No, there's something more sinister at work here. It's not just a desire to go fast in general, either. People devise the most interesting and absurd methods for going fast. It's not good enough to break the sound barrier in the air; we've got to strap two tons of jet engines on a concrete-wheeled car and break the barrier on land too!
And so, by way of these examples we come to the strange and obscure world of hydroplane racing. Just who in fact came up with the idea of going really fast on the water is in dispute. Some say that it was William Fingledingledonglewongle who in 1908 strapped himself to a cannon shell and had his friends submerge him 20 feet below the Menongahila river before firing the bloody thing and killing him instantly. Others say that it was Ralph Flappdangle-Sibbleretching, who in 1910 stationed himself in the bowl of a catapult and launched himself over 200 yards into the Yakima river, killing himself instantly upon impact.
No matter who decided that it would be a good idea to go really fast on top of water, the simple fact is that there are only nine maniacs in America willing to strap themselves inside of what are essentially carbon-fiber coffins attached to jet engines, and hurtle themselves across rivers around America in an attempt to find out just which of them is the most insane. Oh, and there's one more guy who does it too, but his boat is piston powered, and thus spews more natural internal combustion engine based pollution.
Really, it's all a bit silly when you get right down to it. While Nascar is a ludicrous sport in which gear heads drive around a circle at over 200 miles per hour, at least they attain respectable speeds. The folks who drive hydroplanes are lucky if they can get up to 160 miles per hour, the sport's current world record speed.
So why, exactly, do these folks want to race around a freezing cold river in Washington State vying for the non-existent renown of becoming the sport's champion for a year? I sure don't know why. Maybe they all have ridiculous amounts of money to waste. Or maybe they bear an unshakable grudge against the environment, and enjoy spewing incredible amounts of air pollution while chopping fish into ribbons with their turbo props.
At least in other sports there are typically more than 10 competitors that show up for most races. After I witnessed the 2003 Columbia Cup, I feel I can safely say that there are really only six competitors in the sport anyway. It's like having a contest to see which of your fingers is longest: No matter what the competition entails, you'll always end up flipping yourself off in the end.
Those last four guys are just a big ball of suck. At the very bottom, there's Doctor Ken Muskatane, who is a forensic Psychologist by day, and a horrible boat racer by weekend. Just above him, there's the team that races the boat formerly known as the Miss American Dream. Of course, they're no longer called that: the boat is now called the Miss Tony Roma. Yummy! I suppose I don't need to point out the irony of the only American themed boat in the tournament selling its soul due to a lack of funding.
After watching these boats compete for a large metallic cup for two days this past July, I can safely say that the real draw here is the liquor. I joined a fairly famous group of race fans called Porko's Pals. It's a wonderful bunch of white folks from all over the Tri-Cities area that get together to drink heavily, watch some shiny hydroplanes go in circles around the Columbia river, and then drink some more.
Porko's Pals has the right idea here. They bring tons of food and alcohol down to the riverside and proceed to bet blind stinking plowed from 6 AM until 5 PM, when the races end. Then they go home and get tore up before passing out and getting up to do it all again the next day. This ain't no college party: these folks are all grown up and they know how to do this properly. Frankly, watching Porko's Pals race to the depths of intoxication is far more enjoyable than watching the boats. It's a shame there isn't a more exciting event for these folks to watch: they surely deserve better than this.
Of course, it any of Porko's Pals is reading this, they'll be quite pissed that I'm bad mouthing the races: It's the only thing that happens in the Tri-Cities area that doesn't involve frying eggs on cars or refining plutonium. If I attend next year, I'll receive a good deal of shit, I'm sure. Perhaps I should arrive in the afternoon when everyone's well into the silly sauce. Anyway, check out the Porko's Pals picture pages I've set up. They're full of some great shots of the fans, and a couple boring pictures of small red blips shooting water behind them. The blips are the hydroplanes, and they're just as exciting to watch in person as they are on the website.
Let me lay out a general description of the races themselves for those of you that don't have the "Circular Pattern Racing Channel" or ESPN7, 8, or 9:
The announcer shouts over the PA that the five minute countdown has begun, and five neon colored hyrdoplanes come racing out onto the river from the docks up by the blue bridge connecting tri-city number one (Kenewick) to tri-city number two (Pasco). These boats then race around a bunch of white bouys in a circle, sending huge plumes of water into the sky behind them as they burn insane amounts of jet fuel to propel themselves at speeds that any respectable motorcycle could attain in third gear.
Then, as the five minutes begin to pass, all five boats have to time their laps so that when the timer runs out, they're right on the starting line. If not, they'll be way behind everyone else and have to catch up. This timing play is the only part of the race that really seems to require any skill. After they've started, they do five laps around a 1 mile course. Woopdy fucking do. There's more excitement in a bag of stale marshmellows. And Travis knows what I'm talking about here!
So the race has begun, and Miss Budweiser goes way out in front, and the piston engine powered Miss Vacationville.com overtakes Miss Grand Central Casino, Miss Lower Dakota Area Pawn Shop and Repossession Agency, and Miss LLumar Window Film. I wish I was making up all those names. In truth, only one of them is false; guess which one!
But in these heady days of Bush induced recession and what with the price of Jet A being what it is, there's just not enough money left for anyone to race one of these boats without selling their souls to Sears Deck Refinishing and Sanding. But you've got to admit, Miss Oh Boy! Oberto has quite a ring to it!
But back on the river, the race is almost over, and the spectators are all three quarters past drunk. By now, there are strangers fucking in the river, and Dr Ken "Suck" Muskatel is six laps behind everyone else because he's a fucking pussy. There's only five damned laps, Dr. Sucko! I guess it's just fun to get out there, suck pelicans into your engine, and blow four hundred gallons of air polluting Jet A for no god damn reason other than to fight over last place in a competition of ten fucking people!
But there is a silver lining to this story. Two of them actually. You see, Miss Budweiser almost always wins these races because the beer company actually has money to put into these ridiculous boats. But there are two reason Budweiser didn't get the cup this year: First, their driver, Dave Villwock lost two fingers in an accident a couple years back, and second, Villwock's an egotistical loser!
Three finger Villwock is quite an interesting character to meet. When he signs autographs, he always shows up early because his gimpy affliction prevents him from reliably signing his name on items without careful preparation. But hey, just think Dave, you lost those fingers participating in the sport you love: going 150 miles an hour in a circle around a river lined with people who are having a lot more fun drinking than watching you and your boat burn in a shattered wreck on the water.
So this year was a win for the fans in that N. Mark Evans (The N stands for Nuts) and his fabulous Miss LLumar Window Film won the competition by a couple of boat lengths. However, it was a loss for the fans in that no one flipped their boat over. Seriously, this is the only time anyone gets really excited about the races when not at a liquor store preparing.
So the next time you see someone peeling out in a Nascar race, or watch someone try to break the land speed record on the salt flats of Nevada, just remember: somewhere in America are ten guys going relatively slow across an otherwise calm lake in an attempt to prove which of the four of them that are competitive can go fastest without losing two fingers in a violent, fiery wreck.