I had never seen snow in the desert before, and can’t really
say I was entirely prepared for defending myself against incoming snow balls
while relaxing alongside a cactus. 
But these things can happen to a fellow when he travels with Tim
Marks.  

So can wounded elbows.

        It had been
a dream of mine since boyhood, first birthed, I believe, in the mid-motocross
years.  There I was, all
one-hundred-twenty-five pounds of me, long hair and sweat, romping around Michigan’s motocross tracks with amateur ability and professional determination.  In the midst of it all, I had the faint
notion to drive Baja buggies through the Californian desert (which is in Mexico, we
found out).  I figured it would be a good
diversion for later when I was much older and unable to manhandle a dangerous
but colorful instrument of teenage affection known as a motorcycle.

        Terri and I
had settled in to watch a movie someone had recommended.  It was late, and Terri lasted about five
minutes.  I, however, sat enthralled.  There on the silver screen was my boyhood dream in full bloom.  Trucks and buggies and motorcycles and quads
and even unmodified VW Bugs raced their way across the 1000 mile dry expanse
known as the Baja peninsula in perhaps the most infamous and misunderstood race
in North America. My dream was reborn!

        By the next
evening, I was announcing from some stage somewhere to everyone in attendance
that I would some day soon be racing the Baja 1000.  Everyone cheered.  Apparently desert racing is in high favor
among people in audiences: a curious fact of which I had previously been
ignorant.  As the words made their way
through the microphone, I realized the desert racing experience was a
two-person event.  In other words, one
would need a co-driver.  Such a person
does not simply sit in the passenger seat and navigate, although that is among
the list of duties.  Oh no.  Such a person must also handle the enormous
responsibilities of trash-talking the driver.  Also, for at least some of the time, such a
person is needed to drive the vehicle, too. 
Realizing in a real-time sort of way that I would need such a partner
for my resurrected caper, I immediately scanned my database for rich guys that
would have the money, crazy guys that would have the guts, and free guys that
would have the schedule availability to accompany me in such a venture.  Oh yeah, the person would have to be good at
motor sports and such, also.  So there in
front of the world, with absolutely no approval from his person, I told the
crowd that Tim Marks would be my partner.

         I knew almost immediately, of course, that I had chosen the right mate.  This seemed vindicated the next morning when
he called me to accept his recently-learned-of appointment (crowds are notoriously
bad at keeping secrets), and then finished by saying, “By the way, what is it,
again?”  Yep.  Tim was the man for the job.  I decided to give him his extensive formal
training by telling him the name of the movie and demanding that he go rent it
to prove himself qualified.

        That’s how
we found ourselves in fancy red and black racing suits and dorky looking elf
shoes (“Hey, buddy, they’re driving
shoes.  And they cost more than your
watch!”), standing around in the desert in the snow with a guy named “Sto” and
several others who were extremely accomplished at swearing.  One of the other cars had blown a clutch and
we were awaiting the chase vehicle with a bunch of mechanic-fellas that spoke a
language we didn’t understand (a mixture of Spanish, swearing, and shop
talk).  The snow was a little bit of a
surprise, because, after all, we were in a desert.  The swearing was no surprise because, after
all, we were with guys who liked to talk about gears and oil and smash bear
cans against their foreheads. 

        Two days
later, though, we were fully acclimated. 
We had both agreed that by the third day our driving was “expert” level
and probably worthy of the national news. 
We had also grown accustomed to just about anything being in the desert, from trash to
upside-down-burned-out-car-carcasses, to wild horses, to whoop-de-dos ten feet
deep, to pine forests, to silt trails, to rock-strewn goat trails, to freezing
cold rain, to children on mules, to guys on quads, to station wagons full of
the entire family apparently heading to church located nobody-knows-where, to
sewage rivers coming from a drug rehab center, to trail-side beer stands, to
cows and more cows, and yes, to snow. 
And also one very large washout less than ten miles from camp on the
last day.

        It was
Tim’s fault. 

        I saw it
first-hand.

        Something
happened to him, knowing that our time in the desert was almost over.  In freezing cold desert rain, between
dirty-t-shirt wipes of our racing helmet shields, Tim Marks went over the edge.  Literally. 
And my elbow paid the price.

        The rain
had muddied up the trail significantly, to the point where the car would no
longer track well (meaning, it slid around like a snake).  This was especially interesting since the
trail was along the side of a mountain and one possible alternative was a
deadly plunge to the canyon hundreds of feet below (okay, maybe fifty feet
below).  Also, the brakes had gone
out.  Again.  When it had happened on the previous day, we
thought it was a big deal, too.  But we
weren’t such good drivers way back then. 
Now we were third day experts, and fully capable of handling a little
thing like nonexistent brakes on a switchback mountain trail.  Seriously, what were transmissions for, if
not for moments like this? I wasn’t worried, even though I was in the co-driver
seat.  Tim had proven himself more than
capable behind the wheel.  Only I hadn’t
seen the “end of adventure fever” coming. 
It struck Tim like Cupid’s dart plowing into a love-sick adolescent at
the county picnic.  

Suddenly Tim’s face
became animated.  His laugh became
sinister.  His eyes were immediately
bloodshot.  His speech became
slurred.  And the car went faster and
faster.  First it slammed nose-first into
puddles we had learned to avoid so deftly before.  Several of these doused us in a shower of
muddy rain (and other substances.  Please
refer back to earlier comments about the drug rehab place).  Next it slid off the road sideways where its open
wheels chopped desert tree limbs like a saw blade and courteously delivered
them into our windshield-free cockpit. 
When I complained a little about the forest we had collected amongst our
seats, Tim’s only replay was something about it being “potpourri.”  Then we almost slid off the canyon’s side
into a really good story, but Tim
saved us by slamming the car’s front end directly into the cliff wall and trying
to climb it like a small puppy stuck in a tall bath tub.  And then, without warning, it happened.  Tim showed no mercy and drove our Baja buggy
(affectionately named “Debbie”) directly through a big, enormous, mind-blowing
washout.  There was no warning.  One minute we were fine, the next minute we
were experiencing at least twelve G’s, our helmets rebounding off the top roll
bar cage.  It is still a marvel of desert
racing engineering that the entire back of our car didn’t eject itself from the
chassis.  That must be because most of
the force from the blow was actually absorbed by my elbow. 

        Three days
of driving like maniacs and I sustain an injury ten miles from the end.  It’s okay, though.  Experienced adventurers know how to treat
wounds out in the wild.  We must be
capable of first-aid in order to live the life we live.  I began healing my wound almost
immediately.  By applying layer upon
layer of shame on Tim for his driving mishap, the pain seemed to deaden a
little bit.  And by writing this article,
I really must admit I can no longer feel a thing.  See?  I
know what I’m doing.  The pen is truly
mightier than the bandage.

        Besides.  A desert elbow injury is still better than a
day at work!

        Thanks Tim, for the reminder.