Maybe it was the smell. Or, the lack of room. Perhaps the idea of being caught. Or the flies. Whatever the reason, we weren’t about to fall asleep in the porta-potty that cool, quiet morning just outside of Placerville.
3 am. Nobody else around the dirt track. Beer cans slid along the floor as we came to a stop in Lenny’s white-panel van. Ten of us were crammed inside. Mostly sitting on the bare, metal floor. Dave and Tim on the two unopened cases of beer. Me on a fender well. “Out! Let’s go.” Mike shouted after chugging another black and white labeled ‘BEER’. Ah, only the finest of brews for these under-age American boys.
“Where?” it was my first time to the Hangtown race track for motocross races and I didn’t have the $15 to pay for admission. “You don’t need no stinking ticket” Mikey assured me. “We’ll just jump the fence and hang out in the woods for a while before the races begin.” That seemed reasonable. It wasn’t the first time I had snuck into an event or property. And alcohol does increase bravery. Uh. or stupidity. Just a matter of perspective, I guess.
Lenny and Blake were the experts. Both had been racing for a while. It was their idea to head to Hangtown for the weekend to watch the races. They weren’t about to sneak in though. No, they wouldn’t chance missing the races and, besides, the real fun was to see how Mikey, Mark, and I were going to sneak in. It always seemed to work that way. Those two came up with exciting ideas of how everyone else should risk their lives, jail, or at least embarrassment. And I was suckered in for it every time. This morning was no different.
Our plan was simple. Hop the fence, head to the far back corner of the track and wait for the morning light. Then we would. Well, we would figure something out. We gulped down a couple more luke-warm generic beers and headed east, away from the van, and the ticket booths. Mark, Bill, Mikey, and I would meet up with the others after the gates opened. Somewhere along the line, Mikey and I were separated from the others. It didn’t matter. We had a mission.
Honestly, I don’t recall much of what happened. We heard something and naturally assumed that we were being pursued by wild attack dogs, or mountain lions or banjo-playing hillbillies. Whatever it was, we were not about to be taken prisoners. We ran. Fast. Blindly. Right up to the moment when there was only air under our feet.
Thud! Oomph! “Aw crap!” Yeah, Mikey actually said crap. Not “aw shit”. I knew that was bad. The dirt under the golden, dry grass was soft. Or, I was drunk enough to not know if I was hurt. I rolled over on my back and gazed up at the stars. Well, maybe the impact of falling off a six-foot embankment was the real reason I was seeing stars. Anyway, I took inventory of my body, decided that nothing was out of place, and should check on Mikey. “dude, you alive?” “Uggh, I think so. What the hell?”
A few moments later we were on our feet. Just not so fast now. Time for a new plan. It was getting closer to daybreak and we were sore and a bit cold. Giving up was never an option. What we needed was a real hiding place. Somewhere guaranteed we would be inside of the arena without getting caught. Mikey stopped to pee. “That’s it! I shouted. The shitter. There’s a bunch of them scattered around this place. We’ll just hang out until the races start.”
“NO. FUCK. NO. I am not hanging out, crammed into a stinking shitter for who knows how long, with you or anyone else. That’s just sick. I’m not that drunk.” Mikey insisted. “alright smart guy, what then?”
The first porta-potty was an instant “no way!” Twenty minutes later there was a slight touch of red reaching out of the eastern sky. We were running out of time.
Your standard porta-potty has far less room than I remembered. We weren’t smashed together or anything, but it doesn’t take long for that unsettling feeling of being claustrophobic to grab you by the throat. Especially with that strange, blue-water smell digging at your nostrils for a while. And, just exactly how do you pass the time, in a locked porta-potty, with another guy, for hours? You have to be quiet. Can you imagine being caught? A big ol’ redneck sheriff officer grabs you by the collar and says, “Uh, what in damnation are you two up to in there? NO. I don’t want to know. You’re coming with me.” So you just stand there. For two torturous hours. Waiting. Swatting at flies you can’t see.
Waiting on sunrise was not so bad. That was no more than about 40 minutes. Waiting for the right time to get out. Painful. Brutally painful. How do you decide when the right time is? And then there’s plenty of time to think about all the horrible things that could wrong. Like, someone decides to move the porta-potty and we get dumped on. So gross. “Shit!”
The knocking was pretty intense. Now what? How do we explain this? What the hell were we thinking? “Open up. Sherriff’s dept. You’re under arrest for trespassing.” Funny dick-weed. Real funny. Mikey quipped as he pushed past me. Blake was bent over cracking himself up while Lenny was looking out nervously. It was so good to see the sun and breath fresh air.
The races were a blast. Even with a slight hangover. Some food, later on, would certainly help that. I wonder who would be up for a ‘grit-n-split’?