A couple of weeks ago I got to accompany my father on one of his business trips. I know that volunteering to go on a business trip isn't a typical choice for one's summer break, but this one was a week-long off-road racing expedition through the Baja Peninsula in Mexico. Seriously, the ability to buy fresh tortillas was persuasion enough for me to go, let alone that I would get to do some hard-core off-roading and spend quality time with the papa.Needless to say, I was totally out of my element. My knowledge of cars extends to shifting gears and changing tires. My knowledge of racing...well... Luckily I didn't have to say much. Most of the time I just stood silently next to my dad while he talked about cars for hours. and hours. The whole ordeal was rather enjoyable. I like learning new languages, so I spent a significant time in immersion training learning how to speak Truck and Racing. Still, I comprehend better than I speak it. And when I was tired of immersion training I would go take pictures of the ocean. It was a win-win vacae.
The most colorful part of the trip was on our first day of pre-running. We drove over the entire ~440 miles of the course to make note of rough spots and danger zones. My dad warned me that I may want to take some preventative motion-sickness medicine before we hit the trails, but in stubborn self-sufficiency I insisted that I'd be fine. I mean, I've always prided myself on my tough stomach. I can eat anything (esp. inordinate amounts of sugar) without breaking a sweat, and I don't get motion-sick. I spent three months living on a ship and was fine. Some bumps and turns in a Hummer would be no problem. Yeah. I barfed 4 times before 9:30am. Seriously, it was pathetic. My dad, who was driving, eventually stopped pulling over for me. We got into a routine where I, limply belted to my seat with garbage bag in hand, would just hold the bag up to my face and heave. Dad would slow down so that the bumps in the road wouldn't send my bag contents flying, and I would reproduce my granola bar, my water, my water, and finally my nothing. Then he would stop so I could swish out my mouth, spit out the open passenger door, and reposition myself for the next gastrointestinal show.
Finally we stopped to refuel in Independencia, a barely-town that sold gasoline out of Sunny-D containers. In broken Spanish and hand motions I explained to the Sunny-D lady my pressing need for car-sickness medication, and she directed me to a small convenience store where she bought some earlier that week. Well, apparently she bought all of it earlier that week, because tienda #1 was out of stock. Providentially, the other store in town had some dramamine. The clerk opened up the package and counted out 8 tablets (waste not, want not) and consequently saved my life. I downed a double-dose and promptly passed out for the next two hours on the trail. Well, the phrase"passed out" might not properly illustrate the scene; "unconsciously flailed about wildly and uncontrollably restrained only by my belt for the next two hours" might me a more accurate depiction. After I rejoined the land of the living, I was FINE. Like, no more tossing cookies, totally enjoyed the ride. Which means that dramamine is my new favorite miracle drug. Placebo or not, that stuff kept my stomach contents locked away where they belong.
Even though the whole puking ordeal only took about 2.5 hours, various members of the racing team made sure to make fun of me for the rest of the week. But at least that gave us something to talk about.
Here are some pictures from Baja (barfing pictures not included):
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| Baja 500 |
