Carl quickly broke camp as Emma did the dishes, then went out to inspect Ivan's truck. "Say, Ironbutt, that there's a funny looking truck you got there. Ain't enough room in the back for a sheet of plywood. Hope you didn't pay too much for that unit. What's it worth, anyways?"

Ivan smiled. "Oh, I'd guess maybe four or five hundred thousand at the outside. Of course, the radio's extra."

Carl let out a low whistle. "Hooooeeee'. Man, you coulda got a whole bunch of Suburbans for that kind of money. And you can only get one person in the front. Whattsa matter? They charge you extra for seats?"

Ivan bit his lip to keep a straight face. "You see, Carl, this is a special kind of racing machine. It's made to do one thing, and that's to go fast over bumpy ground."

Carl scratched his chin. "That means you gotta have some good shock igsorbers under them fenders."

"You mean shock 'absorbers ..."

"Yeah, that's what I said. All them races affect your hearing or something? Anyways, I found that if you can't afford a good set of Ranchos, you can take some Monroe Adjusto-matics like they used to run on El Caminos and drill a hole in 'em and take the old oil out and pour in some Motor Honey instead. You can't hardly bottom them suckers then. No charge for that tip, Ironhead."

"Uh, yes... well, thanks Carl. Listen, why don't we get rolling here real soon. I want to get back into town and have my crew make some changes to the truck. Tell you what, I'll just go nice and slow and you hang back about a hundred yards so don't have to drive in the dust and..."

Carl cut in. "Listen up, Ironlips. Don't you worry none about me keepin' up. I got a 454 under the hood and it ain't exactly stock. Whadda you got? One of those four bangers? Or maybe a six? Your biggest problem will be worrying about me banging into your rear end if I can't get on the brakes quick enough. So you just get that Nissan up to speed and..."

"It's a Toyota..."

"That's what I said. Anyways, let's head for Enchilada and have a couple of manzanitas to cool us down."

"You mean margaritas and ... oh, never mind."

***

Ivan fired up the nasty sounding race truck and smoothly got under way. Carl lit off the 454 and threw up a fine looking pair of rooster tails.

Ivan drove easily and munched on some dried fruit as he enjoyed the sights of the rugged back country.

At the same time, Carl was hammering the throttle and yanking wildly on the steering wheel. Emma let out a squeal: "Carl, you slow The Whale down or I'm going to poke one of my eyes out with this knitting needle. How do expect me to finish this sweater if you drive like a wildman?"

Carl glanced over at Emma and yelled over the roar of the engine: "Hey, put that sheep hair away and keep your seat belts tight. This here's good practice if I up and decide to enter the Baja 600."

"You mean the Baja 500, dear."

"Yeah. That one, too, soon as I get done with the 600 first. Anyways, that Irongut fella can sure drive. It's takin' everything I got to stay with him."

Meanwhile, up front, Ivan was turning map pages with his right hand, while steering with his left and balancing a bag full of dried fruit on his lap. The Toyota had been in second gear for 20 minutes and the engine was burbling just above idle.

Back in The Whale, magazines were fluttering through the air, fishing rods were banging against the roof liner like limp celery, bags of chips were splitting open, Ace the Wonder Dog was yelping as his food bowl clonked him on the head, the refrigerator door flapped open and closed, the boat on the top clanked up and down and the chemical toilet started flushing itself every 20 seconds.

Up front, Ivan yawned and adjusted his sunglasses as the morning light streamed through his windshield. The ancient two-track road wandered through some canyons flanked by tall walls. Scrub brush and gnarly little cactus dotted the landscape here and there.

The odd looking team of vehicles crested a rise and before them the mighty Pacific Ocean came into view. It was a breathtaking sight. Ivan stopped and hopped out. Carl screeched up behind the Toyota and tumbled out of The Whale. A toaster, 11 magazines, five cans, a pair of binoculars, several fishing reels, one box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes, a jar of peanut butter, one tennis shoe and a medium-sized mutt fell out of the door well to the dusty ground.

Ivan pointed to the ocean, which was hundreds of feet below. "Thought you might enjoy the view."

Emma gushed. "Oh Carl, it's gorgeous! I don't think I've ever seen anything quite as beautiful!"

Carl bit off a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco and offered Ivan some, which he politely declined. "Yup. The Mighty Gulf of Mexico," said Carl. "It sort of takes your breath away."

Emma looked at Ivan and Ivan just held both hands at shoulder level, palms up, and didn't even bother to correct Carl.

Twenty minutes later, they intersected the main highway heading into Ensenada, where Ivan met his Toyota/PPI crew. Ivan gave directions to Carl on how to find the SCORE people who were running the race, and they shook hands and parted company.

Carl shifted his plug of chew from his right cheek to his left cheek. "Nice guy, that Elvis Stewart. Hope he does good in the race. Speaking of that, why don't we just wander down to find those SNORT officials and see what it takes to enter this here race?"

Emma got a worried look on her face. "I'm not so sure about this, dear. Racing is dangerous and the people who do it are professionals, maybe we shouldn't risk our rolling home-away-from-home?"

Carl let out a big booming laugh. "Hey, don't you worry none, honey pot. I'm sure these SNORT people wouldn't let some inexperienced yahoo out there on the course to mess up good drivers like me and old Ironbutt. Anyways, I got directions here and we're supposed to look up some guy named... let's see ... Sal Fish. He's the head of SNORT."

Carl and Emma eventually found the SCORE headquarters and asked for the boss. A tall man in a cowboy hat pointed. "That's him. Guy with the black mustache in the white shirt. His name is Sal Fish."

Carl wanderered (what else?) over and stuck out his hand. "Hidee doo, Mr. Shellfish. My name is Carl and I want you to take a look at my rig and see if I can enter your race?"

"Glad to meet you, Carl. By the way, the name is Sal. Sal Fish"

"Right. 'At's what I said. This sun got to your ears? So come on over here, Sailfish, and check out my truck."

"The name is Sal Fish."

"Right. Well, here it is, Al. Whattaya think? Is she ready to roll?"

"Sal. Please, the name is Sal. Hmmm, let me see here. We haven't had many race trucks with a boat on the roof and trail bike lashed to each end. And I don't think our tech inspectors would let you race with that satellite dish on the roof and all those rolled-up awnings on the sides."

"Hells-fire, Mr. Tuna, I know that!"

"Fish. The name is Fish. See if you can get it right. Tell you what, we couldn't let you race in the regular classes with a stove and fridge inside, but we do have a class that might fit you just fine. It's called our Safari class."

"Holdit, Flash. I don't wanna go for a stroll through the jungle. I came here to do some serious off-roading."

"Carl, this is serious stuff alright. The Safari Class starts after all the regular racers, and instead of racing each other, they're on a timed schedule. Show up late at a check, and you lose points; show up too early, and you lose points, too. The team with the least points wins. And you run on most of the same course as the pros. Simple as that."

Carl beamed. "I like it, Cal. That means that the missus can ride along with me as I go for the gold. Isn't that great, Emma? You get to be a big-time racer. Whattaya think?"

Emma let out a small squealing sound like someone had just rammed a sharp pencil up her nose.

Carl slapped Sal Fish on the back heartily. "This sounds like a great idea, Al. C'mon, take a break and me and Emma will buy you a manzanita.

***

Will Carl really enter the Baja 500 Safari Rally? Will Emma ride along with him? Will Mexico ever be the same again? Next month should reveal all these mysteries, and perhaps a few surprises. Stay tuned