"Don't you know what it is?" asks Paul Stoll, owner of the piercing studio.
"Um, well, sure, a pinewood car," I say, not sounding sure at all.
Stoll nods and smiles, seeming satisfied with our mutual knowledge of timeless Americana. Hmmm ....
At home I drop the package on the kitchen table, thinking I can ignore it until morning, but, upon spying the innocuous block, my housemate lets out a little "whoop" and launches into an animated tale about Cub Scouts in Roseland, N.J., and his making it to the regional competition with his trusty pinewood car. With grand enthusiasm he offers me helpful tips on aerodynamics and weight distribution, time-tested plans, passed from generation to generation, for getting the most inches per second out of a small chunk of timber.
"It needs to be the slowest car on the track," I clarify, offering the only solid facts I know about the second annual Walton Derby. "The last car comes in first. Only the slowest car survives."
My housemate frowns and reorganizes his thoughts.
"Ahhh, well, that will take a whole different design strategy," he says, hoisting his weekend bag and heading for the door. "You'll want as much wind resistance as possible. Lighter is better. I really wish I could stay and help." I don't doubt him, even as the front door closes with a somber click.
On my own. No problem.
I dump out the bag and study the contents: a block of wood, four plastic wheels, and two little rods for the chassis. Seems straightforward enough. Determining the enclosed list of rules and regulations is gratuitously long-winded, I decide to skip it and focus on the chirpy letter from Walton Derby founder, and local artist, Lee Walton, to "Potential 2003 Walton Derby Champion," i.e., to me.
"I am hoping that you're [sic] car will be the slowest in the world," writes Walton.
Hmmm .... Recognizing that style over substance is my only option, I rifle through the official Night Crawler tackle box, which yields one half bag of pink sequins, a few patches of fun fur, and two large, diaphanous, bunny ear-like leaves dyed peppermint pink. With a little perseverance and several punishing hours of late-night glue gun action, I am able to go online and register SF Weekly's official entry for the 2003 Walton Derby: Cotton Candy Caterpillar. Ours is a ramshackle little slug with tiny button eyes, drooping ears, sluggish wheels, and an odd, toothy grin, but, at 2:42 a.m., I am pretty sure my employers would be proud if they were, like me, cheerfully ignorant of what the following night might hold.
OK, I'm a little surprised by the size of the crowd gathered at the Southern Exposure Gallery. I note with some trepidation that there are no seats available along the 25-foot-long Pinewood Derby track, but assure myself that there is still plenty of standing room in the spacious exhibition hall, except, of course, by the banquet table, where people are admiring the four-wheeled entries. Summoning sequins-fueled self-confidence, I push my way through the crowd and plop down the little pink caterpillar. There are more than 100 entries, and it takes but a second to realize that SF Weekly's Cotton Candy Caterpillar is not only a bottom-feeder in the engineering division, it is also potently, incontrovertibly outstyled. In a quick look, I notice the sublimely elegant Cambodia, a rolling ship with curling, handcrafted sails, fantasy-inspired pinwheels, and a spiral staircase made of parchment; as well as the Jesus Christ Super Car, a Christian savior aboard a plank of clouds created by the delightfully droll Jason Mora; the Shotwell, an aerodynamic marvel carved by 667 Shotwell proprietor Chris Sollars, and inspired by his engineer mother; and the Elements of Style, a writerly assemblage of cigarette ashes, an old coffee cup, crumpled $1 bills, empty airline liquor bottles, and the Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. Feeling a little embarrassed for SF Weekly's pink pupa, I slink away hoping to avoid detection; sadly, the fluorescent pink wig and sparkly pink fun-fur jacket I chose to wear in solidarity do little to aid in the subterfuge.
Heading for the balcony, I come across a small room displaying a circle of old Pinewood Derby cars. All but one -- a self-possessed little car covered in funny pages and driven by Goofy -- are cleaved in two, their broken halves scattered with wheels hanging at odd angles, their careful, colorful veneers terminating in jagged splinters. I imagine a rosy trail of sequins and fur leading to the losers' circle, where all but the winner of tonight's entries will inevitably find themselves.
Out on the balcony, I am horrified to discover that the crowd has tripled; I tell myself that it's no big deal, I'm not really here to compete, just to work, but there are cameras and video monitors and several people scribbling furiously on notebooks the size and shape of my own, and I can't help but notice the growing buzz of excitement in the air.
"By the end of the night, we will know which car is the slowest," says Walton through a loudspeaker at the top of the track. The crowd falls silent. "We will know which car is the most ridiculously sluggish, which car will be the winner of the 2003 Walton Derby."
Walton, who admits, off-mike, to finishing last in every single race during his tenure as a Cub Scout in Indiana, steps down from the podium to let the owner of Silent Gallery -- presenter of tonight's event and much of Walton's more conceptual work -- introduce the current losing titleholder, Bob Barton, and his car, the Sunday Funnies.
"Bob is proof that nice guys do finish last," says Bao Vo. "His car can be viewed upstairs."
"Traditionally, the pace car is very slow," says Walton, positioning Silent Gallery's Limo Car on the stop at the top of the track, "but this one is very fast."
With a flick of the track release, the little black car speeds down a 30-degree grade, whizzing past the red finish line at the other end. The crowd roars, hardly able to contain itself.
The first race is a three-way among 24 Karat, Happy Car, and the Whittler. The competitors all start strong, or, rather, they start slow, sort of sliding down the hill while the crowd cheers them on, but none of them crosses the finish line.
"All three cars are disqualified," rules Walton pitilessly.
In the next race, Gina, a fuzzy pink bird with big feather wings created by Karen Chew, is much, much slower than Watching the Grass Grow, a very speedy little block crowned by a big tuft of living grass built by Mitchell Hudson, Academy of Arts College instructor and friend of Chew. A sauntering race between beer-and-pretzels and a box of crazy straws is so close, the decision must be left to the finish-line referee. But, it's the third race that offers up the true sleep: Lethargy on Wheels. Created by former Cub Scout and current 28-year-old graphic designer Kirk Roberts, Lethargy doesn't look like a loser -- just a block covered in small colorful dots -- but closer examination reveals most of the dots are holes, giving it supernatural honeycomb slowness. Each time Lethargy races, the crowd holds its breath, thinking the car will lose its gumption before the finish line, but each time it finishes last, with an incomprehensible final turn of the wheels that has the crowd bursting into cheers and stomping its feet. The races come faster and more furious or, rather, slower and more furious -- disqualifications, surprises, upsets, complete failures, and crowd favorites like DJ Steve Sande's Def-Mobile, a pile of dice and ducats slowed down by a Quantum Mechanics record acting as a sail; Red Balls, a sleek car augmented by a giant fuzzy red paddle and built by Lee's father, David Walton; Señor Slowpoke, a car wrapped in a Mexican flag wearing a tiny sombrero and big handlebar mustache; and Marina Vendrell's U.S.S. Foreign Police, a fully crocheted red, white, and blue phallus bobbing on a nest of pubic hair and giant yarn testicles.
In the first heat, poor little Cotton Candy Caterpillar is forced to battle the Slow Bread Mobile, a crusty loaf of Italian pugliese outfitted with wheels by 29-year-old Jason Ganz, a glassmaker who declares that he was disinvited to the Boy Scouts at an early age. Hilarious in its doughy goodness and promising to be slow to rise, the Bread Mobile is a crowd favorite, but, shockingly, the Caterpillar is slower. In the second heat, as the contenders dwindle, Cotton Candy Caterpillar is pitched against Great White, an angry little car that has the potential to be set ablaze. Again, the Caterpillar inches her way to victory. In the next heat, with only 10 cars left in the race, Cotton Candy Caterpillar comes face to face with Red Balls. My little pink pride and joy is brought to the starting line and set on the starting peg backward. I suspect nepotism, but Lee Walton's cousin rises to remedy the situation, setting the Caterpillar face forward and adjusting its antennae with loving care. Sadly, all the care in the world wouldn't consume enough time to defeat the creeping red menace. With antennae bowed, the SF Weekly car is consigned to the too-swift-for-your-own-good pile, just one more piece of kindling for the chopping block.
The final race comes down to three unparalleled laggards: Red Balls, Lethargy on Wheels, and Gina. The room is so quiet, you could hear a tortoise chew. The release is pulled, and the three cars ease their way down the hill, dawdling on the straightaway. Red Balls is way out front, a clear winner. Ohhhh, too bad for Red Balls. Gina crosses a bit later, her pink feathers barely fluttering. Then Lethargy stops just shy of the finish line. There are gasps as the crowd waits for the anticipated final revolution, but it never comes. Thirty-two-year-old Karen Chew, an insurance office employee with no Scout experience, who only entered at the behest of her pal from the Academy of Arts College, is the 2003 Walton Derby Loser. The crowd roars, cameras flash, the trophy is awarded.
When asked what went wrong, Kirk Roberts chuckles.
"I think the announcer's repeated mispronunciation of the name really hurt the car's chances," says Roberts with an almost serious face. "The first four or five heats it was OK, but finally just broke his spirit down.
"In all seriousness, I think this was a great event, and he could really make this a huge event if he advertised."
To the question of profit, Lee Walton shrugs. "It's not about that -- admission was free, registration was the price of the car, less than a beer. It's about having everyone's eyes glued to the finish line as a car inches forward. It's about that moment when I could look up and see that little, irrelevant line meant everything in the world to all these people. The cars will now sit in the gallery for a week, but [they] will be cut up because the value is not in the cars, it's in the moment."
I smile, happy to know my little Caterpillar is nestled away in that rubbish heap.
