I got to the finish line late … real late. Both tires were flat and flapping on the rim and the levers were snapped off. I had to nurse the bike the last 40 miles on a flat rear and the last 15 with both of them gone. That’s the way it is in a desert race. Whang into a half-buried rock, do a handstand and you know, you absolutely know right on the spot that you’ve pinched a tube. A minute or less later the familiar wobble-flubber-wobble-flubber sound will start and the bike will handle like a sack of birdseed.

I saw Tom’s van off to the right side of the pit road and lurched in that general direction. I was tired and thirsty, but most of all hungry. You see, with a flat you have to push up some hills that you’d normally ride up … and this takes a lot of energy. We had a giant bucket of the Colonel’s chicken waiting in the back of the van. My parched mouth watered and the dull, empty feeling in my stomach was replaced with a knot of anticipation.

Boyohboyohboy! Bet I’d eat a dozen pieces and wash them down with three beers inside of ten minutes.

As I rounded the back of the van, there was Tom, kicking at the chicken bucket and throwing a plug tool at a mangy-looking dog about 30 yards away. In the dog’s teeth was what looked like a drumstick. All around the back of the van were napkins, little containers of salt and some greasy papers.

“What happened?”

“You see that dog over there? Well, that mutt not only ate all of our chicken, he even ate the bones. All we got left is a half- chewed cardboard bucket. You wanna lick the insides?”

“Uhh,no... think I’ll pass on that. Hey, at least we’ve got some cold beers. It’s not a total loss. Right?”

Tom pointed at the cooler. A pool of water about an inch deep held a few dying ice cubes; nothing more. “What happened? We bought a sixer at that little store in Mojave—”

“—And left it right on top of the gas pump when we moved everything around to make room for the gas cans. Remember?”

I had a vague picture of a rectangular container silhouetted against the clear morning sky. A very depressing picture. My stomach knotted up and started making tiny, involuntary spasms. To quell the hunger, I buried my head in the cooler and slurped down some of the icy water. When the brackish liquid hit the empty stomach, it felt like I had just swallowed a live rooster.

“Tom, you gotta load my bike up for me and get this van on the road immediately. If I don’t get food quickly, I may kill you on the spot and roast a section of your shoulder over your burning bike. We’re talking munchies; a serious case of the munchies.”

In less than three minutes we were fired up and jouncing down the miserable dirt road leading away from the pits to the lonesome pavement strip a few miles off. One thing about desert races, they aren’t held close to anything. In fact, most of them are at least 80 miles the other side of Nowhere.

“How far to the nearest food?”

“There’s a little gas station maybe 35 miles down the road on the right side. He’s got to have some chips or candy bars. Something. Anything.”

As the van droned down the road, I rummaged around the various nooks and crannies for anything edible. In the center console, under a bunch of cards, loose change, paperclips, leaking ball-point pens and finisher’s pins, I found a stick of gum and gave a yelp of joy.

“Uh, I wouldn’t eat that if I was you.”

“Oh? And why not, pray tell?”

“Well, I think it’s been in here since I’ve had the van. And—”

“—And this van is what—12 years old? Minimum?”

“Yup. And the gum could be a leftover from the previous owner and who knows how long he had it? Either way, I betcha it’s as hard as a piece of wood and about as tasty.”

I rapped it on the dash and little flecks of paint came off. Oh well. Then I put it back in the center console. You just don’t throw away things like that. My stomach made a deep rumbling sound. Tom whipped the wheel hard to the right and guided the van to the shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“Dunno. Sounds like a bad wheel bearing. Or like something dragging on the road.”

“No. Get this thing rolling again. Quick. It’s just my stomach protesting violently against the extreme lack of food.”

“That noise was your stomach? Jeez, it sounded like the soundtrack from The Exorcist. Try to calm down; that gas station can’t be too far off.”

I propped my feet up on the dash and leaned back, trying to ignore the discomfort. My finger wandered down to the crack in the front seat where the back meets the bottom. Hmmm. Quite often there are crumbs of food that drop from your face and get lodged in that area. Aha! I felt something down in there. Crumbs? Perhaps. It was worth a try. I wet the tip of my finger and extracted a few sizeable morsels and quickly popped them into my mouth and chewed tentatively.

Gack! Sand … plain old sand. Although I must admit it wasn’t too bad. Could have used a bit of seasoning … perhaps a touch of curry and a light lemon sauce, but altogether, considerably better than nothing.

All too soon the sand crumbs were gone and the growling was back. After what seemed like an eternity, Tom gave a grunt of sorts and pointed off to the right side of the road. The long-awaited gas station! The van lurched to a halt, dust boiling around it like a nuclear blast. I leaped out of the van and charged up to the door, grabbed the knob and stopped dead in my tracks. A crudely lettered sign pro claimed: “GONE FISHIN’—BE BACK MONDAY.”

I pressed my nose up against the glass and peered inside. There, by the cash register, were rows of potato chips, stacks of candy bars, large jars of beef jerky, peanuts, gum, and box after box of delicious looking cough drops. And, in a cooler be hind the counter was a miniature deli with submarine sandwiches, potato salad ice cream and triple-deckers, all bathed in a soft, cool fluorescent light. Paradise. So close, yet out of reach.

A small trail of saliva ran down the glass of the door. I considered several alternatives, wondering idly what the penalty was for Breaking and Entering and Stealing a Sandwich. As a first offender, I just might get off with probation, so...

Tom grabbed my hand and snapped “Put the brick down! I don’t want to get thrown into the slammer. Let’s get out of here. The sooner we hit a town, the sooner we get some food.”

We pointed it west and continued down the road. Time seemed to stand still. For a while I chewed on some lint from the bottom of a jacket pocket, then, in a fit of total desperation, grabbed the ancient stick of gum and tried to unwrap it. Oh sure, the outer layer of paper came off fine, but the inner wrapping was bonded to the gum like a vulcanized tire patch. Using a small knife and a lot of patience, I was able to ex tract a small piece of paper-free gum about the size of a dime. I held it in the palm of my hand and considered it...

“I get half. It’s my van, you know.” It was Tom’s voice and he was serious

I quickly tried to pop the gum into my mouth and Tom made a desperate grab at it. The van reeled across the road and onto the shoulder, then back onto the road again. Tom had one hand around my wrist and was biting me on the forearm, while trying to steer the van with his free hand. I had one of his ears in a firm grip and gave him three or four fast shots to the groin. He moaned and released his death grip on my wrist.

The release was too quick and my hand arced up, smacked me square in the face, and the gum wedged up my nose Tom regained control of the van while I extracted the gum from the depths of my nostril I got it out with a minimum of sneezing and gagging, and studied the abused piece of gum.

“Here. You can have it, Tom.”

“Uh, tell you what. I ain’t that hungry. I don’t think it’s possible to be that hungry.”

He was right. In sheer disgust, I flipped the gum out of the window, knowing full well that no animal in his right mind would ever touch it.

Eventually, somehow, even though an eternity passed, we arrived in the bustling metropolis of Mojave. It was wonderful! McDonalds on the right. Kentucky Fried stuff on the left. Burger joints. Restaurants. Tastee whatevers. Everything needed to restore a starving man back to normal.

But with rampant hunger gnawing at our innards, we were not selective at all, choosing instead to stop at the first convenient spot on the right side: a shiny red and yellow Taco Boil stand.

A quick count of available cash showed $22.68. Enough. “We’ll have four of the burritos … the grandes … with lots of extra hot sauce. And six orders of fries and four Tostados del Gato and two of those Chile Garbonzo Especiales and a couple of sides of guacomole dip with nacho chips and two Carnitas de Perro and four orders of marinated jalapenos, with Salsa Ranchero on the side and six—no, make that eight— tacos with the works. What’s that come to?”

“Twenty-two sixty-four, including tax -- and extra hot sauce.”

“Great,” said Tom. “That leaves us some money for possible emergencies on the way home.”

In what seemed like mere moments, we became the owners of a huge, greasy brown bag filled to the brim with all sorts of steaming delicacies. I placed the bag carefully between the two bikes, with the toolbox bracing it at the front and a gear bag on the back side. No way could it fall over there.

Tom lit off the engine and yelped, “Next stop, home! Sixty-five miles of eating pleasure. Let’s floor it!”

With that, he slammed the van into gear and squealed out of the parking lot, jumping a curb in the process. The bikes whanged into each other real hard, but stayed in their tie-downs.

“Wait’ll we get through town and the road is clear. Then we’ll dig in!” My jaws ached with anticipation.

After a few lights and a gaggle of semis, we broke free of the stream of traffic and got on Highway 14 heading south. I leaned back, let a smile appear and took a deep, satisfying breath of air. Hmmm. The tinge of gasoline was in the air.

I spun around to check the petcocks on the bikes and my eyes almost fell out with the sight that greeted them. The clutch lever that I’d broken off in the race had poked a neat hole in Tom’s gas tank, and the gas had gurgled out and filled that brown bag of food up to the top. A few stray pieces of shredded lettuce floated in the gasoline. I stared at the brimming bag in sheer, stark horror! Unbelievingly, I stuck a finger out to feel the bag to see if it was real. Poke, poke ... and the strained bag slowly and sickeningly split at the seams, releasing its contents all at once. Tacos, burritos and sundry goodies floated off to the darkest, lowest levels of the van to mingle with dead spark plugs and rancid socks.

The sign said: “LOS ANGELES—63 MILES.” We had a total of four cents in our pockets. I sighed, leaned back, wet my finger and started searching for some more sand crumbs in the seat cracks.