Off to Tango with the Crimson Bull at the Soapbox Race
Community
It seems as if Salt Lake City has finally earned its credibility of being the big, bold, bustling metropolis it aimed to be: An all-star lineup of professional sports ready to station in its northwest Pleasure Island of sorts. A1-graded celebrity endorsements, whether through picture perfect filming locations or a damn hot pink Raising Canes. The literal passing of the torch with the announcement of hosting the 2034 Olympics. Not to mention the alarming rate of construction, housing prices and gun violence from last weekend alone, but I digress. SLC A.D. is certainly the place to be! Everything and anything is happening all at once — blink for just a millisecond and you could miss out on a night you’ll never forget. So I took that opportunity, straying awake from both my 9-5 desk jockey jobs to seek out destiny… which I found at the corner of North and West Temple, through the inflatable arches of the Red Bull Soapbox Race.
Beyond the beloved energy drink that supposedly “gives you wings,” Red Bull has launched itself into a household name in entertainment. Behind each taurine-laced sip is a multi-million dollar enterprise armed to the teeth in motocross, daredevils, rodeos, racing and record contracts with one of its biggest musicians being the indie rock band AWOLNATION. If there’s a facet for something appealing, there’s a chance Red Bull has grabbed it by the horns. The same goes with taking the fun-loving, homebrewed activity of soapbox racing, which Red Bull has turned into a national competition. The rules are simple: Build an out-of-the-box racer, take it down a steep incline track of hay bales and obstacles and make sure to cross the finish line in one piece. Easy enough, right? Now, throw in a panel of celebrity judges, both local and international, like Olympian climber Natalia Grossman and The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives star Mayci Neeley (though she dropped out at the last minute…too many dirty Diet Dr. Peppers from the night before, I bet). And to top it off, add 50,000 spectators to join in on the excitement. This is no longer a Little Rascals derby — this is a duel to the death! Boogity, boogity, let’s go racing!
After nearly mowing down some early morning “No Kings” protesters (by accident), I arrived at the bottom of Capitol Hill by 9:30 a.m. My Thrasher-approved photographer Kevin TK Frantz followed suit, as we met underneath the media pass canopy to sign a few liability clauses. We passed underneath the blue-and-silver pop-up Holy Gates, guarded by the recognizable Red Bull Mini Coopers and a militarized minotaur of a bug-out vehicle. We hobbled up the mile stretch incline of breakneck turns and some funky-looking obstacles themed around Utah byproducts. There was the hop-and-skip Sticky Steps to ruin any undercarriage, The BFGoodrich Rock Garden to rattle out the drivers and the Ski Jump as the final test to make sure the soapbox stays intact. Before setting in for the downhill destruction, we checked out the hauntingly decrypted McCune Mansion, which has been converted into a three-story VIP lounge. It came with high-end commodities like truffle popcorn, cornhole, a build-your-own taco stand and an open bar complete with the energized elixir on tap. Not a bad gig, I thought…until we were not allowed to come back in due to having “the wrong color of wristbands.”
The race began at 12:05 p.m. (very specific, I do say) as the onslaught of wacky racers made their descent do
wnward one at a time. Karts of many shapes and sizes sped down winding turns and nearly nosedived into the asphalt when the soapbox pulled a Dukes of Hazzard off the bottom jump. I would say the memorable moments were Team Desert Rats & Fievel Gone West taking home gold and watching Evel’s Rocket 2.0 launch to star-spangled victory with the fastest speed. However, I’d be hard pressed to deny the reason we all came out that Saturday — it was to see homemade jalopies eat shit! All the hard work of duct tape, constant OfficeMax trips and stealing your kid’s wagon for parts, only to see the whole mobile structure lunch-boxed in different directions is kind of beautiful. I don’t recall their team name, but racer number 22 was a towering buggy shaped to look like the Swiss Alps, complete with snow caps and billy goats. Standing downstream from the Sticky Steps, this rolling mountain lost control on the last jump, imploding on itself and almost taking out the media area where I was standing. I risk life and limb to give such coverage…
At the final hour, when the boneyard was filled with cardboard wreckage and I had made a headwrap from a stolen cloth napkin, the hype of that blistering June morning was completely worth it. Like a traveling circus or the resting-easy Dew Tour, the Red Bull Soapbox Race was certainly a “see it to believe it” moment. It was a fascinating gathering of like-minded adrenaline junkies in a desperate need for both excitement and escapism. Some took home a jaggy fragment of installation foam to stick on the mantle and say, “Yeah I was there.” Others limped away without a trophy, but the satisfaction of competing in a worldwide event. However, what was worth taking home for myself? A decent story? The freedom of a day off? The stinging physical breakdown of second-degree burns and kidney stones from free cans of White Peach-flavored Red Bull? Just a damn good time to be out at the races… and a Jack in the Box antenna topper.
Check out more event coverage from Alton Barnhart here:
32 Sensational Performances at Kilby Block Party 6
Confusion is Canon: My Experience at Salt Lake’s FanX 2024
