Rally Back: Chapter 0
We pulled into the Coastal Motel 2.6 miles and five minutes and 12 seconds later (I gotta relax and stop thinking like that.). Turn left into 12th parking spot (Oh my God!). The car was dirty, dented and pulling slightly to the left, but otherwise running well enough to get us home tomorrow, probably.
We gathered our assorted debris, which included empty water bottles, route instructions, checkpoint slips, junk food wrappers, and the plastic pistol Tina had left behind. All was left in the garbage bin by the stairway to the upper level.
"I feel like I've gone weeks between showers," I said as I trudged up the stairs.
"I wish I felt as clean as that," responded Tom.
Fortunately we hadn't lost the key to the room during the course of the day. It would have only been fitting. When we entered the room, it was good to see that the place was neat and tidy. Even our clothes seemed to be fairly well organized, unlike the way we'd left it only twelve hours earlier in our haste to get to registration. It seemed like days ago.
"I need a beer," Tom declared.
"I wish I only needed a beer," I responded. "I've driven all day, not knowing where I was or where I was going or how to get there. That builds a special kind of tension that a beer isn't going to fix. I'm thinking scotch. Several scotches actually. No, bourbon. Yeah, bourbon is better. I'm in a bourbon kind of place. We'll go to the bar downstairs so I won't have to even imagine driving again today."
After half an hour we had both showered, changed clothes, and were in a better frame of mind.
When we got down to the bar we were surprised to see that this was where the rally club had chosen to have their post-rally gathering. Neither of us had even considered celebrating this day, much less reliving it.
The club had taken over the larger seating area within the restaurant in the motel. This wasn't much of an imposition on the establishment since nearly all the rooms in the place were occupied by rallyists anyway. The few non-participants would be happy in the adjoining room. We took a couple stools at the bar but within sight and sound of the proceedings.
Barry Filmore was in charge of the room. He had a portable amplifier and microphone, a total overkill in this room, but he seemed to enjoy using it nonetheless. He was announcing the winners of the novice class. Sometimes novices at these events aren't quite what they claim to be, coming from outside the local area and therefore unlikely to be known by the organizing club. Today, it seemed that the novices that won trophies were just that. The novice class winner had a total of 400 points, an average of 40 points, or 4 tenths of a minute off the target times for each checkpoint. 400 points isn't all that bad, but not a bogus level performance. A novice with acouple rallies under their belt could have turned in a score that good or better. Hell, we were on target for a result nearly that good, and we're not all that good at this rally stuff.
Of course, the obsessive compulsives that do rallies with full rally computers, in the Equipped class, and with years of experience, turn in total scores of 10-20 points, and are disappointed at that. They've already received their trophies and are readying their protests that they should have scored 5-10 points.
"We're now ready to honor," announced Barry, "the trophy for Dead Last But Finished. This trophy goes to the car that scored the highest total points, yet still managed to check in to the final checkpoint. This year, that honor goes to car number 43, driven by Peter Pan, er Peter Panzarini, and navigated by Tom Terrific, er Tom Terisovitch. Are they here?"
I turned to Tom, hoisting the bourbon I'd just been served, and said, "Hey, buddy, we won!"
He clinked my glass with his beer bottle and said, "You go. Navigators are supposed to remain anonymous. Drivers get the glory."
I downed half my bourbon, I slipped off my stool and weaved my way to Barry.
Barry shook my hand and handed me our trophy, a brass seagull obviously purchased at a local tourist trap. But Barry couldn't let it go at that.
Looking at the rally report he held in his hand, he said "Well, Peter, it seems you guys were doing pretty good for the first few checkpoints. Only twenty seven points through the first three checkpoints, which would have put you in pretty good position for a trophy in the Seat of the Pants class. Then apparently things must have gone wrong for you. You were actually quite early into the checkpoint after lunch. I hope you weren't going that fast, and had only found a shortcut. (I winced visibly, I'm sure.) Then you disappeared for a couple checkpoints before showing up at the finish. Is there anything you'd like to say in your defense?"
He thrust the microphone at me, and even though I really didn't want to talk about it, I said, "we made a few bad decisions."
Tom nearly fell off his stool laughing.
I accepted our trophy and weaved my way back to Tom, the bourbon beginning to have its effect on my tension.
"I couldn't have put it better myself," said Tom. "Cheers, and congratulations, pal."
THE END.
We gathered our assorted debris, which included empty water bottles, route instructions, checkpoint slips, junk food wrappers, and the plastic pistol Tina had left behind. All was left in the garbage bin by the stairway to the upper level.
"I feel like I've gone weeks between showers," I said as I trudged up the stairs.
"I wish I felt as clean as that," responded Tom.
Fortunately we hadn't lost the key to the room during the course of the day. It would have only been fitting. When we entered the room, it was good to see that the place was neat and tidy. Even our clothes seemed to be fairly well organized, unlike the way we'd left it only twelve hours earlier in our haste to get to registration. It seemed like days ago.
"I need a beer," Tom declared.
"I wish I only needed a beer," I responded. "I've driven all day, not knowing where I was or where I was going or how to get there. That builds a special kind of tension that a beer isn't going to fix. I'm thinking scotch. Several scotches actually. No, bourbon. Yeah, bourbon is better. I'm in a bourbon kind of place. We'll go to the bar downstairs so I won't have to even imagine driving again today."
After half an hour we had both showered, changed clothes, and were in a better frame of mind.
When we got down to the bar we were surprised to see that this was where the rally club had chosen to have their post-rally gathering. Neither of us had even considered celebrating this day, much less reliving it.
The club had taken over the larger seating area within the restaurant in the motel. This wasn't much of an imposition on the establishment since nearly all the rooms in the place were occupied by rallyists anyway. The few non-participants would be happy in the adjoining room. We took a couple stools at the bar but within sight and sound of the proceedings.
Barry Filmore was in charge of the room. He had a portable amplifier and microphone, a total overkill in this room, but he seemed to enjoy using it nonetheless. He was announcing the winners of the novice class. Sometimes novices at these events aren't quite what they claim to be, coming from outside the local area and therefore unlikely to be known by the organizing club. Today, it seemed that the novices that won trophies were just that. The novice class winner had a total of 400 points, an average of 40 points, or 4 tenths of a minute off the target times for each checkpoint. 400 points isn't all that bad, but not a bogus level performance. A novice with acouple rallies under their belt could have turned in a score that good or better. Hell, we were on target for a result nearly that good, and we're not all that good at this rally stuff.
Of course, the obsessive compulsives that do rallies with full rally computers, in the Equipped class, and with years of experience, turn in total scores of 10-20 points, and are disappointed at that. They've already received their trophies and are readying their protests that they should have scored 5-10 points.
"We're now ready to honor," announced Barry, "the trophy for Dead Last But Finished. This trophy goes to the car that scored the highest total points, yet still managed to check in to the final checkpoint. This year, that honor goes to car number 43, driven by Peter Pan, er Peter Panzarini, and navigated by Tom Terrific, er Tom Terisovitch. Are they here?"
I turned to Tom, hoisting the bourbon I'd just been served, and said, "Hey, buddy, we won!"
He clinked my glass with his beer bottle and said, "You go. Navigators are supposed to remain anonymous. Drivers get the glory."
I downed half my bourbon, I slipped off my stool and weaved my way to Barry.
Barry shook my hand and handed me our trophy, a brass seagull obviously purchased at a local tourist trap. But Barry couldn't let it go at that.
Looking at the rally report he held in his hand, he said "Well, Peter, it seems you guys were doing pretty good for the first few checkpoints. Only twenty seven points through the first three checkpoints, which would have put you in pretty good position for a trophy in the Seat of the Pants class. Then apparently things must have gone wrong for you. You were actually quite early into the checkpoint after lunch. I hope you weren't going that fast, and had only found a shortcut. (I winced visibly, I'm sure.) Then you disappeared for a couple checkpoints before showing up at the finish. Is there anything you'd like to say in your defense?"
He thrust the microphone at me, and even though I really didn't want to talk about it, I said, "we made a few bad decisions."
Tom nearly fell off his stool laughing.
I accepted our trophy and weaved my way back to Tom, the bourbon beginning to have its effect on my tension.
"I couldn't have put it better myself," said Tom. "Cheers, and congratulations, pal."
THE END.
posted by Grog at 8:37 AM
1 Comments:
hey, good story....
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