115-m.p.h. Madness

Unlike conventional auto races, in which cars careen around a paved track, off-road competition masses as many as eleven different classes of vehicles in a bone-jolting race against time across the desert. Subsidized by major auto companies and parts manufacturers, California championship races that three years ago appealed to barely 3,000 people now attract crowds of 45,000, who stand along the dusty trails to watch. Last week TIME Correspondent David DeVoss rode two laps as co-driver in a newly inaugurated race, the Laughlin, Nev., 300. His report:

A padded helmet encases my head, and four thick safety belts intersect in a bulbous metal codpiece. As my two-ton Chevy Silverado truck edges toward the starting line, all I can feel is the plastic barf bag stuffed in the pocket of my flame-resistant jumpsuit. Behind the wheel sits Walker Evans, 36, a general contractor from Riverside, Calif, who has won 14 of his past 17 off-road races. As the green flag rises, the final spectator salute of uplifted cups of Coors reminds me of a well-wisher's warning: "Walker won't stop if you get sick."

The thwack of my helmet against the seat confirms Newton's third law of motion. The air is piercingly fresh, and the desert mountains glow golden in the morning sun. But soon the drive will become a spastic, three-hour Cinerama focused on 100 miles of lifeless mesquite moonscape--beginning in Laughlin and running across sand washes, over mountains, around canyons and back. "Howdy doody!" Evans yells, skipping the yellow truck over a 5-ft. ravine. "I can't stay away. Racing off-road is like narcotics to a dope addict."

And just as expensive. The mature males who drive open-cockpit racers, production vehicles and jerry-rigged "Baja bugs" at insane speeds over camel-backed "whoopdedoos" spend a minimum of $10,000 on their rigs. The cash prizes for most races are about $2,000. In Laughlin, a rest-stop community of 100 residents and three casinos tucked away in Nevada's desolate southern tip, the car with the fastest time won $1,500.

Flood Ravines. The nearly 10,000 spectators are a largely blue-collar crowd from small Southwestern towns. Dressed in DIESEL POWER T shirts and Peterbilt trailer-truck caps, they revel in the dust and noise. For some, off-road racing is an egalitarian country gathering. "My husband is a mechanic and I'm just a small-town housewife," says Loretta Pipkin from El Centre, Calif. "But out here everyone is equal."

With the spectators behind us, Walker skirts a dozen disabled vehicles before hitting a rugged series of parallel flash-flood ravines. Beyond the windshield, the horizon pitches erratically. Suddenly a blue two-seater racer materializes inside the amber cloud of dust enveloping us. Like a mechanical mantis, it springs from gully to boulder until Evans grows impatient and swerves to bump it aside. Evans laughs: "From here on out I'm running my own race."

The truck picks up speed to 115 m.p.h. along a telephone service road. The pitted road seems almost smooth at this speed. Evans knows the route well. After six "pre-runs," he is ready for the angle of every curve. With $60,000 invested in a single-seat Blazer and the two-seat truck, Evans and his partner, Parnelli Jones, onetime Indianapolis 500 winner, cannot afford mistakes. "A race is like a razor in a barbershop," shouts Evans above the wind. "It'll cut your throat in a minute, but you always keep honing it."

As I near the end of the second 50-mile lap, the Laughlin 300 has become a numbing routine. The dull ache at the base of my neck spreads downward into the cavities separating each vertebra. As Evans slows for a 20-second refueling stop, I get out. The race will last five more hours. Only 31 of the 111 cars that started will finish, not including Evans' Chevy--a transmission seal blew. I'm certainly not a winner. Nevertheless I walk from Walker's smoking truck with a trophy: an empty barf bag.

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