8:00 a.m. I punch the playback button and wait for the
word. "K.S.-K.T. CHAYA." End of transmission. Not much,
unless you consider the source. I know from past exper-
ience that when it boils right down to it, the less they
say, the more they mean.
8:43 a.m. First stop, the Desert Inn. Again, past
experience has proven it to be in my best interest to
leave no traces, so I rent a ride using my alias. Moments
later I receive another call from an unidentified source,
suggesting that we meet for dinner at Brasserie CHAYA.
Upon recognizing the code word, I have no choice but to
accept. The plot is thickening...
9:00 p.m. Beautiful. Bathed in black. The dangerous
type. "The special this evening is Malibu organic tomato
and mozzarella, followed by lobster ravioli with pesto
sauce," she says. Then she smiles, hands me a pack of
matches and disappears into the night. I order a bottle of
Pinot Noir 72, flip open the matchbook and discover a
number written in what appears to be blood. This could
be the big one...
10:00 p.m. I call the number, identify myself and am
told that a room is waiting for me at the DeVille Hotel,
200 miles due north of my present location. I am in-
structed to go there "tout de suite" and wait until the
following morning for further instructions.
8:00 a.m. The phone rings. "Denny's parking lot.
Main Street. Twenty minutes." An unusual wake-up call. I
arrive at the location several minutes early in order to
secure the area. At exactly 8:20 an Arab pulls into the
parking lot surrounded by a '72 Ford Pinto. A good year
for wine. Not so for Ford. As the car approaches, the
driver pulls a slip of paper from the folds of his turban
and hands it to me. "Chaya," he says and disappears just
as quickly as he came. The note reads: "WAIT FOR THE
SKINNER." I begin to get the uneasy feeling that this is
all just a little too bizarre when suddenly a 4x4 pulls into
the parking lot. The passenger door flies open and I am
whisked inside. "Hi, I'm Skinner," the driver says.
"Congratulations, most people don't make it this far..."
We soon join a convoy of other 4x4s and after a long,
dusty drive through a good part of God's country, we find
ourselves in the presence of the finest piece of real estate
on the entire central coast. Skinner leaps back into his
4x4 and dumb rushes the 40° elbow at the end of the pipe
(at speed, with the Doctor riding shotgun). Three stories
later he loses upward momentum and screeches backward
down the incline, brakes smoking. All those gathered
immediately begin to shake some shale loose with high
lines through previously undisturbed domain. Wood, steel,
concrete and urethane mesh with power, speed and fear
as the players' drama unfolds on the cylindrical stage....
4:15 p.m. -Intermission. We invoke ritualistic
Preceding Spread: A silhouetted Micke Alba pushes a precarious
position in a concrete elbow. The mouth of the monolith Above:
Brett Thompson drives a clean backside are before a group of
sub-terra dwellers. Photos: Bryce Kanights.
ceremonies and make symbolic gestures under the direc-
tion of the high priest of pipes, Malba. Doctor Rick, once
known as the Rubber Man, dances a funky and contorted
skater's jig. Meanwhile, several flatfoots friction up the
steep slope of the pipe's elbow, knowing full well that one
false move and you're 'hiss.' Mighty Micke runs high up
the elbow for additional speed, over-amps and rolls into
a frontside free-falling bomb drop slam from 11 o'clock.
The need for speed can hurt indeed. A flat wall ses-
sion is called upon to seal the bond. One by one the
riders push higher and further into the MTZ
(Minimum Transition Zone) until the final section
has been conquered from both sides. It's time...
11:50 p.m. There are 417 miles between
me and what happened today. Scenes from
the event flash through my head-split
second frames seen through the lens of
imagination, so powerful that they can
never be re-told, only recalled by the
mind's eye. Home. It's over. Or is it? I
punch the button and wait for my
messages. "K.S.-K.T. BANCHA."
There is no rest for the
wicked...