hours before dawn on Thanksgiving morning, Carver dropped his cousin off outside the Westbrook house
he shares with a roommate. The door was locked and Irving didn't have a key. He climbed a roof to his
second-story bedroom and pried open a window.
Carver arrived at his mother's house in Naples sometime after 2 am. He was soaking wet. They had driven
through a rainstorm somewhere in New England. He couldn't remember where. "The Bronco leaked like a sieve," he said.
"We never did fix that."
Maine Sunday Telegram, Dec. 14, 1997 |
