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Soapbox
Derby
Mount
Tabor Park
Southeast
60th Avenue and Salmon Street
Noon
Saturday-Sunday,
Aug. 19-20
$50
to race, free to watch
Since
its creation in 1933, more than a million youngsters have
participated in soapbox derbies.
Soapbox
cars weigh an average of 150 pounds and reach top speeds
of 19 to 30 mph.
In an
episode of The Simpsons called "Saturdays of Thunder,"
Homer thinks he's a rotten dad until he reunites the family
as a team for a soapbox derby.
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Would you trust yourself to build a "soapbox" car from scratch
and race it at unhealthy speeds, careening down a hill as
gravity works against you and sparks fly out of your costumed
ass?
Only if you've accepted Jesus as your personal savior and/or
you're one of the insane posse who feel it's their duty
to go all Puck once a year.
Meet Louis Todd. Maniac. Brainiac. Soapbox Jesse James.
Carpenter with a jones for ass-risking. Co-organizer of
an adult soapbox derby full of amateur, costumed daredevils.
Man who inspires others to spend 400 hours in the garage,
building and sanding the car of their childhood dreams.
Of the 15-plus racers taking the curves of Mount Tabor
Park this weekend, Todd's car, called "Lou's Woody," is
the most like the soapbox cars of yore. It's modeled after
the childhood roadsters that have been racing since the
1930s. (That's when a fun-loving Ohio newsman named Myron
Scott came upon a bunch of kids racing homemade cars down
a hill and turned the idea into an institution.) In a brisk
mutation of the soapbox ideal, Todd and his arrested-development
crew of slacker sportsmen have modified the simple children's
race into a more "mature" adult event. It's a beer-friendly
mini-Olympics of Oly, speed and fun.
Anyone can do it.
The rules for the car are simple: (1) no motor; (2) at
least three wheels; (3) some type of brakes--no fair using
your feet, à la Fred Flintstone; (4) the driver must
wear a helmet; (5) a push at the top is allowed for extra
speed; and (6) materials must cost less than $300. Beyond
that, drivers are at the mercy of the winding course: hills,
dips, positioned hay bales, sharp cliffs and rock-hard pavement.
Building the car is the easy part. The hard part is racing.
"If someone wants to push my car up the hill, they can,"
says new racer Adrienne Feliciano of her virgin vehicle,
"Shit-Box." Feliciano, a bartender by night, still doubts
her car's road-worthiness. "I think I'm going to ride down
in a shopping cart," she says. "But I'm fine on the track
as long as I have brakes and a big hay bale to stop me."
This is not a child's race. Or Road Rules. Or even
the commercial sportsman's challenge of the street luge.
This is a hardcore race of speed--but it's not without a
sizable dose of humor.
Categories for derby prizes include such mainstays as Best
Art Car, Slowest Car and Best Costume, plus the grand prize
for Fastest Car (with a cash prize of $100). There's also
the Poker Race, in which racers pick up playing cards for
the best hand (the infamous "Road Rash Royal Flush") and
the soaking Road Warrior Gauntlet, an audience-participation
run in which fans pelt passing cars with water balloons.
"It's not about getting down first," says one racer of
the Gauntlet. "It's about getting down dry."
And getting down alive.
"There are many new racers this year," Todd says. "You're
going to see some serious jalopies out there for sure."
Todd has surrounded himself with some fierce competition,
a league of bar patrons and weekend warriors, including
new racer Todd Caspersen, 30, and his co-pilot Beth Ann.
They are the engineers of "El Diablo," a wooden scrapper
that Caspersen built himself after many trips to the hardware
store. "I've never raced before and never built a car,"
he says. "But I love tinkering around."
As the nemesis of "Lou's Woody," the devilishly bulky "El
Diablo" is unrivaled in its destructive power, Caspersen
warns: "I will crack his car like an egg. Be warned, single
car drivers: I have a bombardier!"
The event's original organizer, tattoo artist Paul Zenke,
began tinkering with the Portland derby in 1996. Since then
he has quit the racing helm, leaving the field open to another
hounding leader.
The Soapbox Alliance's newest "dude" is co-organizer James
Langen, owner of Beulahland. Together, Todd and Langen have
brought adult soapbox racing in Portland back from near
death and extended the length of the track to almost a full
mile.
Langen will pilot his own returning car, "Vlad the Impaler."
This shiny, sheet metal-armored contraption straight out
of a Mad Max movie comes complete with a piercing metal
prow. In addition to potentially destroying other cars,
Langen foresees all-around success with his Vlad ram.
Todd calculates that Langen and "Vlad" are the least of
his worries, however.
Other returning veterans--the mysterious "Trike Bike Guys"
(hands-down favorites) and similarly deranged speed freaks--also
pose a threat to "Lou's Woody."
And innumerable hazards lurk around every curve: injuries
like road rash and possible broken bones, exploding water
balloons, and other water-based track weapons (packed by
mischievous co-pilots and roadside fans) that sometimes
cause cars to slide out of control.
Todd insists these factors only add to the thrills and
are not (truly) dangerous.
"The only person that ever has got hurt doing this was
a guy walking down the hill who stepped in dogshit and broke
his ankle, so that doesn't really count," he says. "This
is about cheating death, and it's just plain fun."
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