Ken Douglas - Ragged Man

Rick Gordon spun around the turn, saw the problem ahead. He fought the wheel, made a hard left to avoid hitting the overturned Jeep. Then he was into the slide. He cranked the wheel more to the left, into the direction of it. Too far, he felt the rear wheels slide right, spinning the wheel back, he regained control as he hit the dust. Downshifting, gently riding the accelerator, the Toyota Land Cruiser hydroplaned over six inches of fine red bull dust, like driving over baby powder.

He turned back to the right, red dust flying from all four tires, losing traction again, correcting, driving blind, then back on the track, shooting out of the cloud. He made it around the Jeep. Shifting down into third, hitting the brakes, then second, he stopped the car, turned to look back at the Jeep that would race no more.

“ I’m okay, get going!” the driver yelled.

Rick flashed a smile, waved, shoved in the clutch, shifted into first and was off.

The track went straight out for the next ten kilometers. Sometimes barely wide enough to give the Toyota room between the desert growth. Sometimes through sharp rocks that ripped into the tires when traveling at speed. Sometimes no road or track at all, nothing but fine red sand till vision’s end.

Looking ahead, afraid to blink, he tried to go faster than he knew he should, the thrill of speed overcoming the fear. He floored the Toyota, shifting through the gears a hair before redline. They were sailing, determined to make it one more day.

“ Gully coming up, half a click, double caution!” Ann called out, reading from the rally instructions. A click was a kilometer and an explanation mark on the instructions meant caution, two, double caution, meaning that the terrain was even more dangerous, and three of those vertical black lines with periods under them meant extreme caution.

He downshifted into fourth, tapping the brakes as he went into third, standing hard on them for the briefest time as he went into second, left foot flying between clutch and brake pedal, the right keeping the accelerator on the floor. He took his foot off the brakes inches before the front tires hit the gully and the Toyota floated over the depression in the earth. Then he punched the clutch, shifting again into third, then fourth and, as they picked up speed again, fifth.

“ Another double, quarter click!” Ann shouted.

“ Here we go again!” Rick shouted back as he did it all again, downshifting, braking, releasing, clearing the gully and back up through the gears.

“ Perfect, two in a row and both perfect!” Her voice cracked above the roar of the engine. “But you have to do it again in half a click and it’s a double.”

For the third time in as many minutes Rick found himself downshifting, preparing to glide over another of the many depressions nature had made in the dry desert earth. Minutes ago they were sliding in fine dust six inches deep and now they were traversing dry caked ground, jumping gullies made by long dead waterways and up ahead, more dust.

Double clutching, he slammed the Toyota into second, but he misjudged his timing and jumped on the brakes a fraction of a second late. The front tires hit air as he released the pedal.

“ Oh shit, hang on!”

Despite his error in judgment, the front tires cleared the gully, but the rear wheels hit hard, knocking Ann’s wind away as Rick fought the wheel.

“ Flat,” she gasped.

“ Yeah.” He pulled well off the track.

He stopped the Toyota and they jumped out. Ann reached the rear door first, tossed Rick the tire iron. He started loosening the lug nuts as she pulled one of the spares and the jack out of the back. By the time he had the lug nuts loose, she had the car jacked and was ready with the spare. The operation took less than five minutes. Then they were back on the road.

“ Straight out two clicks, no problems, then a sharp left, then a gate,” Ann said as he sped through the gears.

“ Let’s hit it.” He accelerated until they were sailing along at a hundred and sixty kilometers per hour.

“ Slow down, dust ahead, too slow to be another racer.”

“ Camels,” he said.

“ A herd,” she said.

Slowing to match the speed of the desert beasts, he punched the horn, scattering the camels.

Passing through the terrified animals, he started to pick up speed, anticipating the sharp left. Then he was downshifting and lightly riding the brakes into the turn. Once through it, he brought the car to a complete stop. Ann jumped out and opened the cattle gate. He drove through and waited for her to close it.

They were racing across vast cattle stations, one of them rumored to be larger than the state of Texas. The owners received no compensation for the use of their lands. All they asked was that the racers close their cattle gates when passing through. No racer liked losing time, but they all did it. They wanted to use the lands again next year.

They were five days into and halfway through the “Australian Safari” desert raid, sixty-five hundred kilometers of desert off-road racing from Sydney to Darwin, and the hard days and desert nights were taking their toll. Ann knew her husband was dog tired, but she also knew he wouldn’t quit. When he started something, he finished it. That’s the way he was.

The day was only half over and they were already getting edgy. They had been driving hard since six-thirty in the morning and they had done well. His driving was improving and so was their position. She was looking forward to getting in before dark for a change and thinking of the early start they would get tomorrow, starting with the pros, when she saw the dust cloud. Another cloud of bull dust and they were gaining on it. The closer they got to the lead, the harder it was to pass. The speeds were faster, the drivers were more determined.

This was the part she hated, passing in the dust. The red bull dust in central Australia is one of the finest powders in the world and when a car going a hundred and forty kilometers per hour flies through it, it creates a dust cloud that turns a clear bright day into a red haze, visibility zero.

Passing in the dust is an art. The driver has to try to see the road ahead of the cloud, remember where it goes, then plow into the dust as fast as he’s able, pass and hope the road is where it’s supposed to be when he gets there. While in the dust, he’s driving blind.

“ Ann, can you get his numbers?”

“ I have ’em.” She picked up the mike, shouted into it, “Two-fifteen, two-fifteen, pull over, car behind wanting to pass.” The dust cloud slowed and they drove into the red haze, passing the competitor. Ann got a quick glimpse of her as they passed. “It’s the girl singer from Japan.”

“ Up ahead,” Rick said.

She looked, saw another cloud of dust and tightened her stomach as Rick tightened his grip on the wheel in anticipation of the possible danger ahead. She knew he hated the passing part just as much as she did.

The track made a thirty degree turn to the right and Ann caught the numbers on the right side of the auto ahead. She grabbed the mike. “One-two-four, one-two-four, pull over, we want to pass.” This time the dust cloud didn’t slow and give way.

“ What’s wrong with the son-of-a-bitch? Call him again.”

“ One-two-four, do you copy? We are on your tail, wanting to pass. If you don’t pull over, we will push.”

“ His radio’s out! Lord, I hate this. Hold on, here we go!” He eased down the accelerator and headed into the dust. “Can you see anything?”

“ No! Yes, take it easy. Now!”

Gently, but not gently enough, he nudged the car in front, causing it to squirrel.