Ledger

By Kristin Draus

As soon as my dad and I arrived at the earsplitting monster truck rally in the Tacoma Dome, I fished out a notepad from my purse and scribbled a concise message for him: "Let’s leave early!"

It’s not that I hate monster trucks. If anything I only used to feel apathy toward events like Monster Jam; with its television commercials eliciting nothing more from me than a bemused smirk and a casual reach for the mute button on my remote control. The deep and gravelly voice of the TV announcer certainly didn’t arouse the sort of enthusiasm of which was intended. Some laughter, perhaps… but nothing along the line of eagerness. If you’re anything like me, commercials for the various events at the Tacoma Dome have no effect on your mindset, except perhaps a baffled, "Who actually GOES to these things?"

Nonetheless, I showed up to the Tacoma Dome that particular Sunday with earplugs and notepad in hand. At first I thought bringing earplugs would equate to monster truck sacrilege, like those people who plug their ears at music concerts while shouting, "But why is it so LOUD?" However, to experience Monster Truck Jam without earplugs is to risk sudden deafness. Those five-ton, growling, fiberglass trucks are labeled "monster" for a reason and you don’t want your hearing to become its prey.

Entering the Dome, I thought there should have been signs warning of children underfoot, copious amounts of testosterone and insidious gasoline fumes. Don’t expect to leave a monster truck rally without tasting exhaust in the back of your throat. Realistically, the event’s organizers should warn asthmatic people of the fumes and dirt particles floating into the audience’s lungs. After all, people need those lungs for hollering incentives at the monster truck drivers.

Never one for the understatement, Monster Jam began with a dramatic blast of Carl Orff’s "O Fortuna" through the loudspeakers, also known as that operatic song in every cheesy movie trailer ever created. I snickered. Then a low-quality version of Baha Men’s "Who Let the Dogs Out" began to play, exciting those around me to woof along to a song that should have been outlawed years ago. Still, the attempts by Monster Jam’s organizers to rile up the audience charmed me. Had I been wrong about monster truck rallies? Maybe cheering for the destruction of inanimate, obsolete objects is a perfectly normal activity for that period of time spent between church and Sunday dinner.

The highlight of the event involved a truck affectionately known as Monster Mutt. Similar to a dog - if a dog were a 5-ton vehicle - the truck features an attached wiry tail with brown "fur" encasing it. At one point in the truck’s spin around the track, the fur slid off the wire and landed in the dirt. With one voice - and I cannot make this up - the audience cried, "Noooo!"

Even with behemoths hurtling through the air, losing tails and smashing destruction on other vehicles, very few serious injuries occur during monster truck shows. According to Roger Stidell, driver of the Captain USA truck, the most likely injuries to drivers involve mere bruises: "We kind of get beat up really bad, but we don’t break bones in [the trucks]. We just… take a real beating." Local paramedics stand by to provide medical help if needed, but they told me the worst injury is typically a broken wrist and occasionally broken ribs. You know, injuries that could happen to anyone in the workplace.

If anything, you should go to a Monster Jam just for the boasting rights of seeing monster trucks in person; it’s a life-enhancing activity, similar to bungee jumping or eating the fuzzy food in the back of the refrigerator. True, the inhalation of dirt, gasoline fumes and orange nacho cheese may cause interesting things to happen in your body, and after just two short races I thought, "Okay, I’m done," but where else will you see fellow members of the human race cheering for the wanton destruction of costly vehicles? Only at Monster Jam - or possibly NASCAR.