Mar. 24, 2010 - Issue #753: Zion I

Zambonis on speed

The thrill of racing old Neons on a frozen lake

Driving into the tundra, playing cat and mouse with semi-trucks on the highway and getting stared down by an 18-year-old with stainless steel testicles hanging from the back of his Mercury Topaz, I pondered my choice of destinations.

But I am a driver. I love racing, engines, sliding around empty Wal-Mart parking lots in my car, ghost ridin' the whip and driving like an asshole. For me, driving on ice, the bane of so many drivers, just added to the appeal. The opportunity to go ice racing on frozen Lac La Biche was undeniable.

What I found, to my pleasant surprise, were pristine, largely undisturbed forests, rolling country, and a quaint, energetic town. As I pulled into Lac La Biche, there were people buzzing all over the place: at the outer-space-themed drive-in, in the streets, pubs and on the lake.

The Festival of Speed brings in racers of cars, quads, sleds and motorbikes from thousands of kilometres away. Overhead, choppers and planes were making their entrance to the first annual fly-in, in conjunction with the festival. A huge pond hockey tournament was also in full swing just down the shore. My preconceptions of the area were completely off, though they may be a contributing factor in helping the place maintain its isolated charm.

Ice racing is like most fringe sports. The friendship and cooperation of the people involved is half the pleasure. As we pulled out onto the lake, the hundreds of cars belonging to spectators and competitors had the appearance of an arctic tailgate party.

People were moseying about, sipping coffee or twisting wrenches and getting their machines tweaked as races ran continuously on the long course track, the oval track for bikes and quads and the sledders' straightaway.

For car-drivers, racing is only a fraction of the sport—a lot of time is spent maintaining the cars. But this is not as prohibitively expensive as one might think. Mostly old Neons and Chevettes populate the races, and they are very cheap to buy used. To get race-equipped and ready to hit the ice, one can invest as little as a couple thousand dollars.

Luckily, I wouldn't need even that: a race had been set up for media competitors and I had been provided a car by a generous father-and-son duo from Edmonton. After some practice laps, I felt good, fast, dirty and in control.

When it came time for my main event, I was directed into the last place starting position. This decision had been made after organizers witnessed a rather successful practice run. I would have to make some serious maneuvers to make this work.

My main adversary in the race was a DJ from a Bonnyville radio station. He was gunning for a third consecutive trophy. I made it my objective to supplant him.

At the close of our pace lap, the flag fell and the game began. I pumped the Neon hard, making a pass on the first corner, something I had been advised against, and a triple pass on the second.

I was quickly making ground on the sinister Number 7. I could see him several cars ahead, and by the end of the second lap I was on his ass. At this point, things got interesting.

We pulled hard in and out of corners, trying to stay out of the deeper water from the day's sun. The pools creeping onto the course could pull you in and bog you right down.

As we came up on the rear to lap a group of cars, I saw my opportunity. As he pulled out, I made the dicey choice of going inside, planning to weave out through this little triangle of moving obstacles—cars, ice, melt bogs. It could mean contact and collision, or skidding out, but he had been angling me out so aggressively, I knew I had to take any opportunity.

I cut through the tight pack and blindly pulled ahead before my wipers cleared the doused windshield. I was several lengths ahead now but the nasty Number 7 didn't trail by much. My cornering and drifting dominated, but he was better in the water and on straights.

Cake's "Going the Distance" pumped through my mind. Neck and neck we weaved, capturing much attention from the audience. Between the two of us we executed at least eight passes.

I had pulled ahead on a hairpin corner to lead by a decent margin for most of the final lap when a bad decision put me in a deep puddle pulling into the straightaway.

He scurried past by about 20 metres to claim the checkered flag while I bogged in for a safe, tragic and painful second—the first loser. I had failed my team, the pit crew, myself, the readers of Vue Weekly, and my hero, Wicket, the Ewok in Star Wars who races his jet cruiser through the forest in Return of The Jedi.

As I reluctantly handed back the keys, I knew the thirst for speed on ice would draw me back. Next year, Bonnyville, I take no prisoners. V

Lac La Biche
Dos and Don'ts

Do: Check out Trucker's, a shady little tavern in the Hotel on the main street. It's a nice, dodgy place that hearkens back to the Saloon that Sam McGee would chill in.
Do: Stay at the Ramada. There's a Waterslide.
Do: Check out the Lake, all year.
Do: Try the onion rings at the V&H Spacedock, the drive-in with the spaceship coming out of the top.
Don't: Play the VLTs at Trucker's.
Don't: Stay at Trucker's for too long.
Don't: Meet your special friend at Trucker's.
 

More Info

classicwheels.org
laclabicheregion.com
travelalberta.com

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