Post by Ryan Smith on Oct 31, 2009 15:37:34 GMT -5
29 of 53 DOCUMENTS
The Washington Post
January 22, 1996, Monday, Final Edition
Correction Appended
Revvin' Heaven; Monster Trucks, the Big Wheels of the Racing World
Frank Ahrens, Washington Post Staff Writer
SECTION: STYLE; Pg. B01
LENGTH: 2173 words
The spotlight tracks Ron Nelson as he runs over the hard-packed clay floor of USAir Arena. His hands are thrust upward in "No. 1" signs. His blond hair flops from under a ball cap and a broad smile breaks over his face. He's got the jitters, but it doesn't show.
"And now, the driver of GrrrrAVE Digger," the announcer booms. The cheers pour down, nearly drowning him out. "From Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina -- Ron NELson!"
Nelson climbs up on the five-foot-high, 1,200-pound left front tire of his car-crunching monster truck. The spotlight glints off its sinister black-and-green graveyard-motif paint job. Nearby, motorcycle riders bow to Nelson in a we-aren't-worthy homage, because Grave Digger is the Michael Jordan of monster trucks. Ten thousand people keep cheering. The music plays. Nelson pumps his fists.
It is Friday night. All around Nelson is dark. He alone is in the light. This is his big shot. And it came at just the right time.
Is there anything more American than monster trucks and the men who drive them?
This is a nation of perpetual tinkerers, and a nation where size has always mattered, so it makes sense that America would be the birthplace of monster trucks. These guys are Thomas Edison with serious horsepower.
This past weekend, more than 30,000 people paid up to $ 16 apiece to watch three monster truck shows at USAir Arena. They were there to see their favorites -- Nitemare II, American Guardian, Equalizer and, of course, Grave Dig-ger. They were there to see massive $ 150,000 ear-piercing machines in a full-throttle, fossil-fuel-be-damned display of automuscle engineering.
And, by their presence, they were celebrating the first American, lost now to lore, who one day walked out of his house, eyed his pickup as he had a thousand times before, but this time thought: "Hmmmm. You know, I could jack that baby up on some tractor tires, lift the axles, put a new rear end on, blow the engine and run over some stuff."
Monster truck shows are a combination of the ancient love of racing and the promotion of the World Wrestling Federation. They are advertised as competitions with point standings and are sanctioned by the U.S. Hot Rod Associa-tion, but they are mostly a big, loud, instant-gratification spectacle. In short, what we, as Americans, do best. The first famous monster truck -- Big Foot -- crunched Japanese imports in Michigan in the mid-'70s when Ford and General Motors were laying off Detroit auto workers by the score. That is the history.
On the floor of USAir Arena, more than 700 cubic yards of clay from a nearby dirt yard have been packed down to a depth of about six inches. At one end, two rows of five white "crush cars" are parked side by side, wedged between dirt ramps. Two monster trucks -- Grave Digger and Above & Beyond -- start their engines for the first run. Nothing -- not walking next to a jackhammer, not strolling on a tarmac behind a 747 -- can prepare you for the thunderous howl. Thousands of fingers get stuck into ears. Some veteran spectators have brought shooting-range-style headsets.
In the cockpit of Grave Digger, his head 10 feet off the ground, Nelson sits in a flame-retardant suit. His left hand is on the steering wheel, which steers the front, and his right is on the toggle switch that steers the rear. Below is the three-speed automatic transmission shifter. A sprinkler-type fire extinguisher system is deployed throughout the cockpit. A radio is mounted to the right -- it is linked to a remote control held by officials who can shut off the truck's engine at the first sign of danger. Nelson is strapped into the single seat with five harnesses and surrounded by roll bars. ("I couldn't get hurt unless I fell out of the sky at 300 miles an hour," he says.) In his helmet he hears little noise because the engine is behind him. But the truck vibrates.
He pulls to the starting line, the crush cars lined up before him. Grave Digger's red headlights glare. Above & Beyond idles 30 feet to Nelson's right. From a standing start, they will have 25 feet to accelerate before they hit the ramp and fly over the cars. The object of the race is to reach the orange pylon beyond the fifth car before the other truck does.
A starter standing between the two trucks points to each driver, and gets the thumbs-up. The starter then points to the red light at the far end of the arena. Seconds later, it goes green.
All hell breaks loose.
Nelson and the other driver smash down on the throttle. The engines shriek in an even-louder crescendo. You are sure blood is trickling from your ears. You feel the rumble in your chest. You love it. Eight half-ton wheels feel the surge of 1,500 horsepower (your car probably has about 100) and begin spinning in place. Chunks of clay fly everywhere. Then the tires catch and the trucks actually hop off the ground and rocket forward, like Wile E. Coyote. They go from zero to 40 mph in 25 feet. Nelson wrestles with the wheel, straining to keep all that power under control. In a few seconds, two five-ton trucks are 20 feet in the air, describing a graceful arc, listing slightly in flight like overloaded bombers. The fans howl. Maybe they are thinking: "Wouldn't it be great to get one of these out on the Beltway?"
The trucks crash down, front tires first, and bounce on mighty shock absorbers. Above & Beyond's back tires have crunched the last car; Grave Digger cleared them all cleanly. On this one jump, Nelson's truck has just sucked down five gallons of alcohol fuel, which burns hotter than gasoline. Grave Digger's engine sounds a little different than the others -- it is a tight, clean, sharp roar. Nelson stops the truck and pumps his left hand out of the window. No. 1, he sig-nals.
"Grave Digger, I love you, man!" a teenager shouts.
Grave Digger will lose in the next round to American Guardian, a truck flying two U.S. flags and a POW-MIA flag. But later it will win the freestyle competition, which is judged by audience applause. In between truck races are motocross races around the dirt floor, a quad-runner grudge-match and the sideshow of the night: the Flores family of San Antonio, ninth-generation circus motorcyclists. They haul out a 14-foot-diameter spherical steel cage. Inside go not one, not two, but three Floreses, who begin racing round and round -- upside down, sideways, weaving impossibly among each other. And, standing at the bottom, in the middle of the maelstrom, 16-year-old Frances Flores, untouched.
Switching Trucks
Monster trucks are trucks in name only. These are high-tech, ultra-high-performance racing vehicles built from the ground up, designed to accelerate like the wind, launch into the sky and crash down on puny little cars like yours.
You, for instance, might throw a belt. The transmission of a monster truck, on the other hand, is wrapped in a bul-letproof jacket like the police wear, because they sometimes explode into shrapnel under the immense strain.
You could not drive a monster truck. Ron Nelson is an expert at it. It is his art.
Nelson, 37, is from Conroe, Tex. Like most of the men in this white-male-dominated business (there are four fe-male monster truck drivers among the 150 or so on the circuit), he grew up racing. Motocross, mostly. He worked for the power company for 11 years, drove semis, did construction. Whatever it took to feed his wife and two kids and meet the bills on his 11-acre spread. Then, one day a few years back, his wife introduced him to a man with a monster truck. For a guy who had spent his life around engines and grease and speed, it seemed like the next step. And like a way out.
So he bought a truck -- paid $ 80,000 for it and put another $ 50,000 into it -- and tried to get booked at shows. It's a tight season -- February through April indoors, and outdoor shows in the summer. Plus, there are the extra costs -- you've got to have a semi to haul it, a trailer to put it in.
But you get into the community and you get to know guys. One day back in June at a show in Colorado, Nelson was sitting in Bustin' Loose, the truck he then owned. Another pulled in next to him and hit the jake brake -- emitting the ratchet-down growl you hear trucks make on interstate off-ramps. Nelson recognized the sound right away -- it was Dennis Anderson, owner of Grave Digger. The two hit it off and palled around. Grave Digger may have been the No. 1 monster truck, but Anderson was a regular guy.
They kept in touch. At a show in July in North Carolina, Nelson's transmission exploded. Anderson lent him a bay at his huge Kill Devil Hills shop and the parts for the repair.
But times turned sour. Nelson wasn't getting shows. The bills started backing up. In November, Bustin' Loose was repossessed. Nelson called Anderson and asked if any shows were coming up that would book his truck, if he could get it out of hock.
Then came the words that changed his life.
"Why don't you come drive for me?"
"My jaw just liked to hit the ground," Nelson says. "I couldn't believe he thought me of high enough caliber to drive his truck."
Nelson moved to Kill Devil Hills and became one of four drivers of four Grave Diggers that do shows around the country. This year, he will make $ 100,000. He knows that when he's introduced and runs out in the spotlight, the fans are really cheering the truck. But that's okay. He is immensely grateful.
"I tell you, it takes me an hour or two to come down after a race," he says, his green eyes flashing hard and bright. His face is fine-boned and handsome. His nose points just a little leeward. Broken?
Nelson laughs.
"Oh, yeah. It's all plastic inside."
He was racing motocross a couple years back, cleared a dirt jump but came down wrong. The handlebar crushed his nose.
"I had the paramedics stuff that wrap up in there," he says, laughing again, "and went back to racing."
Autographed Tummies
Who comes to monster truck rallies?
A survey done at a show in Dallas last April says the average spectator is a 32-year-old married man with kids and a household income of $ 34,000. He is 80 percent likely to own a Ford or Chevy truck and to do his own maintenance; 75 percent likely to wear boots. He listens to country-and-western or rock-and-roll, but not Top 40. He came to the show with friends or family, probably children -- 38 percent of all fans are under 18. This is probably not his first show. He visits a convenience store 5.2 times a week and eats fast food four times a week. He drinks a lot of soda but only a six-pack or less of beer a week. If he smokes (53 percent), he probably smokes Marlboro (74 percent). He goes to con-certs or football games. He sees monster truck shows in New York City, in Detroit, in San Antonio, in San Diego, in Seattle. And his favorite truck is either Grave Digger (43 percent) or Big Foot (37 percent).
In the second row at USAir Arena, cheering on Grave Digger, is the Rebosky family, who drove down from Pennsylvania to see Friday's show. They came last year, and have seen Grave Digger at the "Diggerworld" gift shop and nascent theme park in Kill Devil Hills last summer.
Three-year-old blond Billy is wearing huge headphones and pointing. He is at that age when all boys are transfixed by trucks. Next will be dinosaurs. His father, Bill Rebosky, still likes trucks. Pam, his wife, talks about what a great family show it is. And daughter Danielle, 14, is surprised there are so many fans her age.
"I thought they would find something more interesting to do," she says, though after the show she gleefully offers that she "loved it."
At intermission, some teenage girls from Severna Park High School have something interesting to do -- they're get-ting their stomachs signed by motocross drivers.
"We've been doing sit-ups for two months," says Jess Adams, 17.
Ani Morgan, 17, pulls up her sunflower T-shirt to reveal "Tony Watkins #16." "You have to be a part of the essence of the truck rally," she says.
Man and Machine
The show has ended and a blue fog of exhaust hangs near the roof. It smells like a thousand lawn mowers have been running.
And, over in a corner, about 200 spectators pack an aisle, waiting to get Ron Nelson's autograph. It's like he's Cal Ripken.
He stands and signs, patiently, over the picture of Grave Digger in the program.
A group of teenage boys jostle down. One wears a Grave Digger ball cap over a red bandanna. His jeans ride low and his blue boxers are visible. He is shirtless. On his chest, in black marker, is written: "GRAVE DIGGA." On his left forearm, "U.S.A." On his right, "JESUS." He climbs on a buddy's shoulders as Nelson tries to disengage from the crowd.
"Hey, Grave Digger! You're gonna miss your biggest fan, man!" He thrusts his arms up and his ribs poke out. He doesn't know who Ron Nelson is. To him, he is simply Grave Digga, a fusion of man and machine.
Nelson sees him and waves. He stays and signs some more. He knows this is his shot. It's got to last.
LOAD-DATE: January 22, 1996
LANGUAGE: ENGLISH
CORRECTION-DATE: January 23, 1996
CORRECTION: In a Style story yesterday on monster trucks, a young fan in the audience was misidentified. Her name is Ani Mason.
GRAPHIC: Photo, dudley m. brooks, Monster truck fans Brendan Sheehan, with "Grave Digga" written on his chest, and his buddy Danny Perez. Grave Digger, a popular monster truck driven by Texan Ron Nelson, rolls over cars at the Monster Truck Jam at USAir Arena. Ron Nelson signs autographs after the monster truck show at USAir Arena.
Copyright 1996 The Washington Post
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