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If you’ve got the guts follow my ruts
By Chris Nylund
 Earth and water. The Persians used it to symbolize unconditional surrender to their authority. Most people just call it mud and think it’s gross. Others recognize its magnificence. Those folks—these latter few—take their magnificent mud, throw in a bunch of souped-up trucks and race ‘em. It gets better. Bring a grill and coolers full of favorite beverages. Make a day of it. And a night. This is mudboggin’ in Elko, GA.
Steve Wiley and Brad Hudson started this party as a fundraiser for a softball team that S & E Cycle, Wiley’s shop, was sponsoring, and they’ve watched it explode into a whole other animal. When they raised enough money to pay for a season’s worth of the team’s needs, they knew they were on to something and decided to do it again. And again. Some people claim this event happened in some form or fashion for nearly twenty years. Some say ten. Regardless of the incessant debate, the guys have moved on from their humble beginnings to hold monthly races in Elko that now consistently attract hundreds of people from all over the Southeast. This first Saturday in May, I became one of them.
I’m nominally good with cars. I put gas in mine, change my oil on a fairly regular basis, and when I’m feeling fancy, I’ll check my coolant. I stare at engines with the same bizarre fascination that a Chihuahua stares at a Hoover in the living room. (I like to think that I don’t bark as much.) But I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry, which is good for dropping the kids off at soccer practice and picking up some milk and bread from the store, but it’s definitely not gonna be playing in the mud. That is why I’m glad I didn’t have to drive my MILF-mobile to the mudboggin’ track.
My partners in crime provided a much more appropriate means of conveyance, a Wagoneer whose last legs have long been broken and partially removed. It was appropriate: all of us piled into that tumbledown beast, barreling southbound towards mudhole heaven, harnessing the same reckless abandon that Elko demands, just a little thirsty and fearful of getting lost without beer.
We pulled off the Hawkinsville/Montezuma exit to fuel up. It had taken the better part of three-quarters of a tank to get us that far. Apparently, magnificence doesn’t do much for gas mileage. Didn’t matter. Still, I could smell the oil-soaked red clay pits, hear the cheering fans, feel the layers of sweat and dirt caking on my skin. Then I realized something was wrong. That lovely shotgun blast of an engine, which was as loud as if it had been ripped from the fuselage of a Boeing 747, had become no more. It would not crank. Within minutes, without even asking, we had four personal mechanics on the job, each with various forms of tobacco in—and/or hanging from—their mouths.
Mike, the lead mechanic, who had sauntered up to our aid with in a pistol in his waistband, decided we had a bad solenoid. Only one thing to do at this point: push the dead weight out of the way and jump in the bed of a pick-up truck with our new friend Mike, whose back window describes him as a “County Boy.” Reckless abandon doesn’t come more pure than hitchhiking with a stranger that you know has a gun. This may sound ridiculous, but it was strangely comforting. Of course, he knew where he was going and got us there without a scratch.
We grabbed our belongings, most of which would be consumed over the next few hours, and walked up to the gates. After the initial shock of our beer-toting motley crew, we were greeted with a sneaky grin and a keen observation: “At least you have your priorities straight.” Indeed.
 The atmosphere is admittedly imposing. Nowhere else will you see this many pickups, and the only place in the region with more camo is a Bass Pro Shops grand opening. I looked around and grunted. Not really sure why; it just seemed like the right thing to do. Even though we’d just met, a lovely woman gave me a cooler and I knew everything would be alright. I grabbed a cold one and smiled. At that very moment I realized that these trucks are the real deal. Just like the Wu-Tang Clan, they ain’t nothin’ to mess with.
This magical night would eventually feature approximately thirty of these badass trucks. Each shining example of American ingenuity competes on one of two tracks: the “Speed Track” and the “Mud Boggin’ Track”. Both have plenty o’ mud to play in, but the Mud Boggin’ track is between three- and four-feet deep. Some trucks race the Speed Track only; others choose the Mud Boggin’ track.
Michael Brown acted as our tour guide and host. Brown and his brother-in-law Michael Giberson are the co-owners of, and drivers for, Bust-a-Nut Racing, one of the few that competes on both tracks and their team represents what this event has become, a family affair. Both of Brown’s sons, Robert and Stuart work on the pit crew, and Brown’s wife, Patricia, handles merchandise. But, just because it’s a family affair doesn’t mean that they don’t take it seriously. In the team’s first year of racing, the Bust-a Nut team finished fourth and sixth in overall points.
Bust-a-Nut has a strong start in this year’s season, but they face stiff competition. Like Tommy Matthews, whose truck “Smooth Willie 2” is worth the price of admission. “Smooth Willie 2” is a strange conglomeration of a Vietnam-era ambulance and the back-end of a Jeep that has been covered in a mess of airbrush that includes the Stars and Bars on one side with Old Glory on the other, then sprinkled with lights of various colors and sizes for ambience and good measure.
William Taylor’s truck, “Bent and Twisted”, which coincidentally won the evening’s speed race, is little more than a red shell of a truck with a gigantic engine and a nitrous tank where the passenger seat used to be. I wanted it to pop a wheelie. That never happened. But it did fly through the two-hundred-foot Speed Track in 3.2 seconds.
There was much rejoicing.
 And then there’s Melvin, who has retired from mud boggin’ “on account of (his) arthritis.” But don’t let this guy fool ya’. He might not be racing, but he’s definitely the life of the party and a bona fide celebrity. Not only is he the owner/curator/groundskeeper of the world’s only “Redneck Museum”, but he holds the world record for bobbing for pigs feet (seven feet in 12 seconds). Melvin makes the trek to Elko every month to hang out and tell stories with varying degrees of validity.
As the mud settled and the fumes dissipated, I became acutely aware of the fact that this is more than just a race; more than just a gathering of testosterone-addled mechanics with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. Even with all the camo, horsepower, hootin’ and hollerin’, and the truck revvin’ contests between races that prevent the announcer from doing his job, it is not meant to be a vulgar display of all-that-is-redneck. It’s about coming together and having a good time.
This is a group of people that is comfortable with themselves, comfortable with living their lives the way that they see fit. There were no fights, no disputes that I could see. I drank beer, ate boiled peanuts and was splattered with the glorious red clay that the good Lord has bestowed upon our little slice of the universe. And I couldn’t get enough. You don’t need to know anything about racing or engines or overalls to know how to have a good time.
SIDEBAR INFO:
Boggin’ Rules
Two Tracks
Speed Track: Measures 200-feet long. Conditions are muddy, but firm. Some of the fastest times of the night were right around three seconds flat, although I heard rumors of trucks rockin that track in two seconds.
Mud Boggin’ Track: Measures 200-feet long. Conditions: Very muddy. Mud must measure between three- and four-feet deep, so that mud sprays everywhere, and it is not uncommon for trucks to get stuck.
Consistency Shootout: All tracks have this. Essentially means that each truck goes twice and the average of the two determines their final time.
Five classes: A-Pro, Small Block, Pro Street, Super Street and ATV (four-wheelers).
Tire sizes: 35” and smaller. 36”-44”
Guaranteed Purse: 1st $400, 2nd $200, 3rd $100, and 4th $50.
Each truck gets five points for entering, and points are awarded as follows: 10 pts for first, 9 pts for second, 8 pts for third, so on and so forth.
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