Chips –N- Dips 2002 World Championship Entry

A tale of Glory, Learning, and Humility

Day 0

Started with our crew loading the CND for the long drive to Arcata. Our first hint of things to come was a blowout on the trailer somewhere in the mountains. The intrepid trio quickly repaired that, and it was on to Arcata. We drove randomly through town hoping to find somebody that knew more about the race than we did. Our first taste of racer’s camaraderie was from the “yellow duck” team, who saw us and invited us to unload at their spot. Unfortunately, the doorway of their warehouse was too low for our masts, so we went on. We next found the Yakima clan, and were also welcomed there. We were pleased to see a great number of sculptures, and noted that the kinetic lab looked much like our building site, but multiplied by at least 10 (cut foam everywhere, bike chains hanging from nails, Sierra Nevada bottles on every level surface, and most of the inhabitants liberally smeared with grease). We also had our first look at the #2 craft, which was a toilet tricycle.

Day 1

On this morning, with butterflies in our stomachs, we developed the first of our downscaled goals: to make it to the plaza without a breakdown. The first goal was realized as we pedaled the 4 blocks up to the square, although one of the pit crew from the #2 craft tagged us with a toilet plunger, and all 3 of our pilots were pretty winded by the time we got there. Here we made the first of our rookie mistakes: having submitted our entry fee and forms earlier, we did not realize we needed to register on site. No problem, except that the registration package contained glorious medals for us and our crew, and a detailed map of the course. Pandemonium in the square. Camera crews, music playing, zaniness everywhere. We passed our brake test easily. We gave our first underwear bribe to a grateful judge. We enjoyed the scene. Our second goal was developed and met: to exit the square without a breakdown. In true kinetic fashion, half the vehicles went clockwise and half went counterclockwise for the parade laps before exiting the square. The CND, at over 20 feet long, proved to be a challenge to maneuver in such close quarters. Through random sequencing, we exited the square in third place! That soon changed, as one sculpture after another passed us in the first few miles of the race. We did catch a couple of sculptures, and our spirits soared, but we then found out that each of them had either a major or catastrophic mechanical problem.

Somewhere outside of Arcata we discovered that cows love us. Perhaps they were attracted to our yellow sails, or perhaps the other sculptures just went by too quickly. Whatever the reason, they stared at us raptly as we went by. We also discovered that it is impossible to go hungry on this course. We were handed BBQ’d oysters at one fan’s place. People in cars gave us apples, candy, cookies, we quickly collected a pile of empty wrappers in the craft.

Arriving at Manilla, we were pounded with water balloons by some fun loonies that call themselves the tit-zlingers. Seems like some kind of hazing. We’re glorious! We’re whole! Our legs are so rubbery we can’t walk! Our first lesson in humility occurs as we climb the steep sand dunes. We shear a set screw collar on a drive axle. Can’t repair it well without some additional tools, and are reduced to pushing the CND up the dunes. We three pilots managed the first two major hills, but by this time we were holding up a number of other craft. So we accepted help from the pit crew of the CCC sculpture and we were on to the beach. We could now pedal on hard packed sand, but any slight grade slipped the shaft again. Much pushing later, and with an in-flight temporary repair to our shaft, we arrived at the top of dead mans drop. It really looks more deadly when you’re in a vehicle about to careen down the face. At this point we are in dead last, and the radio is speculating that we have dropped out of the race with mechanical problems. There are still a good number of fans on hand as the CND slews it way down the drop. A clean run! Glory indeed.

Now all that’s left is a brief pedal into Eureka. We are dismayed to see that what looks like a simple bridge in a car is actually about a 200’ climb for the CND. On the way down the backside of the bridge, we set our first land speed record at 12 mph. Then another bridge, legs tiring. Then a third bridge, all three pilots just about spent. Our saving grace is that the “lobster” (tide fools) is at least still behind us. As we pedal into Eureka we have no idea where the finish line is, just following the occasional orange sign with a kinetic chicken. Then, mysteriously, a BLUE sign with a hand drawn chicken?? We follow that, to loud cheers of some inebriated people on the sidewalk. Only to find we have been DUPED. Duped and pooped, we make random turns looking for the finish line. We are truly lost until we see the lobster in the distance, and follow them to the finish line. We have the dubious honor of being dead last!

At the camp site, there is no energy to party, only the knowledge that we must unload our generator and welder and repair the damaged collar and axle. That done, it’s off to a deep sleep.

Day 2

This was to be our glory day! We excel in water, and the day starts with a bay float. We soon discovered that it pays to arrive at the launch ramp really early. We arrived 45 minutes before the race started only to find that all but four of the sculptures were already ahead of us in line. We had a clean and fearless launch. Big splash (I’m told we were in the running for that award, but lost to Castaways), and we headed out into the middle of the bay for good current and clear wind. Also, we didn’t know where the course really was…

With a good breeze, we managed to pass 5 sculptures on the water, and our exit was flawless. With very little reconfiguring needed between water and land, we left the parking lot with 15 or more sculptures behind us. We pedal. And pedal. And pedal. Periodically one of the sculptures passed us. Always friendly, and more often than not commenting that they could see us for miles because of our sails, and gauge their progress by how fast they catch us. On this day we suffer only a derailler failure, which is repaired easily on course. It is unnerving to move so slowly on a freeway with traffic blowing by us. We again suffer for a lack of a map. The orange chicken signs are few and far between, and we wonder at each off ramp if we are supposed to exit. We get half sentence guidance from our fellow racers as they pass us, and that is enough to lead us to the next major checkpoint at College of the Redwoods. And now, it’s off to Loleta hill, where we learn a few things about our endurance, the power of imagination, and how tempting it is to cheat.

The hill is long. The hill is steep. The CND weighs nearly 770 pounds without pilots aboard. The day was blistering hot. We put it in low gear and began our ascent. Grinding up the hill, we were passed by a sculpture being pushed by its pilots and pit crew. We pedal on, and slowly pass little knots of our friends (even our pit crew) enjoying refreshments by the side of the road. Somewhere on this hill, we determine that it is fun to close your eyes (after first requesting someone else to steer), and imagine you are somewhere, anywhere (!), else, doing something other than pedaling a behemoth up a steep hill. Nearing the top of the hill and the end of our reserves we are passed by a very long, very orange sculpture towed by a pickup truck. Artfully, they are released from the truck just short of the vision of the judges at the top of the hill. We add smugness to our list of attributes.

Descending the back side of the hill is truly thrilling. We agree not to let the CND go above 10-12 mph, as measured by our on-board GPS. As the front pilot calls out our speed we roll down the hill. Trashing our resolve, we go to 18mph, at which point there is so much noise and vibration that it is hard to see or think. We apply the front brake to no affect, and accelerate up to 20 mph with our sails whipping around and the shrouds coming loose. Other craft went faster down the hill (we’re told, but I don’t think they had on-board GPS to verify that…), but none had more vibration or noise to accompany their descent!

A few more miles of pedaling, and we arrive at the beach camp. Not only that, but we’re not in last place!

Day 3

This day started leisurely, and became even more so when the race was delayed because somebody had decided to make the slippery slimy slope more challenging by dumping cow manure on it. Rain was pouring, the wind was blowing stiffly from the west. We got off to a fair start, and decided to try to hoist our rear sail while underway. Halfway through this hectic operation we came to a screeching halt as the halyard was eaten by our transmission. In the minutes it took to untangle that, we were passed by the rest of the sculptures, and so settled into our comfortable spot: dead last. We trundled peacefully through the rain until we came to a vine bordered trail on cock robin island. This was a lot of fun, as our behemoth just bounced from wall to wall while the front wheel skidded sideways in the mud. It felt like being inside a pinball game and we had smiles all around. Replaced by frowns a few minutes later as our final drive chain started skipping teeth in the sand. The chain had stretched slightly, and we didn’t have enough adjustment left to correctly tighten it. So, a bit of hammer work and a jury rig and we set off with fingers crossed. A successful river crossing, although again in last place. A beautiful run through the knee-deep mud leading up to the slope; our big wheels really helped out here. Our jury-rigged chain failed again as we got to the slope, so we borrowed some lovely long ropes from the CCC craft, and tugged our way over the top. Again, we were able to pass a few craft because we didn’t need to reconfigure, and we trundled on into Ferndale.

We discovered that our pit crew had been spray painting our logo on spectators’ shirts, and we got a hearty cheer from the crowd at the finish line.