Laura Lansberry
Laura Lansberry
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In September of [the year the Corvair caught fire] my brother dropped by the house and asked if I would help him in a road rally. He had made a bet with a buddy at work, one experienced in road rallies, that we would come in ahead of his buddy's team. Road rallies, something that neither my brother nor I had participated in before, are controlled by a set of cryptic instructions that must be figured out and followed on a time schedule. Everyone is scored relative to a test car previously driven on the same route, and the closer you come to the exact time of the test car, the better your score. I was underwhelmed and reluctant, and agreed only after my brother assured me I wouldn't have to dress as a man. Driving a once wrecked 1972 LTD, using the car clock for a time control device, we waited patiently for the race to begin. Some of the contestants had sophisticated timing devices and other fancy equipment. We were out of our depth . . . so everyone thought, including me. Brother drove and I, the navigator, read and deciphered the instructions. The route took about an hour and a half as it wound around in a crazy snakelike pattern all over the streets of Phoenix. Beginner's luck or inordinate skill, we'll never know (although brother and I like to imagine it was inordinate skill), but when the checkpoint times were computed we were seventeen seconds off of the exact time. Our closest competition was a professional competitor who was off by one minute and thirty two seconds. Upon hearing the news my brother jumped up and down, yahooing like a banshee, and acting like a crazy man. He had won his five dollar bet, but more than won the bet, we had taken first place. A private perspective: Brother asked me if I wanted to do it again next month. I looked at him and laughed, ``What and take a chance on losing?'' ``Yeah, you're right!'' he agreed. ``Retire winners! Never having lost a road rally!'' Clever indeed! Retired Champions! Undefeated! |