"Welcome to Gravelrama, sir We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."
Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hillclimbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eyes. Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"

A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"

The official held up a hand. "First we have to figure out what class you're going to be in. Sportsman or pro?"

Carl scratched his chin and spit a wad of tobacco about 23 feet, just missing a snoozing dog. The dog yelped and scrambled off. "I'm not sure."

"Well, make up your mind. Have you ever competed for money before?"

"Oh, yes ... all the time."

"Good. Then you're in the pro class. Go over there and have your truck weighed. By the way sir, yours is the most original monster truck I've ever seen."

Emma dragged Carl off to one side. "Carl, have you lost your marbles? Has someone blown your pilot light out? What's this about racing for money?"

Carl grunted. "Don't you remember when I drag raced that bozo in the red Bronco? Over on that dry lake bed near where we were camping? I won ten bucks and a six pack of WartHog Light beer. No way can I compete against innocent Sportsmen with a record like that!"

Emma looked at the sky. "Carl, you big dummy, aren't you afraid of destroying 'The Whale'? And how do you expect to compete against real professional trucks?"

Carl shook his head from side to side. "Emma, you're forgettin' that I got a 454 under the hood with enough horsepower to probably change the rotation of the earth if I could get the traction. Anyways, 'The Whale will also be worlds lighter than all of those monster trucks. Those things hit the scales at ten or eleven thousand pounds or more. 'The Whale' will have the edge in the quick and nimble department."

A half hour later, Carl drove The Whale off the scales and was handed a slip of paper. "Fourteen thousand, two hundred and eighteen pounds! This can't be right! Hey buddy, you better check those scales!"

The scale man pushed his wire rimmed glasses back on his nose and studied the print-out form from the scales. "Sorry, sir. You're right. Should be fourteen thousand, four hundred and eighteen pounds. You know, it's amazing your rig is that light, what with that boat on the top, and that satellite dish, and those two air conditioners, and that pair of trail bikes, and that TV antenna, and those three roll-up awnings, and the
remote shower, and those fold out barbecues, and those ..."

Carl cut in, "Hey, put it in neutral, will you buddy! I know it's no lightweight, but you don't have to rub it in."

"Sorry sir. It's just that it's so, so ... big. Anyway, take this slip over to sign-up and give it to the officials with your entry form."

Carl got in line at sign-up, while Emma stood alongside, quietly singing church hymns, much to Carl's consternation. Eventually, he got up to the table and stood there in front of the white haired old lady running sign up.

She looked up, smiled, and barked, "What are you, a mute, or just stupid. Gimmee that paper."

Meekly, Carl handed over the weigh-in slip.

The lady peered over her glasses at it. "Hmmm. Over 14,000 pounds. This puts you in the Unlimited Monster Truck class. You'll be going up against USA 1, King Kong, The Virginia Beach Beast, The Festering Boil Mark 11, Big Foot and about a dozen others. Now, do you just want to sign up for an individual event, or hit all three and go for the overall?"

"Uhh, what are the events?"

"Well, since this is the first year we've had a Monster Truck competition, I guess maybe you're not familiar with our format. We got us three events, starting with the sand drags, then it's the obstacle course and, of course, we wrap it up with the hill climb. Double points on the hill climb. Come on now, get your finger out of your nose; what's it gonna be. One? All three?"

"Duhh ... all three, I guess."

"Good. Sign here and cough up some entry fee money. And lots of luck, fat boy. You'll need it."

Competition started with the sand drags. It was a typical side-by-side format. Carl edged up to the lights and looked at the monster truck next to him. It was a huge Dodge pickup with flames belching out of the open headers. On the door was a name: Thundering Dog Breath, and there was a drawing of a rabid hound with flames pouring out of its nostrils. Carl shuddered as he listened to the outrageous engine snarl and bellow.

The lights turned green and the Dodge shot off the line, while Carl sat there with his engine revving wildly. He had forgotten to put it in gear, violating one of drag racing's most important tenets.

Luckily, the Dodge shredded its motor to itsy-bitsy pieces 35 yards out. Carl put The Whale into gear and quietly drove by the smoldering Dodge, being careful not to
run over the melted blower laying in his lane.

Round One to The Whale.

What happened after that staggers the imagination: three of the next four competitors red-lighted on the start and one got a wheel over the marked line and was DQ-d. Carl found himself in the finals against Big Foot. It was not much of a contest, as Big Foot turned in a 7-second flat run against Carl's 18.9. Still, Carl had managed a second place and some valuable points.

The obstacle course was run against the clock, and, as luck would have it, Carl drew the first start. He blasted off the line and did, indeed, keep the pedal to the metal. The Whale lurched, bounced, slithered, heaved, wallowed and plowed around the course.

It cleared a small jump, and the boat fell off the top. On a rough straight, the satellite dish toppled off and rolled through the trees.

Carl lost the front trail bike on the off-camber sweeper and the rear trail bike jiggled off on the short down hill. Through the mud bog, two of the awnings ripped off and five coolers fell out of the rear window.

Fishing rods rattled around inside the cab and copies of Field and Stream fluttered inside like crazed snow. A coffee maker did a U-turn like a boomerang in mid-air, then turned itself into shards of glass when the refrigerator door slammed it against a wall.

Carl made a mental note to flip the fridge lock in the "down" position before his next race. This was accentuated as a wedge of cheddar cheese splattered against the dash, followed by a head of lettuce, that was just starting to get brown on the edges.

A loaf of Wonder Bread hit Carl in the back (no injury), but the butter dish that nailed him in the thigh. Now that hurt! A cord from a hair dryer wrapped around Carl's neck, and the plastic appliance bounced off his chest.

On the next jump, the dryer hit Carl on the chin and turned itself on the high setting. A blast of hot air aimed straight down at Carl's crotch, and he started to make howling sounds and jiggle his legs madly.

This made him stomp on the throttle harder, which actually gave him a pretty good time on the last third of the course.

Crossing the finish line, Carl let out a huge sigh of relief and slumped over the wheel, exhausted. The dryer blew a steady stream of hot air on his left ankle. Carl got his time slip and headed for the porta-potties to change his underwear.

The rest of the competitors didn't turn in very good times. It seems like most of them were slowed down by running over objects on the course. One guy hit a satellite dish and broke a tie rod. Another ran over a trail bike and got three flat tires.

Only Big Foot turned in an obstacle course time close to Carl, and it was slowed down considerably by the boat it had to drag over half the course. The anchor had somehow gotten hooked on a shock and at the other end of 65 feet of nylon line, a bass boat ripped trenches in the ground with an upside-down Evinrude motor.

At the end of the obstacle course run, Carl and Big Foot were tied with each having a first and a second. Unless they both screwed up big time, the winner would be whoever won the hill climb.

Word filtered through the crowd: it was Big Foot against The Whale in the final. Most of the rest of the competition had been weeded out in the first two rounds with mechanical problems, or by hitting odd objects on the obstacle course and maiming vulnerable parts on the undercarriage.

Still, a few other monster trucks had to make their runs. The first one flipped over backwards right off the starting line. Another snapped a drive shaft half way up the hill, sending pea gravel flying in every direction from the wildly flailing shaft.

The third remaining truck, a huge Chevy called Snail-Tracks, revved its giant engine madly and prepared to make a serious run at the hill, when an extremely dumb crow flew by, intent on eating a juicy bug it was chasing, and darted head first into the gaping holes of the huge blower. The engine burped, coughed and then died. A flutter of black feathers wafted out of the headers and the juicy bug gave a sigh of relief and headed back to its home to do whatever it is that bugs do.

This left The Whale and Big Foot. A coin was flipped and Carl lost; this meant he had to go first.

Carl gulped and eased The Whale up to the line and peered up at the hill. It was almost a football field long and made entirely of a zillion tons of gravel dumped in a giant heap.

How steep was it? Well, as steep as you can stack gravel and not have it slide back down to level ground. Some said it was 45 degrees. Carl figured it was more like 89 degrees from horizontal.

Off to the side with the spectators, Emma knitted furiously. She was making a delightful sock out of red yarn. But she was so nervous that it was more than likely the only sock in the entire state of Ohio with five fingers knitted into the heel.

Carl rolled his window down and spit his plug of chewing tobacco out of the window, depositing the 3,812th stain on the side of The Whale since he had bought it years ago.

Most everything was tied down properly or removed from the inside of The
Whale. Carl didn't need any more stuff flying around on the inside of the cab while trying to climb this killer hill.

Carl gulped, checked to make sure the 4-WD lever was in four low, then slipped the trans into gear. The 454 under the hood howled and four tires threw rooster tails.

All too soon, The Whale was slanted sharply uphill. All Carl could see was blue sky and the occasional banner off to the side. He hit the first bad bump on the hill and the screws holding the gun rack to the roof ripped loose from the particle board backing.

Guns were rattling around inside the cab like ping pong balls in a bingo cage. A shot rang out and a chunk of the windshield exploded. Then a half dozen more shots barked through the cab as the guns jangled around in a tangled heap.

Carl ducked down as far as he could to avoid getting his head blown off as
the inside of The Whale sounded more and more like a Rambo movie.

All of a sudden, things felt strange. Gravity was either getting weird, or, or ... The Whale was heading back down the hill at full throttle!

Spectators and Officials alike scattered as The Whale charged back toward the starting line. Amazingly, Carl didn't hit anyone on his way into the mud bog.

The Whale eventually came to a halt up to the door handles in the deepest part of the slime. One last gun shot rang out, then Carl climbed out of the window, visibly shaken.

The officials calmed everyone down and got order restored. The signal was given to the driver of Big Foot to start up and make his run. A puzzled look came over the driver's face as the engine refused to turn over. A quick check was made on the battery connections and all of the ignition parts. Everything checked out just fine, but the engine would not even rotate the slightest bit.

An official looked at his watch. "Big Foot, you got 15 minutes to get that thing fired up, or forfeit the run."

Carl sidled over to Emma. "Typical Ford. Never starts when you really need them to."

The clock ticked by and Carl was named the winner of the hill climb. Disgruntled, the Big Foot crew loaded up and headed back to the shop. Two days later, they would find a bullet lodged right between the block and the timing gear.

Carl accepted his trophy and the $25,000 first place check, with a possum-eating grin. He turned to Emma, gave her a hug and said, "Well, looks like I had me a pretty good payday here. Twenty five big ones. Whaddaya think, honey pot?"

"I think were going to be lucky to break even. I did a rough estimate on the damage to the boat, the satellite, the trail bikes, the awnings and the interior of The Whale. Add a new paint job, body work and a windshield, and you might have made eighteen bucks. Tops. Now can we please load this mess up and get to Uncle Howard's before he passes away from old age?"

"Sure, Emma. One thing first, though. I saw this in a Marlon Brando movie once. Now looks like the perfect time to do it. Should impress Old Uncle Howard."

With that, Carl duct taped the big trophy to the hood of The Whale and pointed the battered and bruised rig toward Uncle Howard's House.