Fringe Florida: Travels Among Mud Boggers, Furries, Ufologists, Nudists, and Other Lovers of Unconventional Lifestyles (26 page)

irF

boggers take pride in Confederate heritage, however racially divisive it

may be. It doesn’t matter if their ancestors fought for the Union, the

431

southern rebel rules.

I see more Confederate flags in these muddy fields than I’ve seen

in my entire life, and I grew up in a town that was briefly the national

headquarters for the Ku Klux Klan. The Stars and Bars is on ATV flags,

car tags, rear windows, shirts, and hats. A woman in a rebel-flag bikini

and cowboy boots parades throughout the park on the hood of a truck

with a Busch beer in her hand. When she goes on break, a blow-up doll

in a rebel-flag bikini takes her place.

One buggy flies a pair of rebel flags imprinted with Hank Williams

Jr.’s face. “If the South Woulda Won.” Yes, imagine.

Not surprisingly, the crowd is more than 99.9 percent white.

Redneck Rock Stars

As Tony steers us to the next play area, he shouts that we’ll come back

after the races. “It really gets busy in the pits then.” Busier is hard to

fathom, but the main parking lot and campground give a sense of the

potential. A mass of steel and horsepower covers more than 40 acres.

Everything from million-dollar RVs to towering pickups with flatbed

trailers.

The amount of money invested in the sea of recreational vehicles is

unfathomable. Tony says his buggy tires alone cost six hundred dollars

proof

each. It costs a hundred dollars just to fill up the buggy for one day in

the park. Even small ATVs sell for around $5,000. Then there’s the cost

of constant maintenance and upkeep. Breakdowns are a given.

A fancy buggy nearly as large as
Redneck
Royalty
is stalled by a bro-

ken fuel pump. The owner says it was the only replacement part he

didn’t bring. He had to send someone all the way back to Punta Gorda

to pick up a new one.

Tony nods his head in commiseration; he’s been in that spot before.

A row of vendors in travel trailers borders the huge campground.

The smell of fried food overpowers our buggy exhaust. This is one of

s

the few areas where people dare set out on foot, and not just for a

KCe

burger and fries. A mudder can pick up a copy of
Mud
Life
, an Orlando-

nd

based magazine distributed around the nation and a big seller at U.S.

er

military bases in the Middle East. A few entrepreneurial, self-professed

laC

“bubbas” of central Florida hawk Bubba Rope®, a towing strap adapted

ida

from ones used by military helicopters. And what event would be with-

r

out a T-shirt vendor? A family-based business from Myakka started

53

small, but soon incorporated as Sloppy Holes Mud’n Club. They sell

1

For those times

when waving a

rebel flag just isn’t

enough. Photo by

James Harvey.

proof

mud fan wear at parks all over the state and online. One of their big

sellers is a camo T-shirt with a silhouette of a topless cowgirl and the

slogan “Sloppy hole hunter . . . always lookin’ for a wet spot.”

Nearby, the races are at full throttle. They are billed as the primary

attraction, but most mudders are too busy entertaining themselves to

adi

watch. Those who do, simply pull up to the rail—no need to disembark.

ro

Seats on the elevated trucks and buggies offer unobstructed views and

lF

convenient access to party supplies. The sweet, musky smell of mari-

egn

juana floats through the air.

irF

One by one, giant trucks spin around the soupy track, shooting up

tails of muddy water as they round each curve. A far cry from the ad-

631

covered trucks of Monster Jam, these vehicles look like something

constructed in a backyard garage. Some are missing hoods, one doesn’t

have a bed, and several lack side windows. All have massive engines and

tires.

A stage large enough to accommodate an orchestra borders the

track. The giant fire pit beside it smolders from the night before. After

dark, motorized traffic is forbidden, and the park attempts to keep the

rowdy crowd entertained with country bands.

A steady string of revelers ride past, seeing and being seen like high

school kids cruising a downtown strip on a Saturday night.

Tony’s friends pull up in another massive swamp buggy. Anticipat-

ing getting smashed, they hired a designated driver. Tony had told me

the day before that they were grilling out with friends. I had envisioned

a cozy campfire in the woods. His buddies are firing up the charcoal grill

on their rolling front porch.

Plastic Mardi Gras beads hang from their buggy’s rails and dangle

around their necks. Like at the hedonistic New Orleans festival, men

toss baubles to women who bare their breasts.

Mike had warned that there would be a lot of mammary flashing,

and that the
Redneck
Royalty
attracts it. “It’s a chick magnet,” he told

me. “I feel like a redneck rock star when I’m on it.” He said a teenager

once asked why he didn’t put a gun rack on Redneck Royalty, and he

proof

responded: “I’ve seen more racks in one day on that buggy than you will

ever see in your life.”

Maybe it’s because there are two women on board, but
Redneck
Roy-

alty
isn’t drawing any boob salutes today, at least not at this point.

A Jeep parades past with two young women with breasts as firm as

grapefruits spilling from skimpy bikini tops. Like beauty queens, they

stand in the back, holding onto the roll bar with one hand and waving

to men with the other. Tony’s friends go wild. They holler, dangle their

strands of beads, and practically jump up and down to get the women’s

attention.

s

“I think we’re fixing to see some beans come out,” Tony tells Clay.

KCe

The girls only flash smiles.

nd

“Aw, wimps,” Tony says.

er

The races nearing their end, we head back to Pine Island Sound

laC

where the only prize is bragging rights. Tony was right in his predic-

ida

tion. The field is getting packed.

r

Buggies, trucks, Jeeps, and ATVs are parked two and three deep

73

around the deepest pond.

1

proof

Some guns are allowed.

Photo by James Harvey.

The hole has deepened throughout the day with each drag of tires.

As the sun lowers over the Australian pines, it is now at least 5 feet

deep. Only trucks equipped with snorkels attempt it, and by snorkels, I

mean literally. Each vehicle has a long pipe sticking up through its hood

that allows the engine to breathe. Otherwise, the engine would choke.

I fight the urge to climb off the buggy and chase down a truck owner

who will give me a ride through the muck. Before I work up the nerve,

we leave Pine Island Sound to drop off Clay at his truck. On our way

back, a sobering sight on the side of the road kills my enthusiasm. Para-

medics are loading a man in a neck brace into an ambulance.

Back at the deep hole, the crowd is captivated by a Jeep that flipped

upside down. Only the wheels and under carriage are visible above the

muck. Amazingly, the occupants weren’t the ones hauled off to the hos-

pital. They are up to their necks in the stew of muddy water, petroleum,

and who knows what else. The Jeep is so mired that it takes two trucks

straining in tandem to upright it. As the mud-coated vehicle flips over,

the crowd hollers, whistles. “Hell, yeah!”

The trucks stop, and the Jeep, right-side-up, sinks back into the

muck, listing to one side like a boat run aground. Onlookers groan.

Like a dark knight, the biggest truck on the field—at least two feet

taller than
Redneck
Royalty
—rumbles to the rescue. The crowd lets out

proof

more hillbilly cheers. The young Jeep riders go through another round

of hooking up tow straps, which clearly goes slower when you have to

work in muck up to your ears.

Connected, the black knight backs up as if to get a running go and

allows slack in the tow strap.

“Uh oh,” Tony comments. His friend in the next buggy laughs. The

consensus is the driver is all truck and little experience.

He guns his engine hard. The line snaps.

Undaunted, the Jeep guys, still up to their necks in muck, retie it.

The truck keeps the line taut this time and digs in, black smoke spew-

s

ing from its towering exhaust pipe like a coal plant in China. The Jeep

KCe

frees, but by now the crowd is too engrossed in their beers and talk of

nd

“titties” to give more than a half-hearted cheer.

er

The scene grows more postapocalyptic as the sinking sun casts a

laC

golden light, illuminating diesel exhaust and swirls of oil film atop

ida

the muddy water. A young buggy crew disembarks by a mud hole, and

r

they drag one another into the muck. One guy belly-flops in and then

93

floats around on his back as if he were in a resort swimming pool. The

1

girls stumble out of the water looking as if they had been dipped in

chocolate.

“You see that?” Tony asks. “They’ll still be like that in the morning.

There aren’t any showers out here. But they don’t care. They probably

won’t sleep all night.”

Naively, I ask, “But don’t they pass out from drinking all day?”

“Well, I think there could be some drugs involved.”

Duh.

James and I decide to escape while there’s still light. We have an

Alabama game to catch. Plus, it’s pretty obvious that things get even

crazier after dark. We’ve just had our first bare-boob sighting. Tony’s

friends in the next buggy finally coaxed a couple of women to flash

them.

Tony and Lacee drop us off back at our SUV. They are going to return

to the depths of the chaos and join their friends for a grilled dinner.

(He, of course, is taping the Florida game.)

They invite us to join them again, but Tony adds: “Just do me a favor.

Don’t wear the hats next time.”

proof

re6

tpahC

Spirits, Fairies, and

proof

a Blow-Up Mary

Floridians are on average about as religious as the residents of any

other state, and they worship dominant faiths to roughly the same de-

gree. But in a land of individualists prone to the fantastical, ordinary

often isn’t an option.

Florida has entire small towns and significant portions of larger

ones devoted to religions that are mere blips on America’s spiritual

radar.

The nation’s largest commune of Hare Krishna sits just outside

Gainesville, for example. Bald practitioners swathed in ponchos come

into Gainesville to serve free vegetarian lunches daily to hungry Uni-

versity of Florida college students.

The church of Scientology, a religion started in the 1950s by a sci-

ence-fiction writer, owns about half of downtown Clearwater and con-

1 4

siders the city its spiritual headquarters. Some two thousand followers

1

a week come to the coastal town to be cleared of psychological im-