Knowing we'd be lucky to get home without abusing the poor Omni anymore, Foster exercised remarkable restraint, managing a quick pace without sending the water temperature through the ceiling. About three miles in, however, just as Bill Nation went by in his Mazda 323 GTX, oil smoke began to rush into the cockpit through the hole in the firewall for the shift cables. Without the preoccupation of pace notes, which we decided not to use, I fashioned a plug from an oil rag and held it in place with my left foot. This made me feel better but did nothing to keep the fumes out.
Then on a steep downhill section of road there was a Mexican woman waving a green flag. Weird. We passed her at 70 mph and rounded the next blind corner into a village teeming with people, horses and racecars. Holy crap! That green flag meant slow down, the race is over. Silly gringos. Foster reined in the super Omni without running over any chickens and pulled off to let it go into meltdown. Despite popping, sputtering, smoking and losing oil from every seal, it refused to die.
Moments later, the B team rumbled in. They skidded to a stop, jumped out and began to beaver around under the hood. Steffens was screaming something about oil temperature and the coolant overflow bottle was beating itself senseless under the hood, but there was no time to let the car cool. The efficiency of the Mexican organizers had now hit full stride and they were hollering at us to line up.
With the car still alive, I took over for the 16-mile return run to town. Trying to work our way back in line, we pulled up next to a Honda CRX. The driver looked over, smiled, nodded and said, "Pinche gringos," which, loosely translated, doesn't mean anything at all like, "Hello, guys, we're glad to have you racing in Mexico." Foster fired back a barrage of Spanish high school slang. I got in a few blows, mustering up my entire Spanish vocabulary of "relleno," "asada" and "burrito." The perpetrator seemed more confused than embarrassed. Didn't matter, because our smoking, leaking, tired old Dodge Omni was faster than his CRX. Go gringo power.
Once again, the pride of every backyard turbo Dodge engineer rested on my shoulders. The next 16 miles would make or break my reputation with this crowd forever. Unfortunately, the return run began with a 1,000-foot climb back to a plateau and then descended the rest of the way back to the start location. This meant there was no opportunity to take it easy. So I didn't bother. By the time we reached the peak, the temperature gauge was pegged, oil smoke was filling the cockpit and the stink of dying Omni was impossible to ignore.
At the halfway point I achieved what Foster affectionately refers to as "the trifecta" by pegging the speedometer, tachometer and water temperature gauges simultaneously. It was about this time I decided to kill the Omni with prolonged doses of wide-open throttle combined with lots of left-foot braking. The beast stank and smoked even more, but held fast to its head gasket and internals with the resolve of a Mexican mule. By the finish line, there was a scorching exhaust leak and the engine wouldn't idle below 3000 rpm, indicating a massive vacuum leak as well. But still, The Little Omni That Could kept on running.
Fear of seizing the beast kept me from turning it off so we turned around and waited patiently for the B team to show up. In 30 minutes, however, the Omni had dropped enough oil that it began to run out from under the car, so we decided to cut our losses and called it a day. Our race was over. Plus, if we quit now, we could sip umbrella drinks on the beach and maybe have enough Omni left to drive home tomorrow.
All the cars were in, but the B team was MIA. It was only 11 a.m. We'd been up since six, so it didn't take much justification to decide to retire to the hotel. Somebody would eventually rescue them and the wounded super Omni sure wasn't going to do any towing. Plus, crew chief Brandon Hatchel was out there in the Jeep and logic told us he'd run a sweep when the B team didn't come past on the return run.
Six hours, many umbrella drinks and a good nap later, Hatchel showed up at the hotel. Steffens and Lt. Sulu weren't with him. The race was long over. Everyone, including race winner Michael Judy, was at the pool sucking cervezas. This was bad. We piled into the Jeep and headed back to the course. Ten miles in we found the Omni at the side of the road, hood up. Sulu prepared a full report. Damage assessment, captain? Many spun bearings. The 300-degree oil temperature produced an oil pan full of metal shavings. Towing was the only solution. On the outskirts of Ensenada, we were sorry we thought of it.
It turned out rope-towing an Omni behind a Jeep Cherokee past a Mexican Federale was a bad idea. Bad ideas in Mexico are fixed with 50 bucks. Somehow, all the stories we'd heard about buying off the cops in Mexico just weren't the same as actually doing it. We actually had to stop ourselves from erupting in laughter during the transaction. Still, paying the 50 bucks shook us with the realization that we couldn't tow the Omni home on a rope. Another search for junkyards ensued and now we find ourselves at Yonke Venezia, where we meet the Burnout King.
The Mexicans are an incredibly resourceful people. This guy has no motivation to help us. He also has no tools. Literally. No drill. No hole saw. But he's got an ancient stick welder that belonged in a museum. The welder would produce solid tow-bar mounts, which would likely get us all the way home tomorrow. But, welding with only tiny pieces of broken face shield for eye protection? No, thanks.
Still, our buddy is going to make it work. With shear Cro-Magnon indifference and the determination only a junkyard worker can muster, he muscles a few holes in the Omni's nose with bolts he sharpened on an angle grinder that would make OSHA cry. Then he fabricates two brackets from an old motor mount and uses our tow bar to get us on the road. And it works, all the way to the parking lot of the Estero Beach Resort, where it fails catastrophically. If this were anywhere but Mexico we might care, but it's been a long day and tomorrow we'll find another solution. Tonight, as they say, it's Miller time. Sulu calls for a toast to our friend, the modern caveman at Yonke Venezia, and we call it a night.
The next morning, with gastric stink again reaping its revenge on the guests at Estero Beach, we find a solution. By maligning the Omni's bumper with an Auto Zone file and bracing its backside using the foglight brackets, our tow bar flanges slide through the bumper, through the foglight mounts and secure with a couple of huge bolts. By late afternoon, this rig gets the Omni through the border without a problem. The super Omni, miraculously, makes it under its own power. We're glad to be back.
A few weeks later, after I've had time to readjust to the comforts of home I begin to gain new perspective on the adventure. And eventually the sleep deprivation, the junkyards, the heat and even the stink of Mexico don't seem so bad. They're even a bit endearing. Or maybe it's just the cold glass of refreshment from my new juicer that makes everything OK.