Word: bogging
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...screams toward pure speed. Peter Revson's helmet was painted into a big toothy smile, but he died setting a track record in South America. So far there have been no accidents this weekend. All at once I hear the crickets' song. The heat is over. From the bog floats a black cloud of smoke. It is feasting. Down from the sky plunge Navy parachutists, trailing red, white and blue chutes...
...BOG is but a runoff ditch, fed by the drains from the campgrounds. Left alone it is a glorified mud puddle, finely churned by the hundreds of motorcycles that scramble back and forth. In the middle a naked man is rolling about in the mire. The deeper he sinks, the greater the crowd's pleasure. A few thousand people now mill about this shallow, bowl-like dip of land, waiting for another victim, throwing empty cans of beer at each other. For the present they must content themselves with stoning the engine of an already charred hulk. Here there...
...about us people are rushing to the far side of the track. Apparently there has been a crash. Huge volumes of black, grimy smoke pouring towards us have caused the drivers to slow up on the track. The source, however, is the bog. Stranded in the middle of the mob is the charred hulk of a 40-seat Greyhound bus, bursting like popcorn as the children stone it. The burning continues through the Oldtimers' Race, a special side event this afternoon. Spinning clods of mud in the waning light, the motorcycles continue their catatonic sorties through the now near-solid...
...sucked up by the crowd. Before the driver can climb out the windows are bashed in. Out of the crowd arch Molotov cocktails, their path flickered across 8,000 forms, the fire mirrored on their foreheads. Lurching into the warm at top speed comes a bog car to the tune of I'm the King of Rock and Roll. It runs head on into the bus. The night sky is consumed by a rising pillar of fire, weaving its eerie, smoke-obscured path across the entire breadth of the countryside. There is no end to the burning. I drift...
...appears around the curve with his right arm cocked in the air. He has won and the crowd breaks out in cheering he cannot hear. Immediately we head out for the car. It is 5:00. We have neither the time nor the inclination to stop off at the bog. Its smoldering fires still darken the sky. At 2 a.m. I am on the bus from New York City to Boston, travelling down Amsterdam Avenue; a desolate, devastated area pocked with abandoned tenements. At 6:15 a.m. I am back in Cambridge...