On race day, we unveiled the soapbox racers to the base. Some cars had headlights, license plates, and simulated dashboard gauges. The silver grille of Number 31 sported a faux Mercedes emblem. The nose of another car bore bloodshot eyes and sharp teeth. Two teams had crafted sleek vehicles resembling Formula 1 racers. The largest vehicle, fittingly numbered 01, resembled a monster truck. Slathered with bright orange paint, it featured exhaust pipes, a jumbo steering wheel, an air intake on the hood, and a rear-mounted rack for all four team members’ safety helmets. A team of aircraft mechanics designed its entry to resemble a C-130 cargo hauler, complete with green paint, tiny wings, and a pilot’s control wheel. Two little propellers jutted from each wing. Stenciled on the side was U.S. AIR FORCE.
Parked near the mini-C-130 was the most melancholy-looking racer of the bunch, the Flintstone-mobile, its chassis covered with leopard-print fabric. Taped to the seat was a piece of paper that read “Racers needed for this car! Team members are being forward deployed,” a sobering reminder that a war still raged around us. At the last minute an ad-hoc group adopted the Flintstone car to drive in the race.
We hosted a short opening ceremony, played the national anthem, and a volunteer emcee fired the starter pistol. Jockeying for position, roaring ahead at the breakneck speed of 12 mph, the competitors dashed around the camp. The C-130 car was a green blur, its driver anxiously gritting his teeth as he steered the vehicle. At each quarter-mile, the driver and pusher jumped away from the car to be replaced by other team members. During one switch, a car careened sideways, requiring the replacement driver to chase it down the street until he was able to grab the steering wheel and maneuver back on course.
Flying over the occasional speed bump, a few drivers watched helplessly as accessories flew off and wheels disintegrated beneath them. A hasty yank on the hand brake could cause a minor traffic pileup. Over the next two hours, the better-designed racers rose to the top as the less fortunate were rolled to the side. The C-130 zoomed through heat after heat, its cardboard propellers spinning enthusiastically in the wind. The Flintstone car, wheels askew and leopard skin in shreds, begged to be put out of its misery. As it crossed the finish line, its left rear wheel popped off and the vehicle skidded to a halt. Unfazed, the driver thrust his arms in the air and cheered in mock victory. In the final heat, a soapbox racer sculpted like a bullet broke the tape at the finish line. We applauded the winning team, but more importantly, there were a lot of happy faces that afternoon. Later, the derby racers found new drivers: the children in the local village.