The trigger man was none other than spiritual enabler and suit-wearing homeboy Pete Dawes, who convinced a producer buddy in New York that we were a CRACK TELEVISION PRODUCTION CREW, steeped in race car ka-nowledge, with guts of steel and hearts like giant blue oxen- and under this guise we slid into position to document for TNN the Car and Driver Cannonball Run One Lap of America Road Race television show. That's right, em effers: the Cannonball Run. (At the last minute, thankfully, the majority of the production was handed over to a real crew for documentation, and our yob became to simply enter the race and film things from a personal, in-seat perspective. This was a much better scenario, for everyone involved.)

Now, fuck if my sexual development wasn't yumpstarted by the glorious silver screen sight of two leather yumpsuited tarts burning pigs in their Lambo Countach- the cleavaged images resonate in my libido to this day, and Burt Reynolds and Captain Chaos and that drunk doctor and the Japanese Jackie Chan and the rest of the bar-fighting, smokey smokin' crew from the Cannonball Run movie left an indelible impression on my young psyche. I'd always dreamed of racing cross country like those guys, and now I was about to get paid to do so. It was fucking on.

Of course, real life is not like the movies. First of all, the Cannonball run is no longer an illegal, balls out, cross country road race (as it, historically, once was). The Cannonball Run is now an official, sponsored (primarily by Car and Driver Magazine) timed road race 5000 miles in a lap around a large chunk of America. Approximately 100 teams entered, each with a single car they were to drive 24 hours a day for 9 days, from race track to race track, participating in time trials. There are numerous classes of cars, from high-end super-tuned street rods to budget beaters, and the drivers range from professional instructors to nerdy car afficionados. It is a test of skill, equipment, and endurance.

Here's where it gets fucked up. First of all, we had no legit race driving experience. You were supposed to have at least graduated a Skip Barber-style program, and we were promised a private weekend doing just that, but last minute arrangements didn't allow for it. Secondly, we didn't have a car, and were at the mercy of whatever promotion-hungry investor wanted to toss us a free ride. We wanted something big, and fast. Supercharged Cadillac limo? Police package Caprice on dubs? Nope. As luck would have it, we got the single gayest car out there, the one biscuit-looking retro goofball machine that we literally asked NOT to get: a PT Cruiser. And not just any PT Cruiser, but a purple one with fake wood paneling, flaming dashboard, and a surfboard bolted onto the roof. Holy shit. And we were supposed to race this stock engined, 4 cylinder, automatic transmissioned, pee-nightmare on professional race tracks, assuming we weren't laughed out of the place.

But you don't look a gift car in the mouth, and we dutifully accepted. We were getting paid, after all. We hired on good buddy Joe Aguirre as our cameraman, who earned the moniker "Beer Paw", and did more than his share of drinking and groping from day one. Chris Koh, Pete Dawes' right-hand man, somehow got pulled into the mix as "producer", and the poor Penfold-esque (a la Dangermouse) Harvard graduate was forced to endure 9 straight days of Sakebomb excess. It nearly fried his brain, and he too acquired a new alias, "Kohcaine". Then there was Paul, steady rocking; and me, Shewchuk, to carry the team flag and do most of the on-track driving. (Which brings up a funny point: I had to show up a day late to the production, meeting everyone in Indianapolis [the actual race started and ended in Rochester, New York] because of a court appearance, and I was technically out on bail the entire trip. Woah, fuck the man!)

So we had the slowest car and the least experienced driver, but that didn't stop us from having a good time. We partied the whole way, were physically threatened and nearly thrown out for driving on the track with beer in hand in Oaklahoma, broke trail and skipped a couple courses for a long crawdad detour in New Orleans, airbrushed our faces on the hood of the car, ate great food, grew mustaches, made new friends, saw new places, and basically lived the dream. Most of the other racers didn't really dig our vibe and assumed we were from "MTV's Jackass", but we didn't give a fuck. The laughter never stopped. We shot tons of footage, although only about 1 minute of it was used on the Car and Driver Magazine television show. Rather than let everything go to waste, we've put up a 3 minute trailer here. Someday, perhaps for our Shotgun TV series, we will edit it together in a real, full-show format. For now, just feel the vibe and imagine the breeze on your hungover ass face. Also check out the tour diary; Chris wrote a journal that, unfortunately, was way too long, so I cut out some of the better clips and posted them here with photos that Joe took at a few stops along the way.

Extra thanks to Joe and Chris, Pete D., and Mr. Ben Tatta: the money man behind this whole thing. Ta Ta proved himself a far more belligerent troublemaker than any of us- if we'd spent any more time with him, tossing money and bad ideas at us, the car would have been in flames, the strippers would be dead in the trunk, and we all would have been in jail. I don't know if we'll ever be invited on the Cannonball again, but there can only be good things in our future with this guy on our team. Bring it. As far as Cannonball 2002: we escaped without incarceration or serious bodily injury, didn't crash, didn't place dead last, and have a gang of new stories to tell our grandkids about living the good life. Chalk up another victory for Sakebomb.

Hammer down.

-Shewchuk

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