After my quick tour of the Laughlin Desert Challenge course riding shotgun in Scott Stienberger's PCI/Off-Road.com Protruck, I came away strongly impressed. I had cut my teeth in the desert with multi-time Champion Carlos Iribe and his ultra quick 5/1600 car at the final running of the SCORE / Parker 400, then furthered my career in the SNORE Class 9 car of former 5/1600 FUD Champion, Tim Hart. My introduction to desert racing was a truly memorable experience, and one I'll always hold dear.

Now, as I sat in the parking lot of a San Felipe hotel, strapping myself into Scott's Protruck once again, it dawned on me that I was about to experience something that all the air cooled VW's in the world couldn't equal. Raw, naked horsepower at the command of a man whose experience had earned him many trophies, many more finishes, and even the SCORE Class 7S Championship. But this time, the yellow and black F-150 wasn't out for a leisurely stroll around a short course. This time it was for real.

As I was finishing up some adjustments to the crotch strap (making room for the ol' huevos I hoped I had enough of), Scott climbed in and quickly went through a final check of the vehicle, going as far as marking the gauges properly for me to keep an eye on. Steinberger had enough to do concentrating on driving. This would be my job.

With a few flipped switches and a quick stab of the big red button, 450 horsepower wrapped in 351 of Ford Motor Co.'s finest inches, announced their presence with authority, woke a few late sleepers (hey, it's race day!), and settled into an oil warming idle. Come to think of it, if you listened closely and used a little imagination, the exhausts rapport sounded suspiciously like "come-on", "come-on", "come-on", "come-on." It appeared Scott and I weren't the only ones eager to hit the track.

Final checks were made, fuel was topped off, bodies were strapped in firmly, and the requisite radio checks carried out. With all systems good to go, we headed out to the edge of town, and the world famous "San Felipe Arches" - i.e. the Start / Finish line of the San Felipe 250.

Cruising the streets in a full blown race truck can't exactly be called "one of life's little pleasures," for in truth, there's only a handful of people on the planet (outside of the racers themselves) who've ever experienced it. Be that as it may, desert racing in general, and SCORE desert racing in particular is "unofficially" the national sport of Baja, and as we passed through the crowds of people lining the streets of Felipe, jammed with people, you could see the excitement in the eyes of the locals. Every little kid wants to grow up to be just like Ivan Stewart, Larry Ragland, and yes, even Scott Steinberger - whose many years of doing battle on the streets, trails, and two-tracks of the Baja peninsula has earned the respect and admiration of fans and racers alike.

It would seem I was in good hands. As we approached the Start / Finish line, we encountered the typical maze of a San Felipe start. There is only so much road to go around, and with hundreds of vehicles and thousands of fans crowded around the Arches, SCORE officials had their hands full getting the classes lined up and off the line on time. To their credit, they somehow gave method to the madness, and soon we were staged as the 5th Protruck, with only the Trophy Trucks, and Class 1 Unlimiteds ahead of us.

While we waited our turn for the green flag, fellow Protruck racer, Larry Plank and Stock Full driver-cum Excite Protruck Crew Chief, Greg Foutz, had a few moments to come over and discuss strategy with Scott.

"What?", you say? "But, but, they're the Competition!"

True enough, but the spirit of desert racing in general, and Protruck racing in particular, is one of "friendly rivalry." Besides, with only moments to go, it was too late to change team-wide planning.

During the conversation, we learned that Larry would be making his first fuel stop at 96 miles, while we were scheduled to top off at 80. With the soft, silty conditions of the San Flip course, Plank's 96 mile gamble was a long shot, at best. In fact, at an estimated 2MPG, Scott felt he was pushing it with a stop at 80. Time would tell if Larry's plans would work to our advantage, or his.

When the last of the Class 1's left the line, the Protrucks began launching at 30 second intervals. As we moved closer to our start, Scott began making similar noises to those of his truck earlier in the morning - "come-on, come-on, come-on" ... and then the flag went down.

When Steinberger dropped the hammer, the 351 jumped instantly to its 6000 RPM redline, slamming us into the backs of our Mastercraft seats, rocking the fully gassed Protruck back on it's considerable rear suspension, testing the effectiveness of it's front limiting straps as it's nose reached for the sky. Once-recognizable faces began whipping by in an increasingly long blur as 2nd, and then 3rd gear were engaged, in rapid succession.

We left the pavement and began our full throttle charge down Felipe's "Dump Road" and I thought to myself: "This is how Moses must have felt." - as a sea of spectators and flashbulbs parted like a wake far in advance of the oncoming truck. Shades of the '99 Baja 500? "These people are NUTS!" said Scott, as he adjusted his speed downward to prepare for the one overzealous fan who was sure to fall in our path. Fortunately, it never happened, and soon we were off the road and on an "E-ticket" ride into the heart of Baja.

With a course of 208 actual miles ahead of us, the San Felipe 250 is considered a "sprint race" by many of the racers. Far shorter than monsters like the Baja 500, or 1000, drivers have the luxury of being able to push their trucks a little harder without the maddening restraint necessary to keep it together for the later stages of a long event.

This does not mean, however, that you can expect to "Drive it like ya' stole it" and hope to see the finish line any time soon. At least without a few repairs or more along the way - if at all. The trick is knowing when and where to go balls-out, and knowing when to "save the truck". That's a trick Steinberger knows well. With a mere 3 "DNF's" in over 30 races, Scott is among the top finishers in the desert, and to quote Carlos Iribe and that old racing axiom, "You can't finish first if you don't first finish."

At the moment, Scott was up to his axles in whooped-out, rut-filled silt, and flogging the F-150 for all it was worth. Steinberger's chief rival, Larry Plank, has the well earned reputation as a fast driver, and Scott had little intention of allowing him to gain ground so early - ground that might prove insurmountable as the race wore on.

Before 20 miles of race course had passed beneath us, we saw the first of many racers broken by the unforgiving course. The Class 1 of Wilson Motorsports had the dubious distinction of being the first victim claimed by the Baja peninsula in 2000, but before long, he had good company. Within a 5-mile stretch (and I use that term loosely), 5 more Class 1 cars were sidelined and in need of repair, followed by the first of the Protrucks.
One down; three to go.

With the starting line growing evermore distant, Trophy Trucks sat broken or stuck, Class 1 drivers stood forlorn beside their motionless cars, and another Protruck was side-lined with mechanical trouble. Larry Plank was already out of the vehicle with the hood on the ground and a wrench in his hand.

Two down; two to go.

What happened next was a little vague. With very little wind in the silty section of the course, the dust hung oppressively, and as we passed several more disabled vehicles. We were unsure if a truck we had passed was a Protruck, or a Trophy Truck. While I thought it to be the former, Scott believed it to be the latter, and choosing to err on the side of caution, kept up his brisk pace.

Aside from the oil temp climbing slightly in the particularly deep sections of the silt, the F-150's clockwork kept a strong cadence, and before long we were coming up on a dust trail at a good rate of speed. Slowly, but surely, Steinberger gained ground on the faceless cloud, until finally, at the apex of a turn, we caught a glimpse of a black Protruck.

Scott's pace increased dramatically, as we continued closing on our prey. Seeing us, they stepped on the loud pedal, and suddenly we had a real race on our hands! Within a couple miles, we had closed the gap to within 15 feet, and Scott kept the pressure on. Being in a tight section of wash, there was no room for any kind of pass, so we held back, rather than start bumpin' and grindin' with no beneficial outcome. All while, Scott continued dodging rocks the size of basketballs. "Hit one of those," he said, "and it's "Game Over."

Without warning, the men in black grenaded their rear end, leaving a puff of smoke and the smell of burnt gear oil as they coasted powerlessly off the side of the course. With yet another Protruck down (and this one most definitely "out"), I felt the thrill of race leading for the first time. Scott, on the other hand, believed us to be running second to the Vosberg entry, and held the pace that had ultimately done in our last challenger. Unfortunately, there were no further dust trails within sight to chase down.

After passing Check 1, we had a couple miles of straight, but heavily whooped out fence line road before us. Far off in the distance rose two distinct dust trails that would serve as our next goal to shoot for. Was Vosberg one of the two? If he was, he'd put some serious time on us, and to Scott's way of thinking, this was a wholly unacceptable position to be in.

Along this stretch, I discovered the limits of a Protruck's full capabilities. With whoops alternating between one and three feet deep, Scott skipped the F-150 across the top like a stone across a pond. As the rear tires found, lost, and found traction again, the effect was not unlike being slammed in the back with a rather large hammer. When 450 HP suddenly grabs hold at 6000 RPM, you KNOW it!

Larry Ragland once told me that trucks of this caliber were very supple when operating at or below 80% of their potential, but become extremely harsh when pushed to their limits and beyond. Considering our GPS confirmed speed of over 60 MPH through this man-made mogul field, I'd say his assessment was spot-on accurate.

When we began approaching a hard left that would take us up and over the mountains, we came across Brady Helm's Kreg Donahoe-designed "El Diablo", off the course and looking in need of repair. Considering the attrition rate of more seasoned cars thus far, Kreg's new child can easily be forgiven its growing pains.

Once over the mountains and into another wash, we were approaching the limits of the fuel cell's capacity. In harder turns, and big whoops, the cell's fuel pick-ups began to cavitate from lack of fuel. Worrisome as that was becoming, the stress level really began climbing when a low hanging branch resulted in a smashed radio antenna being deposited into my lap. It would be bad enough to run out of fuel mere miles from our pit, but it would be far worse to not be able to call for the chase truck if it happened. Just as the fuel pressure began doing a good impression of a kid on a pogo stick, we came upon our pit, and it's seemingly endless supply of life giving 105-octane fluid.

With the combined efforts of the PCI pit crew and the Checkers off-road racing team, we were gassed, watered, and back on the course - but just as the revs came up, the previously downed Larry Plank flew past us to take either the lead, or second place. In the excitement of nearly exhausting our fuel supply, we had somehow neglected to ask which before leaving the pits.

Scott's ace in the hole was that Plank had a full 16 miles to go before reaching his fuel, where we would surely retake our position, but as the two trucks are virtually identical, and we had nearly run dry, Plank's odds for covering that distance on vapor were growing slimmer by the foot. Should he drain his tank so far from his pit, we would gain many miles on him before he would be able to get assistance. About this time, the course opened up into a wide gravel road that locked the two trucks in a near side-by-side drag race for over 2 miles - further taxing Plank's dwindling reserves.

 Screaming the 351 in top gear returned a GPS reading of 105 MPH with Steinberger's ultra low rear axle gearing, but despite the high speed assault on terra firma, we left the road as the course broke hard left, in much the same position we began in. One mile later, Larry Plank coasted to a halt.

"Hey, Scotty, guess that gamble didn't pay off after all!", Plank chuckled over the radio. "I'll catch up to you in a little bit!"

Humor in the face of adversity is the mark of a true sportsman - or a complete lunatic. Larry's been known to answer to both, but I'm betting on option one. None the less, his misfortune was our gain, and in desert racing, you take your breaks where you can get' em. With Plank down for the foreseeable future, Scott went back to chasing down the man who may or may not be ahead of us: Vosberg.

Miles continued to pass, and my respect continued to grow for men like Scott, who can not only set, but maintain and control such an incredible pace. Many armchair racers, myself included, often fancy themselves born with the innate ability to drive high-end race trucks at mind-numbing speeds, simply because of the testosterone in our veins. Sadly, I'm here to tell you, it just ain't so. Being able to hold a 3500+ pound race truck on the bleeding edge of control while everything around you looks like a rock strewn tilt-a- whirl, is a skill that will only come with experience. We often hear people say of racers - "He makes it look easy." Let me put this into perspective: "Easy" is a very relative term.

Take Matomi Wash, for example. Here, we slowed from eye-watering speeds to literally crawling a 2WD truck over rocks larger than the average cow - while trying to avoid high centers on their smaller brethren - while trying not to get buried in the soft blow sand that surrounds them. "Easy"? It's anything but easy. It's an act of pure skill, but sometimes all the skill in the world cannot surmount the obstacles that Mother Nature, or an overzealous spectator, will throw in your way.

Witness the foot-plus diameter chunk of palm tree that somehow managed to "appear" in a very narrow crevasse deep in Matomi. The only way around it was over it. There was simply no other choice, as VTOL thrusters aren't standard equipment on this class of vehicle. Knowing the outcome beforehand, but lacking a viable option, Scott gassed the big Ford, and high centered the truck in a heartbeat. Quickly out of the straps, Scott jacked the truck skyward, while I started yanking and twisting away at this large impediment to our progress. Within moments, we had freed the stuck truck and were strapping back in as we continued onward toward our second fuel stop.

As the fuel pressure gauge began it's telltale bounce, we once again began to worry about reaching the pit in time. As the miles continued draining us of our fuel supply, we came upon row after row of pits - but none of them were ours!

Things were really beginning to get desperate, as pits gave way to open desert once again. Had we missed the stop? With our radio range practically non-existent there was no way to be sure. Should we turn back? Press on? Finally through a burst of static, we heard our second pit calling for us. Our fuel lay less than a mile ahead, and with it, one more shot at running down Vosberg.

This time, Scott got the news he'd been hoping for: there was no Vosberg! We had passed him long ago and had been leading the race since Plank went down! Better still, we had put 16 minutes on the rest of the field - in a class often won by a minute or less. At this rate, Steinberger was setting a record pace, the truck was running and handling like a dream, and we had a reported clear run ahead of us. Things were definitely looking up in PCI land.

The miles to our next fuel stop passed uneventfully (that is, if you can consider any part of a desert race uneventful), and Scott kept the pace up to fend off the late race charge from the competitors who would surely be mounting said charges to recoup their downtime. Now was also the time for heightened caution. The last thing we needed was a buried Easter egg cleverly disguised as a rock to ruin our day - and God knows there are a lot of those out there.

 At our final stop, we took on a quick splash of fuel, enough to get us home, and confirmed that we still had a comfortable lead. Larry Plank was back on course and running hard, but with less than 40 miles to go, we'd have to have serious problems, or a bad crash, in order for him to catch us. If you think running on fumes got the ol' heart pumping, you can believe that this was all that and then some.

35 miles to go: all gauges check out - truck running like a dream. Last mountain range in sight.

30 miles: out of the hills - moderately rough section of course. Scott backs down slightly to save the truck.

25 miles: course turns very soft and sandy. We start seeing race fans encouraging us on.

20 Miles: adrenaline kicking in. Come on, baby. We're almost home. We can almost see the Arches.

16 miles: engine dies without warning!

WHAT?

While Scott tried restarting the truck, I jumped out and pulled the hood. Loose wires?

Nope.

Fuel filter/lines?

Nope.

No oil leaking, no "big bang", what the hell?

Scott radioed for help, and miraculously, a returning chase truck heard us and was on the way. In the meantime, spectators began to arrive and lend assistance. On first check, it appeared that we toasted a distributor, stripped a gear, or sheared a pin, but that didn't check out.

We reset TDC and spun it again.

TDC was no longer TDC. Since the distributor appeared to check out, we pulled the valve covers in search of a busted cam, or crank., but to no avail. Within a span of 20 minuets, our record setting, pace was reduced to a DNF, and we watched helplessly as Larry Plank waved, and passed us by on his way to winning the 2000 San Felipe 250.

As we sat waiting for a 4x4 to tow us off the course and back to the trailer, Scott didn't dwell on the victory that almost was. He took it in stride as only someone whose been there before can.

"Man we were hualin! Can you believe we put 16 minuets on the class? That was a hell of a race."

He didn't swear, he didn't throw tools, and he didn't blame those around him.

He showed the utmost of integrity and professional conduct. That's why, come next race, Scott Steinberger will be back chasing the checkered flag. And that's why Off-Road.com will be proud to be there with him.