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" THE RADIO-COMMUNICATIONS loudspeaker crackles across the Baja California desert. The caller&amp;#039;s voice--a scratchy, West Texas twang -- is laden with a you-will-not-believe-this quality. &amp;quot;BFG 1, this is vehicle three-four-niiine. We&amp;#039;re a couple miles out, and we will be making a pitstop. We&amp;#039;re going to need a welder. Repeat: a welder. BFG 1, do you copy?&amp;quot; Oh yes, 349, BFG 1 copies. And a welder is standing by, as unlikely as that may seem out here in the middle of nowhere, on the wide dirt shoulder of Mexico Federal Highway 3. BFG 1--the most northerly of BFGoodrich&amp;#039;s seven pitstops in the rugged Baja 1000 off-road race--consists of nothing more than a 24-ft. yellow and black delivery truck, a covered trailer filled with fuel cans and about three dozen spare tires, a handful of pickups and a scattering of tents. But on this bright November afternoon the place is buzzing with 18 volunteer &amp;quot;pitters&amp;quot; who are stoked to refuel and repair every vehicle that rolls into their dusty, makeshift, automotive ER. Spread out on folding tables along the front of the delivery truck are hand tools, socket sets, crowbars, wire-feed welders and 3-ton hydraulic jacks. There are tire-mount machines and pneumatic impact guns. There are spray cans of WD-40, Napa Brakleen, Zep&amp;#039;s Redi-Grease and Mac&amp;#039;s Carb Choke &amp;amp;amp; Throttle Body Cleaner. There are even fire extinguishers in case 349 comes in like a comet on fire. Hallefreakinlujah, they copy, 349! The vehicle turns out to be a modified Nissan Pathfinder painted in red, white and blue stripes, with a sticker across the top of the windshield that reads: God Is Awesome! It is one sorry-looking desert rig. The collapsed passenger-side suspension gives it a lowrider profile, while the jacked-up driver&amp;#039;s side has the feel of a pick-&amp;#039;em-up-truck. &amp;quot;This is going to be good,&amp;quot; says Wade Patton, a 17-year veteran of the Baja pits. Patton, who supervises a team of welders and fabricators at Senior Aerospace in El Cajon, near San Diego, hustles over to the welding area, where the rest of the crew is already climbing all over and under 349. The co-driver, Bryant Hibbs, wriggles through the passenger-side window and joins the scrum. A heavy piece of metal is released from the undercarriage and carried to the welding table as if it were a newborn baby. A member of the welding team knocks his face shield down over his eyes and begins to work on the broken torsion bar. The driver pops out of his window. &amp;quot;We were going about 60 miles an hour, and we hit this rock, bam!&amp;quot; says Kelly Beal of Midland, Texas. &amp;quot;It was loud, but nothing happened, and then about 20 miles later we hear this pop! And the vehicle collapsed on that side. It scared ... the ... hell out of us. &amp;quot;But you want to hear something else?&amp;quot; Beal continues. &amp;quot;A little ways back we came up on truck 301, and the thing was flipped over -- completely flipped over! -- and the roof was caved-in up to the rollbar. The driver, a Japanese guy, was strapped in upside down, and he had gas pouring all over him, and he was big-time dazed. My partner pulled him out of his truck. A bunch of locals were hanging around, so they probably helped the guy get back on the road.&amp;quot; Just 15 minutes after vehicle 349 pulled in, the torsion bar has been jerry-welded; God Is Awesome! is ready to roll. As Beal fishtails down the road, he yells to the pitters, &amp;quot;You guys are great!&amp;quot; AFTER THE PARIS-DAKAR, the Tecate SCORE Baja 1000 is the biggest off-road race in the world, with some 284 vehicles competing in 31 classes of modified motorcycles, ATVs, trucks, dune buggies and VW bugs. This year&amp;#039;s course winds through the suspension-busting mountains southeast of Ensenada, crosses a tire-shredding rocky lunarscape to the Gulf of California, and then continues south before heading west again through Valle de Purisima to a point on the map called El Progresso Windmill. There, the course takes a hard left for the final, transmission-smoking leg to La Paz. Just completing the race in less than the 40-hour time limit is an impressive feat, considering that 30 percent of the starters won&amp;#039;t even make it across the finish line. The reward for all the kidney-thumping, chassis-bending fun: cash prizes from $1000 to $30,000, depending on the vehicle class. Most race teams come trailing their own pit crews stocked with fuel and spare tires. Two mechanics&amp;#039; collectives -- the First Association of Independent Racers and Checkers Off-Road, a Southern California affiliation of motorheads known for hard partying and improvisational fix-&amp;#039;em-up skills--operate a total of eight pits, providing support for six racers each. Honda sets up nine pitstops on the race route open to anyone riding one of the manufacturer&amp;#039;s motorcycles. The biggest pits belong to BFGoodrich, which services racers who buy and use its tires. (The company doesn&amp;#039;t actually sponsor the drivers; rather, the money they spend on the tires doubles as the cover charge for pit access.) This year BFG 1--one of the busiest Baja pitstops--is located at race mile 120, in the middle of a 20-mile blacktop run before the course turns back onto the dirt at a dry lakebed called Laguna Diablo. The volunteer crew of welders, fabricators, tire technicians, fuelers and all-purpose tool geeks come to Baja for the simple thrill of fixing things. They relish rebuilding busted shock towers, rewelding broken brake-caliper mounts, changing 100-pound tires and filling rigs with 40 gal. of gas in 2 minutes. &amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t afford to race,&amp;quot; says Jeff Edwards, who earns his living at Chip&amp;#039;s Grand Tire in Moab, Utah. &amp;quot;So this is my way to be in the Baja 1000. When the trucks start coming in, and you know you&amp;#039;ve got to get these guys in and out fast if they&amp;#039;re going to have a chance to win, or even finish, it gets the heart pumping -- that&amp;#039;s why I do it.&amp;quot; LOUNGING ON THE GROUND dangerously close to a raging campfire on this chilly night before the race is Nate Willmont, a 41-year-old San Diego dental technician and seven-year Baja veteran. Alcohol is verboten on race day, but it is considered de rigueur tonight -- at least for some of the BFG 1 crew. Generously lubricated, Willmont launches into his impersonation of the maniacal drill sergeant from &amp;quot;Full Metal Jacket.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Yurdaysofblurhegblegging Mary Jane Rottencrotch are over!&amp;quot; When the laughter dies down, a crewmate warns Willmont that he might burst into flames if he were to get any closer to the fire. &amp;quot;This thing is fire-retardant,&amp;quot; he says, tugging on his Carhartt coveralls. Luckily, a firefighter is part of the crew. There&amp;#039;s also a nurse, a carpenter, an auto shop owner and a custom gaming-computer builder. Five teammates are employed by aerospace contractors building jet-engine components for the Joint Strike Fighter. With just five and four years under their tool belts, respectively, Edwards and Daniel Chapman, his co-worker at Chip&amp;#039;s Grand Tire, are the newest BFG 1 members. They drove 15 hours from Moab to be here. A group of locals materializes, ghostlike, out of the desert darkness to hawk ponchos, blankets, Baja 1000 T-shirts, and shots of home-brew &amp;quot;tequila&amp;quot; that tastes like maraschino cherry juice mixed with Everclear. &amp;quot;Ohhhh, that&amp;#039;s good stuff,&amp;quot; coos one pitter, taking a sip. &amp;quot;You all gotta try this tequila.&amp;quot; Bang! An M80 firecracker explodes, spraying sand on the crew. Last night in Ensenada two pitters, including one who looks like he could be the front man for a Def Leppard tribute band, purchased armfuls of fireworks, and the pair have been setting off their ordnance ever since. This afternoon one firecracker detonated on the highway as a racer&amp;#039;s advance team drove past. The radio-com loudspeakers crackled to life: &amp;quot;BFG 1, what the hell was that?&amp;quot; Pit boss Laird Nelson, a truck driver for NationsRent out of San Diego when he&amp;#039;s not working in the Baja wilds, got on the radio: &amp;quot;You know I can&amp;#039;t control these savages.&amp;quot; BY 9:30 THE NEXT MORNING the tools are spread out on tables, the orange pitstop cones arranged and the jobs assigned. The fuelers are busily hand-pumping 1800 gal. of high-octane juice into dump cans. The pit&amp;#039;s radio spotter has been dispatched 2 miles up the road to call out approaching vehicles. Advance teams and race officials rumble down the highway, and the desert air is tinged with tension. At 11:51, a swarm of helicopters circling in the distance signals the approach of the $300,000 trophy trucks, the most mechanically sophisticated vehicles in the race, manned by the most successful drivers in that class. With their support teams in tow, they can afford to blow right past BFG 1. Volunteers? They don&amp;#039;t need no stinkin&amp;#039; volunteers! But soon the less well-heeled members of the Baja armada surge through the pit area. When a big dune buggy pulls in, the pitters hurl themselves at it. One crew member slides under the chassis to look for leaks; others dive into the engine compartment. Yet another skitters around the vehicle, checking for loose bolts and tires. Six-ft.-5-in., 270-pound Ernie Pekarcek III -- a concrete-cutting machine operator from San Diego and one of the firecracker pyros -- hoists an 85-pound fuel can over his shoulder and gravity-feeds gas into the waiting vehicle. Elsewhere, fix-it guys are duct-taping a racer&amp;#039;s headlight back together and welding a broken part on a windowless buggy with all-terrain tires. When another buggy and a semimodified truck roll up, they are serviced with such speed and efficiency that fueling chief Steve Wallace shouts: &amp;quot;That was 50 gallons in 40 seconds! You guys are kicking ass! I&amp;#039;m puttin&amp;#039; in for a raise for you!&amp;quot; For the next 3 hours the pit hums with action. Rims are replaced, tire rods straightened, shredded tires changed and mounted, and leaks stoppered. A Ford Bronco leaning heavily on its back end crunches to a halt. Two welders set about trying to reattach a rear-suspension leaf spring that has snapped in two. During a brief lull, Pekarcek makes sure his fellow fuelers are properly hydrated. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m the water boy,&amp;quot; he sings as he dispenses the bottles. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m the water boy.&amp;quot; THE SUN SETS BEFORE 5 O&amp;#039;CLOCK. It&amp;#039;s been half an hour since a vehicle hit the pit. Suddenly a pickup rumbles in, towing a white Chenowth buggy with a Porsche engine. The driver, Tony McLaren of Eugene, Ore., climbs out. &amp;quot;We were going about 95, flat out on the dry lakebed,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;All of the sudden we hear this zzzwheeezzzeeezirrrrrwww, and we were done -- smoked the tranny. Can you guys pull it?&amp;quot; It&amp;#039;s an ambitious repair, a job that would cost $1500 to $3000 and take all day at most stateside garages. But here in the desert, the BFGoodrich pit crew can yank out a transmission and install a new one in about two hours. The problem is, McLaren&amp;#039;s support crew has the replacement part -- and they&amp;#039;re nowhere in sight. In the silence following McLaren&amp;#039;s request, two fuelers who are fix-it guys at heart exchange knowing glances--and then dive into the engine, wrenches cranking. Patton soon joins in. It turns out that he once worked at the Chenowth factory in El Cajon, building these rigs for the Navy SEALs who use them as fast-attack vehicles, and he&amp;#039;s still a little sentimental about the Spec Ops buggies. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s just missing the third seat and the .50 caliber,&amp;quot; he says wistfully. A few more stragglers trickle through the pitstop, including a Japanese paraplegic named Hiroyuki Watanabe, who uses hand controls to navigate his Ford Bronco. The crew recognizes the number--301--and the buckled roof and realizes immediately that Watanabe is the guy that God Is Awesome! pulled from the overturned vehicle. The pitters give a once-over to his SUV, and he&amp;#039;s soon back on track--about 12 hours behind the race leaders. By 7 o&amp;#039;clock the last of the vehicles is refueled and on its way. McLaren&amp;#039;s transmission is on a table undergoing an autopsy. &amp;quot;Maybe it&amp;#039;s the little hockey stick thing in there that&amp;#039;s broken,&amp;quot; a pitter says. McLaren hangs up his satellite phone. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re screwed. The transmission isn&amp;#039;t going to make it.&amp;quot; With that, the BFG 1 pit is officially closed. Tools are packed, unused tires stacked, and fuel dump cans stored in the delivery truck. When everything is loaded and secured, McLaren&amp;#039;s disabled Chenowth is hitched to the back of a pitter&amp;#039;s Bronco, and the convoy heads back up to Ensenada. For most drivers, the race is still under way. The BFG 1 pitters will find out later that the checkered flag goes to the pro Honda motorcycle team, with a time of 15 hours and 57 minutes. God Is Awesome! takes nearly 27 hours to finish 130th; miraculously, the torsion-bar weld held for 893 mainly off-road miles. Watanabe finishes in the middle of the night -- the next night. By then the BFG 1 pitters are back across the border, sleeping comfortably in their own beds, dreaming about next year&amp;#039;s volunteer vacation in the land of homemade tequila and broken torsion bars. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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