RULES OF THE WIDE OPEN ROAD

Things went a bit sideways during Lance Sorchik's Hot Rod Deluxe photo shoot. Don't let this happen to you. Obey all posted public highway notices or prepare for regret. In the end, Sorchik's banged A-bone made it into the magazine, but this shoot was much more expensive than necessary. (Photos by Diane Sorchik)

  First things first – let’s not kid ourselves here. The multi-kazillion dollar mass media industry parades under the guise of “communication”, but the true purpose of its existence is generating noise to distract people from their real selves. Telecommunication is still somewhat legit, but the rest is just noise – the few messages being communicated share a commonly negative value. As an automotive photojournalist, I make my noise in a quiet little neighborhood known as the hot rod microcosm, which entails less than one percent of the world’s consumers. And lately it seems there are just as many journos fighting for attention as there are readers desperately searching for legitimate information. If you’re one of us myriad cub reporters, frantically thrashing in the industry mosh pit, I may have something for you here.

Some folks seem to be making up their own rules these days, perhaps empowering themselves with an “I invented the wheel” mentality. And while I’m all for experimentation, innovation and evolution, I’m also somewhat a traditionalist, especially concerning the craftsmanship aspect of the creative process. So it’s hard not to notice a writer tossing out half comprehended concepts as absolutes. This gets my attention because it reminds me of my cocky and ignorant self, not so long ago. Today, I carry a certain regret for the times I swaggered through literary intersections in total disregard of the road signs. In recent years, I’ve been noticing a lot of this from overnight experts and established (but overworked) veterans alike. It isn’t necessary and does not serve anyone – especially the writer/reader relationship. So, as a public service, please allow me to point out some red flags that you may not even realize you’re waving. Kind of like cruising down the freeway, unaware that your turn signal has been blinking since the last rest area. Better check your shoe for toilet paper, while you’re at it.

Most obvious are betrayals of the general guidelines presented to you in grade school English class. You may be a black belt texter or tweeter, but when writing for a general audience, you must assume that the reader is educated enough to expect proper use of basic English. Anything less will distract said reader and your important message will not be received. I myself am an uneducated person, but recognize good writing habits due to voracious reading. If I can do it (yes, even by faking it), so can you.

The jazz-based slingslang of the hot rod vernacular presents untold opportunities to prove yourself as respectful, a credible player, a lazy slob, or an outright fraud. Your choice. Let’s go straight to my Pet Peeve Du Jour to prove the point: A building has a roof – a car has a top.

One of the few cars with a legitimate claim of a roof was Bell & Trantham’s Outhouse show rod of the mid 60’s. Most others either have tops or no tops. (Photo courtesy of Jay Ohrberg)

Other common automotive nomenclature that has become bastardized nearly out of existence includes Quarter Window, Backlight, and Decklid. Variance from these basic terms may seem whitty or cute, but results in confusion and/or distrust from the reader, blowing your chance to establish credible voice in the reader’s head. Just remember the first rule of journalistic survival: Kill your darlings! In the quest to effectively communicate with the reader, you must coldly eliminate any distractions, like a hit man. And the primary target is almost always that cute term or phrase you wish to impose on the proceedings. Kill it and walk away.

Traditional garners the credibility you were after before blurting out Old School and blowing your cover.

Feel free to stylize your prose with a Z (Rodz), toss in some PG-rated color (badass mother), and/or embellish with extra exclamation points!!! Just know that these sophomoric moves identify you as someone who dots “i”s with hearts and butterflies.

Rims, Nos, Dubs, Donk, etc. Slang, yeah, but I’m too old to qualify for an opinion. Likewise, if these are terms of your generation, you’re too young to opine on Bangers, Gow, and Jitney. So there.

Having said all that, I don’t feel any better. Just older. No, wait – actually, I think the noise in my head may have receded a couple of decibels. I’m going to celebrate by turning off this computer.

 The Sussex County (New Jersey) Sheriffs Department thanks Lance Sorchik for his generous donation.

Back to the Bunker - or - The Art of the Restart

The author, relaxing in his den. Okay, I'm actually house sitting for some friends here and was caught  researching tech info for a top secret project. (Photo by Shellski)

I never saw the Detour sign. This blogsite was intended as a vehicle to cheer on fellow hot rod writers while promoting my own work. That lasted about three weeks before going horribly off course. There's just so much fun happening around me at any given time... And I don't know that I'll ever get comfortable with the self-promotional aspect of this work. But I hereby vow to make an effort to refocus, and right this ship. Somewhat.

You may have noticed that the blog posts here aren't as consistent as before. That's due to an ever-increasing workload that I just can't say no to. The Forrest Gumpisms keep happening and doors continue to open. Who am I to say, "No thanks"? So for the last five years or so, I work from waking until the wee hours, grab a few winks and hit it again. I've learned to pace my day with short breaks and naps, when possible. I'm the creepy shut-in that the neighbor kids whisper about. I usually wear pants, but don't always shave. I shuffle around in slippers a lot these days. My car is covered with leaves, pine needles, bird poop, dog pee, moss and slugs. I've never met the mailman. Or my neighbors.

My first two Cartech books. The third one is 99% done, but I'm sworn to secrecy until it's actually on the store shelves, so I can't show it here yet. The fourth and fifth ones are well underway. Start your Scotty Gosson collection now, before you fall hopelessly behind! Once that happens, you'll never catch up. Amazon.com is our main outlet, but these books are also available at your corner bookstore.

Most of the heavy lifting is on the Cartech books. These projects have been a godsend of education, forcing me to hone skills that would otherwise atrophy and rust. It was a challenge to not repeat myself in my first book - now on my fourth, it's a grim quest. But it never ceases to amaze me how many (admittedly semi-lucid) combinations are available in our crude little 26 letter alphabet. Anyway, this is a great gig: CarTech lets me choose from a handful of subjects deemed profitable by their monstrous Marketing & Research Department, they mostly leave me alone for the nine month gestation period, then I give them the finished product and they let me choose the next project. Mind you, these "choices" are obviously "choices" that veteran authors have passed on as being a stupid amount of work for the money, but I'm relatively young (not even on Social Security yet) and ravenously hungry to feed my passion - in other words, doubly stupid. They love me at Cartech! As for the money, they give me an advance check roughly every 90ish days. After a book sells enough copies to pay back the advances, I get a percentage of the profits! I even have an official contract that says so. These guys are in business to make money though - the Accounting Department knows exactly how many book sales it takes to pay off my advance, and that's exactly how many get printed. I finally received my first royalty check last month and now it's framed and hanging on my wall - because it wouldn't have paid for the gas required to haul it to the bank. Nevertheless, this is my bread and butter now. Thanks to the advance money (and food stamps), I haven't come down with Rickets or Scurvy since signing on with this outfit, which is a major plus. Seriously, I'm very grateful to have this job.

Cancel your subscriptions to those Brand X pulp magazines and sign up for the only one that matters, ASAP!

I also work for Hot Rod Deluxe magazine. This is considered sexier work, as it often sends me to exotic locales to cover exciting events. It usually starts with an e-mail:

Editor Dave: "You available to cover the California Hot Rod Reunion this year?"

Scotty: "Sure thing! But, um, is there a travel budget?"

Editor Dave: "No budget.You're on your own dime. Plan on coming down a few days early and staying a few days late - I have some other stuff for you to do." (Red Flag!)

Scotty: "Jeepers! Thanks Chief! You won't regret this! I'll be there extra early to scout locations, parking, etc."

Editor Dave:     (No reply)     (He's a busy guy)

These events are not money makers for me, but are a relatively cheap way to experience an event from the inside out. This CHRR example is a 16 hour drive, each way. I sleep in the car at the event, and eat PB&J sandwiches from the trunk. And the really sad part: To me, it's totally worth it! I get my Nitro Jones fixed, while hobnobbing with my cronies and hopefully magically furthering my career.

The magazine work is usually done after hours, meaning between midnight and sunrise. It's nice supplemental income, and I get to write about my favorite subject, for one of my heroes (I literally learned to read on Editor Dave's stuff, and no one is more knowledgeable or has more hilarious first hand stories of drag racing's golden era). Just between us: If I had the money, I'd pay HR Deluxe to let me write for them - it's the only publication that still presents the world as I want to see it. Well, I guess Mad Magazine is still around, too...

Here's the world premier of the first Gosson Bros Racing Library release! Coming soon to your spambox. Cover art by Lance Sorchik and Foreword by Cole Coonce.

This was originally intended to be the first GBR release, but it got shuffled back in the staging lanes. It should be in your hands by this time next year. More Lance Sorchik cover art, but no celebrity Foreword yet (Stephen King - here's the automotive credibility opportunity you've been waiting for). There's yet another book all written, but the cover art isn't finished yet. Besides my standard windy text, all of these books boast even more photos than the Cartech books - very labor intensive... My ex-pal Christy Collins lays these out for me. She totally hates my guts now.

About a year ago, I began organizing to self publish some books I wrote that CarTech considered incapable of meeting their profit standards. I get to pay for the up front production costs, out-of-pocket, but any profit is mine, all mine! So I'm slowly taking the leap of faith. These books are truly just spare-time kitchen table projects, but my goal is to eventually put out enough of these to become at least somewhat self sufficient.

Mr. Leisure Time, snobbing it up in his '32 3-window. What a cad! In reality, I'm just doing test monkey duty in Dr. Lockjaw's car here. My hot rod is not quite a Deuce. (Photo by Dr. Lockjaw)

And how does a worldly guy like me relax in his spare time? This week I began recording an album that ties in with the hot rod books. And when I'm not reading 18th century Slavic poetry to my girlfriend, or walking the dog in the rain, I find intimacy in a dimly lit garage, running my hands over bare naked steel (warmed by sizzling welds), while the frost gathers outside. I just resumed work on a Model A roadster project that I had to set aside over 15 years ago. Talk about your delayed gratification! It's hard to describe how good it feels to pick up where I left off. And as of today, there's a good chance that this project will culminate in a lowbuck how-to book, as well, also, too. Oh yeah, and I just edited a custom book from the Netherlands - kind of a translation deal. Look for The Jack Stewart Ford by Rik Hoving - an amazing labor of love!

Okay, automotive photojournalist students - it feels like we're getting back on track. Study your notes this week.
Next week: Saving big bucks on tools of the trade! Make your own camera from a cereal box, cellophane, a couple of rearview mirrors, and duct tape.

Of Sex and Race on the Quarter Mile

Tis the season. Family and friends are risking life and limb over icy roads, enroute to holiday social gatherings – a painful time for people like me, with the social skills of a fence post. It gets worse when the chit chat starts: “And what do you do, Scotty?” When I explain that I work in the hot rod world – with a focus on drag racing – I get a lot of this:

“Really? Jeez, you don’t come across as a redneck at all. Sorry, but you caught me by surprise there.”

“Well, are you maybe thinking of stock car racing? You know, like NASCAR? It evolved from moonshine runners, and…”

“C’mon, what’s the difference? It’s all white male dominated, right? A ‘Good Ol’ Boy’s Club’?”

At this stage, I point out some notable women and minorities they may have heard of who’ve made their mark in the sport, but we both quickly realize I’m citing exceptions, novelties, tokens even. Ultimately, I concede that not much has changed in motorsports since it began. In this predicament, racing seems one of the last outposts of chauvinism and somehow remains socially acceptable on a limited, stagnant level.

Trapped in a living room cluttered with Christmas decorations, tweed and Birkenstocks, it hits me: Say what you will about Wally Parks, but his tireless efforts to change public perception of drag racing from hooliganism to professional entertainment feel forlornly fruitless at times like this. Desperate for answers, I look out the window and see my primered street/strip car in the driveway. Have I helped to destroy sixty-some years of Wally’s hard work with this noisy throwback machine that screams “danger” from every angle? It probably looks pretty threatening to Mr. and Ms. Middle Class.

What makes this all the more frustrating to me is knowledge that more women and minorities than ever are earning engineering degrees, following their passions to personal golden rings, and setting their own reservations aside to truly blend into the melting pot. They’re more accepted and respected than ever, in every facet of society. But we’re not seeing many of them in motorsports. Are they just too smart to step into a situation where they’re clearly outnumbered? The more relevant question is why are they so outnumbered?  

Wow! Get this: While writing that last paragraph, I was distracted by raised voices on my TV:

A  roundtable of African-American sportscasters and athletes on ESPN were debating upper level sports management practices, but all agreed that the true face of any sports organization can be judged by the diversity of its Board of Directors. They said one look at the makeup of the Board tells them at a glance whether an organization will give them a fair chance to succeed. Hmmm…

With current pro-level stars like the Force sisters, Erica Enders, Antron Brown, and Hector Arana Sr. and Jr., NHRA’s collective butts are covered – until someone questions why these individuals stand out so much from the herd. Obviously, they’re awesome racers, and are equally obviously poles apart from the established status quo. That’s a can’t-miss combo for exploitation, but what message is delivered to potential non-white-male racers/fans, looking in from the outside?

In the Sportsman trenches where I dwell, there are no such distractions from the truth (the “Sportsman” tag itself being a red flag to some). Our women tend to be mostly wives or girlfriends in vital but supportive roles. The few women I’ve known who come to drive (even those with Junior Dragster backgrounds) enter with trepidation. For what it’s worth, I do my best to chat them up and make them feel welcome and equal, but the majority of these women don’t stick around for long. Those who do are – well, exceptions. Maybe the others snuck a peek at NHRA’s Board of Directors and didn’t see anyone they could relate to. Who knows? They’re gone now, and not talking.

I’ve heard it asked if maybe some people carry in their own baggage that prompts negative reactions, even on a subconscious level? Of course, that works both ways: One of my racing buddies in the Midwest was a black guy with a contagious passion for the drags that completely overshadowed any cultural differences between himself and fellow racers. If he ever had any baggage, he checked it at the gate. And I've never heard any white guys say they were made to feel uncomfortable at Brotherhood Raceway. Unfortunately, I never made it down there myself.

All I know is that when grilled by the general public on the issue, I feel at a loss for an answer convincing enough to erase their image of drag racers as Dukes of Hazzard cousins. And all I want for Christmas is your feedback in the COMMENTS box (below). Am I making a mountain of a molehill here? Stirring up trouble that may hinder actual progress? I’m jingling my Salvation Army bell for your two cents…

Jerry Shalestock (at the wheel) and company, headed to a Maryland strip for their first shot at B/Street Roadster class racing, with a smallblock Chevy replacing the previous flathead Ford in their sectioned Deuce roadster. How much has drag racing changed since this mid 60's photo was taken? It depends on your perspective. How much have YOU changed? 

The Further Adventures of The Son of Godzilla

Last week, the Son of Godzilla Morris Minor was trapped at the end of a pitch dark rural drag strip at midnight, with speeding race cars hurtling toward it at full song. It didn’t look good for the littlest hero and time was rapidly running out. With only a hundredth of a second to spare before imminent destruction – I don’t remember what happened. You’ll have to revisit last week’s blog.

In 25 years of building/owning/driving the car, there were way too many escapades to recall here, but the highlights began on the maiden voyage and continue, unabated: Like blasting sideways in a cloud of noise and tire smoke, inches from a startled Iowa State Trooper on a Des Moines, Iowa freeway interchange; breaking a chintzy throttle cable in Omaha evening traffic and proceeding home with a friend running alongside the car, working the carb linkage by hand; towing to Bonneville, only to be rained out, then joining dozens of other frustrated racers from around the world in an impromptu street race, where we drove each others’ cars; getting caught in a cattle drive in eastern Oregon and literally covering the car with bullshit; coasting six miles down a mountain grade after running out of gas (and losing a $5 bet with my dad in the process); getting into the tens for the first time; driving two miles up a steep, deeply rutted mountain trail to surprise a friend on his birthday; filming movie scenes on a city backstreet at 2:00 AM for a whacky comedy about street racers; taking my family members and friends for their first ride in a real hot rod; returning to Bonneville, running 140 (complete with funhouse spin-outs) and writing a feature story about it; teaching my girlfriend to drive the car; participating in three of the Americruise events and a bit of one Power Tour; this list could go on for a number of pages…

There were no cameras present for most of those high jinx, but I was lucky enough to get some snapshots of a few other high points of my time with Lil Zilla…

Is there any better hot rod fun than grudge racing your best friend? Dr. Lockjaw and I helped each other build these cars, then pitted them against each other at every opportunity. To me, this is the ultimate fulfillment of the build process.

Racing against personal heroes (and friends) like Craig Wallace was priceless. This particular match was a classic: Something went wrong with my transbrake at the launch and as I slowly coasted to the 330’ mark, waving my fist at Wallace to entertain the troops, I finally realized he had redlit! I idled it downtrack and beat him. Or so I thought – I carded a 31 second ET on that pass and it was explained to me that anything over 30 seconds was a disqualification – no time. So I managed to lose the same race twice to a guy who redlit! Anyone here ever hear of such a thing?

After Dr. Lockjaw whipped up one of his top secret Custom Metal anti-roll bars for me, the nose stayed grounded and level. Now the runs are mostly drama-free, but still fun enough to keep the driver awake. (Dennis Vollmar Photo)

At Bonneville, I spun out at anything over 137 MPH, but CC somehow finessed it to 140 – all of this at half throttle. I had the flu and still had the time of my life. Details are in the April 2008 Rod & Custom magazine.

Old pal CC is taking excellent care of  Zilla Jr and occasionally uses it as a work commuter. It still has cooling and charging issues, fouls plugs, rattles like a can of skeletons, and the combo of camshaft overlap and open headers shakes every window in the neighborhood. Just the way I left it. We’ve been invited to display it at the Hot Rod Magazine Homecoming in 2013. All we need is travel money and vacation time (ie: Ain’t gonna happen).

CC re-enacts a recent full throttle pass through town.  Due to packaging constraints, this vehicle must be driven in the “Giving Birth” position – but is worth it (ergonomic, no - egonomic, sure). Besides, with a two gallon Eelco fuel tank and an EPA estimated 5 MPG, frequent gas stops offer plenty of leg stretching opportunities.

The part I miss the most. I still wake up in the middle of the night with some great idea for a better way to mount something, and have actually started walking to the garage before remembering I have no garage and no hot rod anymore. But I'm working on the latter. More will be revealed...

Next week: Back to reality.

DRIVING INTO THE FORBIDDEN TIME ZONE WITH A ONE-HIT-WONDER

Initial mockup of major components in my rented, dirt floor, organic (no electricity), windowless, Model T-sized garage, circa 1985. There was absolutely no room to work in here, but I was inspired. Soon after, I moved into an actual house with a 1 ½ car garage, where the car was built. My only regret is spraying flat black (from my brother’s vacuum cleaner) over the original patina’d off-white paint.

The Foundations invaded the Top 40 with their 60s R&B classic, Build Me Up Buttercup. Those guys probably recorded dozens of other songs that they felt showed their chops in a better light, but Buttercup was the one tune that fans demanded night after night on the road. Poor guys. Imagine their frustration. Such is the blessed curse of the One Hit Wonder phenomenon. 

Triviod: The Foundations were from:

A: Los Angeles

B: Detroit

C: New York

D: London

If you answered “D”, you’ve likely won a few trivia contests with that little gem. Congrats!

Although I’ve built several cars over the years, the ’61 Morris Minor known as Son of Godzilla is the one I’m known for. Most people tend to remember over-the-top “look at me” cars better than tasteful builds. But the Morris was just one of many dollar-to-horsepower/power-to-weight ratio exercises I’ve done. The goal was a fun street/strip car on the cheap, and it was accomplished with mucho help (and lots of laughs) from many friends. When the economy caught up with me in 2008 and I could no longer care for the car, my northern Oregon associate “CC” took custodianship. It’s in good hands and remains largely unchanged today.

While searching for elusive files recently, I came across these images that triggered memories of some of The True Adventures of Son of Godzilla. The photos are really sketchy, but the tales are priceless, to me, anyway.

Midnight Rendezvous with Certain Death at the Friday Night Drags

On this night, we borrowed a trailer (from the late Eric Janke – local hero and good friend) and pulled it with Wayne’s 400 Pontiac-powered F-100. The Morris was running a single 4-barrel on an essentially stock junkyard 400” SBC at this time.

When Lil Z first hit the strip, guardrail-to-guardrail 13s were all it could muster (the 86” wheelbase may have been a factor). After some trial and error, I began to get a handle on the chassis and was soon flirting with the elevens. Breaking into the 11 second zone turned out to be a tougher challenge than anticipated, but we finally did it in grand style.

My brother Wayne (who helped me build the car and did most of the welding) met me after work on this infamous night and we hooked up to his Ford pickup and towed out to the local track (which shall remain nameless) with a borrowed trailer, “Just in case.” This ¼ mile track sat in the midst of expansive cornfields, far from the nearest humans, often running late into the night.

I was only a couple of tenths shy of the eleven second holy grail when a cold front moved in around midnight. These were rare conditions and I intended to exploit them to the fullest. But the tune was already at the ragged edge and all I could add was more pressure to the throttle pedal. I did just that and launched hard enough to pop all four Dzus fasteners holding the decklid on. But the wires to the license plate light held good enough to drag the lid behind me all the way down the track. I knew it was on a good run and I gave it full foot through the lights. That’s when the banging started - a deafening thrashing from under the floor, threatening to knock my right leg off of the thin aluminum tranny tunnel. Then I realized I was skating on oil at 120+, with slicks. I finessed it through the traps and eased out of it until I could safely slide to the edge of the track.

I got out to have a look and was prone under the rear of the car when I heard the next pair coming. It didn’t take me all night to hightail it into the corn, where I watched both cars barely regain control after racing through my slippery mess at full speed. They didn’t hit anything and rolled away on the return road. That’s when I realized my flat black car was invisible on the dark shoulder. It was about 100 feet to the nearest shard of light. I hand pushed the car as far off the track surface as I could and flashed my brake lights at approaching cars (slowing them down somewhat), but they kept on coming. I sprinted through the corn to the tower and alerted the track officials. They explained that it was already past midnight and they were desperate to run off the remaining cars in the staging lanes before they could close the gates and go home.

Somehow, none of those cars (or motorcycles!) hit mine, or crashed on their own after driving over the fluids I’d dumped on the finish line. Not long after the final pair slid past, an official arrived in a motorized cart. He told me to get in the car while he hooked up a tow chain, which I obediently did, only to watch him drive away from me. He had hooked his chain through the paper thin tin grille bars of the Morris and driven off, dragging rare grille parts behind the cart. He eventually realized his mistake and returned for a second try (I supervised this time, ensuring he connected to the front crossmember). He towed me to the pits, we loaded the bloody remains on the trailer, drove back to town, and secured the car in my storage unit.

The next morning, I jacked the car up for a look underneath. The driveshaft hoop had done its job and I was surprised to find the driveshaft in perfect health, from end to end (all 26” of it). I unbolted the trans mounts and the Powerglide fell out in two pieces – broken in half. This led to a new trans build (using quality parts this time – live and learn). Bottom line: The only serious injury was to my wallet. No track personnel were fired. No harm, no foul. And I was now driving an official eleven second street car. At that point (1988ish), elevens were still a big deal, and I had well under $5,000 in the three year build. We celebrated with a trans rebuild and set our sights on ten seconds. That actually happened sooner than expected, but is another story for another blog entry.

A track worker (who will remain anonymous) puts the hook on Lil Zilla. He made off with the only unmolested grille bar I had.

 Wounded warrior on the stretcher. We couldn't find a tourniquet large enough to deal with the omnipresent trans fluid, but the engine and rearend seemed okay. Note vintage videocam - we were (sadly) way too hip for still photos…

The morning after: Decklid hangover. Cool trans fluid graphics. The funky painted graphics (using wrecking yard parts markers) hung around for another year, but the clunky license plate frame was immediately put down, after a one week lifespan.

Graphic proof that the Gosson Bros invented the removable Powerglide bellhousing! We’ll see you idea stealers in court…

Epilogue: This one car supplied hundreds of adventures and opened many doors that would have otherwise been slammed in my face. Other cars I’ve built (both before and after this one) did the same, were better built, and served their purpose better. Alas, they were apparently too subtle to take root in the average bear’s memory. Believe it or not, glory isn’t my intent. My goal is just to amuse myself while savoring my love affair with the creative process. In fact, it’s utterly bizarre to be “known” for a car, instead of for who I really am. So yeah, in the big picture, being considered a one-hit-wonder doesn’t matter to me.  I believe that if you get to know someone, you’ll find a lot more substance than what they’re “known” for.

Next week: The Continuing True Adventures of The Son of Godzilla! With Full Color Action Photos!

BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE 2012 CALIFORNIA HOT ROD REUNION Presented by Automobile Club of California

The photos you are about to view are OUT TAKES. “These are not the drones PHOTOS you’re looking for.” The Editor’s Choice photos will appear in the March 2013 issue of Hot Rod Deluxe magazine.

DAY ONE: Slide down On Ramp. Settle Into Dialtone Zone. Raybans.

Race Trailers! So This IS The Right Road. How Long Was I Asleep?

                                

 Rest Area Oasis. Ahhh….. Squirrel!

                                     









                                                               
                                                                                               



                         
Fresno. Room With a View. Downstairs Biker Kegger. Door-to-Door Panhandling Prostitutes. Jangled.

DAY TWO:  Heavy Metal 5:00 AM Trash Pickup. Drive Mas. Rogue Forklift! Survival.

                       

Destination Oasis. Reboot.

 Girlfriendmobile. Gratitude.

                                                         




 Setup Day. Credential Check. Reunion. “Good to see you! How ya been?” Reboot.

 

 


                 

Photo Shoot (Wes!). Test Fire. Premature Swapmeeters.

                                       



 Nitro Gypsies. Photo Shoot. This Week’s Hot Trend.




 

                                           

DAY THREE:  Staging Lanes. Starting Line. Shutdown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                             

 Carjack Kidnap. Banquet Act. Fan Attack.

 

 

                                     










             

DAY FOUR:  More Of The Same. Rinse and Repeat.

 

 

 

 

 

 
           


DAY FIVE:  The Twisted Road to Modesto.

                                             



DAY SIX:  Sacramento Tornadoes - Sack o’ Tomatoes. Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off. End Zone.