Pulled like a Bird Fed Cat

Written from notes on March 6, 2010

I decided to adopt the “why not?” attitude, especially since moving to this Bean Town. It seems the best way to enjoy a stay in an unfortunate town is to go at it like a tourists. So when Andy came to me last week and said “Frank invited me to a truck pull. Wanna go?” I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
“I really have no clue what that is, but ok.”
To be honest I though we were going to what I now know as a Tug-a-Truck. It’s basically tug of war with tractors, trucks and what look like semis. The commercials here are so outrageous I’d have to go at least once.
“No not that. Those are just some stupid Ohio thing,” Frank informed me when we got to the Eaton Fairgrounds. Apparently, a truck pull takes more skill.
“I bet this is the most redneck thing you’ve been to.” He surmised as we were buying tickets.
“Me?” Andy asked. “Maybe, but not her.” He tilted his head at me.
I enjoy moonshine and have been to a few concerts in cow pastures. I don’t think this makes me queen of redneck events though. However, I will be adding truck pull to my belt with massive buckle.
This truck pull was indoors and I wouldn’t begin to understand how odd and maybe stupid this was until the end of the night when the air was thick. I didn’t know what to expect in the “arena.” When we took our seats, poor Frank had to answer loads of questions. Andy and our new friend, Beaner Andy asked lost of transmission and engine questions. All three of them attend the local mechanics school. My questions were obviously more girly, but I did get better as the night progressed.
“I don’t get it. So is there really any sport in this?” “Do they make any money?” “How much does this cost?” “Are there any girl drivers?” “So what has more skill, this or NASCAR?”
All the vehicle does is try it’s hardest to pull a sled of weight down a dirt path. The sled moves forward on a mechanical track as the truck progresses and puts pressure on it. Who ever drives the furthest with said weight wins.
The runs themselves are quick, but getting through all the drivers takes a while.
“How long does this usually last?”
“Depends on how organized they are. We went to one pull that was supposed to start around five. We didn’t get out ‘til around six am the next morning.”
The announcers made most of the down time fly. I wish I had had a tape recorder just for the two of them. I’ll remember next time to at least bring in my note book. They looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and rarely stopped talking. They were quick witted and had more excitement in their voices than seemed necessary for the event. It reminded me of every cliché, archetype sport’s announcer in the media.
A truck would stall and one announcer yelled, “Come on crowd let’s give him an ‘aawww shuuuucksss’ on the count of three”
One of the female drivers would fall a little short of the line and you’d hear jokingly “Well see now, she just drove like a woman.” Soprano “boos” would reply to his jabbing.
The next driver would pull ahead and measure one inch in the lead. “Now that inch isn’t something to sneeze at!” or “See, one little inch does matter.”
My favorite (or at least favorite I remember) was when one of the diesel trucks pulled ahead and into the dirt pile. “Looks like we got a new leader. He pulled like a bird fed cat!”
They definitely kept the momentum going all day with their antics. Between the announcers and people watching, I was kept entertained even without the trucks. We decided the only thing missing was a wet t-shirt contest, or at the very least a potato cannon with novelty shirts. The announcers did throw out caps to the crowd. Frank was even able to intercept one with cat like reflexes. Though it may be a special hat, we don’t see it replacing the well worn Ford cap any time soon. You had the choice of two sponsor caps. There was Dekalb (Georgia peeps this is pronounced dee-cawl-b) and Asgrow seeds (yes, ass-grow).
There was even a charity fifty-fifty raffle. However, the cause seemed a bit ironic: Children’s Lung Association and Asthma.
I have to say – as cliché as it may sound – it really was an event for all the senses. Sight wise there was of course the trucks, jail bait, men with large belt buckles and jeans with round imprints on their back pockets, and the ever rewarding mullet hunt. The burning alcohol and concessions made it smell oddly like grape kool-aid and barbeque. The trucks left your ears screaming for ear plugs. Every smell left a taste in your mouth that you could easily cover up with a trip to the concessions. Oil stained hands held the foil wrapped goodness of a quarter pound friend German bologna sandwich. Or you could brave the Texas Tenderloin booth and get a fried tenderloin sandwich. Andy came back with one near the end of the night and even the people sitting next to us had to ask “What the hell is that?!”
I assume to make this interesting treat you start with a pork tenderloin cut. You then proceed to beat the crap out of it until it resembles a massive pancake. It gets battered and friend and placed on a comically too small bun. If you want cheese, they put on an American slice leaving it even more awkward looking. The entire thing took up a whole paper plate. Instructions should come with this meal.

The afternoon session may have been fun, but it was only a training session for the night runs. The real people watching began then. Apparently, for the locals, this is more fun than going to a mall or coffee house. There were a myriad of high school students sitting around chatting away as if they were at a coffee house or sitting in the mall food court. Other girls came in looking like they expected to pick up a man at this event the same way they would at a bar. It may be just me, but I didn’t think a truck pull was the ultimate singles event.
“Oh it’s worse in the summer outdoors. They’re running around in Daisy Duke’s then.” Frank taught me while I helped him pick out the good looking ones.
If I had known we could bring alcohol, it may have been even more entertaining. Younger guys came in with six packs tucked under arms. The veterans came in with all manner of cleverness. There was the basic beaten up cooler to double as a seat. Then there were case of beer with triple thick duct tape handles. And I could be mistaken, but I swear I thought I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with a light brown liquid that didn’t resemble any flavor I know. The announcers’ favorite though seemed to be the group on the other side of the track. In the afternoon, they had boxes of wine. By dusk, they had funnels.

I promise I did watch the trucks too.

Between sets, we walked around the pit/parking lot to find our favorites to root for.
There was a modified blue tractor, Blue Blazin’. Frank pointed it out, “That tractor’s pissed.” He had seen it before. When Blue Blazin’ did finally pull, I understood what he meant. It came out screaming, put its nose in the air, and landed in a dirt pile at the end of the track. Once the nose touched down, fire shot out from the top. He placed and made all the “green tractors” jealous. (We learned that the color of your tractor is just as important as whether your truck has an oval or a cross)
We also saw a red GMC truck named Flamin’. Hands down, this seems like one of the worst names possible for a truck in a predominately male spot. It was slightly redeeming to find out its driver was a young woman wearing a pink jersey. She was the only GMC in the blower class and proved that maybe it should be left to just the Chevys and Fords. She went about 150 feet and then her truck bed went one direction while the cab went in the opposite. All were safe and the truck seemed okay. This of course justified the AV people need to replay Flamin’s run repeatedly in reverse and slow-mo.
Other favorites of ours included the Bean Bandit, a Studebaker named Chili Town Hustler, Deere Replacement II (we didn’t find the first replacement), Dark Side Tractor, and once named Second Chance. The name Second Chance wasn’t really very odd and would have gone unnoticed with out our all too well informed announcer.
“Now coming up is an orange tractor, Second Chance. I want you to pay attention to this guy. He’s one armed. They modified his tractor to have the clutch, gear shift, brake, and gas all as different foot pedals.”
“He’s like the Def Leppard dude,” Andy says before we can.
“What an odd name for it.” I thought he would have done something a little less depressing.
“What about Left Turn Only?” We bean coming up with other possible names and I cried I was laughing so hard at the sick humor. I wish we remembered enough of them. The only ones we can remember include Cost me an Arm (not a leg) and One Down one to Go.

The blower category was mine, and probably the crowd’s favorite by far. Helen Keller could even enjoy it. Sitting on metal folding chairs your butt goes numb. Then the blower trucks drive past and everything vibrates from the noise and energy.
“I think I felt my hair move.”
Large industrial lights shook overhead, and dust and soot no one could reach to clean fell down on us. They pull with so much force that dirt spits up in all directions. Most of it leaves a large – sometimes even three feet high – mound behind the truck’s tires. A fork lift would drive in to save these buried beasts. It was fun to see something so powerful be so vulnerable.

We finally left the arena around two in the morning. I want to say my ears popped somewhere on the ride home. When we got to the house I discovered we had what my mom likes to call “Pool hall Syndrome.” When we were there, I didn’t think we smelled that bad, because everyone did. When we were home, I couldn’t sleep for the small of my hair and skin. The next morning I sneezed black and was reminded of all my adventures the night before.

When all is said and done, I think I’d go again. It is in no way high class entertainment. But as far as breathing bad fumes, losing hearing and people watching goes, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.