The Bull Run began on the Vegas Strip with an explosion of internal combustion engines, wildly dressed hooligans, Amber Rose in a cleavage-exposing jumpsuit, rows of 6-figure supercars, Ice T and his ample bossomed partner Coco, and even Vanilla Ice behind the wheel of an imaginary car (the Firebreather, which we’ve covered here before) that he ended up crashing on the first day (check out the photo in the gallery below). It surely would’ve been madness, that is, had I been there. I wasn’t, however — I was not to hook up with America’s most infamous exotic car rally until it pit-stopped in the sweltering humidity that is Montgomery, Alabama. I myself flew in from Missoula, Montana which meant three planes and 8 hours to travel the 2,000 miles to Alabama.
But as I jumped on board the petroleum-fueled bacchanalia that is the Bull Run on the last two legs of the rally, I was vehicle-less — a vast difference from 2 years ago, when I had the luxury of the Cadillac CTS-V’s 566 horses at my disposal. So as I entered the concourse of the Renaissance Hotel the next morning, I dropped my bags to try to find a ride to our next destination, which was Orlando. In the process of walking 15 feet and taking 2 photos, my shirt was soaked through in sweat. Alabama is not the type of place where you want to be doing any sort of manual labor in July.
The problem with trying to score a ride on the Bull Run is that most cars have 2 ralliers, and 2 seats to accommodate them. Sure there’s the random AMG or Audi RS6 among the throng of Lambos and Porsches, but they’re usually loaded up with the requisite fit, saline-enhanced bird. The option of being stuck in the hellish heat of Montgomery was off the table, so it was with anxiety that I perused the sea of 2-seater sports cars looking for salvation. Then I saw it, the hope-bearing monstrosity blocking 2 entire lanes of traffic: an obnoxiously large, ostentatiously painted hot pink Hummer H1 Humvee with the word “DUDESONS” plastered across its side in big block white letters. Oh lord, had it come to this?
Hit the Jump to continue reading Diary Of the Madman: 48 Hours Of Madness On the Bull Run Rally, plus another full gallery of pics from the most notorious exotic car rally in America…
“In every hotel we stopped at, the Bull Run was king — but in Miami, Kim Kardashian’s giant celebrity booty reigns supreme…”
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting shotgun in the pink DUDESONS Humvee, waiting for David Green — co-founder of the Bull Run along with Andrew Duncan — to flap the GO flag of this second-to-last leg of the rally. Turns out the “Dudesons” are a Jackass-like group of debaucherous minstrels from Finland, and the driver of this support vehicle was kind enough to accept my request and let me jump into his Hummer. Thank god, as I had no other way of getting my ass to Orlando.
As the giant diesel engine rumbled before us, anticipating the rubber-melting blast out of the starting gate, the driver — who I think was called Aloof, but I had a hard time understanding him — turns to me and says dryly, “Oh yeah, by the way, I broke the crankshaft doing donuts a couple days ago, so we cannot go faster than 60 mph.” I pause. A bolt of pain shoots through my body as I realize this next long leg of the rally —all 500 miles of it — will not be spent in a high octane battle with other redlining cars in a death-defying race to Disneyworld, but will instead be spent languishing in a giant, loud, cramped Hummer thick with the scent of Finnish body odor and old Slim Jims. For nine hours.
“Oh, and one more thing,” says Aloof, turning to me, the sun shining hot on his face. “The air conditioner’s broken.”
To say the next 9 hours were absolute hell would be a lie. Aloof turned out to be quite a swell chap, and the box of Slim Jims and tepid Gatorades kept me sated and well hydrated for the entire ride. And the pit stop we made at Goodman’s BBQ in Perry, Florida certainly treated us right. Even tho we were the last to check in, the fried green tomatoes and beef brisket made the puddle of sweat pooling at my feet in the Hummer almost manageable. The only real bummer happened when state troopers pulled us over for going 65 on a 45, but decided to let us go after he looked over Aloof’s forged diplomatic license plates. After the second cop told him he’d have to call INTERPOL in order to verify the plates, the Super Trooper huffed and reticently let us go. Sometimes it pays to be European.
The Dudeson’s Pink Hummer H1 Humvee
I was much smarter the next day when we made our way from Orlando to the final destination of Miami, where we were all booked to stay at the Fountainbleau Hotel — the most iconic hotel in Miami and one of the most enjoyable hotels in the world. That day I did not want to arrive last, sweaty and cramped, so I bid adieu to my Finnish friend Aloof and instead jumped into a Dodge Charger with Asher Roth, his girl Hannah and a pleasant British camera man named Olly. Needless to say, the ride to Miami was much more enjoyable — we didn’t exactly blow the doors off the Lamborghini Murcielagos zooming past us, but Hannah made good time driving and we avoided getting pulled over. At the halfway point we convinced Asher to give us a sample of his new album (which drops in October), and we listened to it in entirety on our way to Miami, highlighted with personal anecdotes for each track. Perhaps I’m biased, but what I heard was top notch — Asher’s certainly at the peak of his game right now. No, he can’t rap about playing flip cup and college for the rest of his life — although there are plenty of clever party raps to keep the fans happy — so there’s an added growth to his lyrics. There’s a strong “fuck off, I’ma do me” motif running throughout the album. When the LP drops, keep your ears open for “Oops” if you have any doubt of the kid’s talent. And the track with Rye Rye’s no joke, either.
We skipped that day’s pit stop at a race track because Asher had interviews at 2 local Miami hip hop stations, so we decided instead to get to the Fountainbleau as quickly as the gods allowed and eat lunch poolside. When we arrived at the Fountainbleau we discovered that Kim Kardashian’s wedding — which was taking place the next day at the hotel — had bumped 30% of our rooms. In every hotel we stopped at, the Bull Run was king — but in Miami, Kim’s giant celebrity booty reigns supreme. Now I’ve wanted to stay at the Fountainbleau my whole life, so I was absolutely resigned to getting a room, but the only way they could guarantee one was if me and cameraman Olly shared a suite. Desperate to get a room, I signed on the dotted line and we all convened to the pool. With the sun shining down, copious bikinis traipsing to and fro, and pina coladas keeping our hands cool, we unwound before that night’s festivities.
That night’s dinner at the W Hotel quickly merged to everyone crashing the Fountainbleau lobby, and eventually crashing uber-club Liv. Much nonsense transpired, much champagne was popped, many a bottle of Makers Mark was consumed. Which normally would’ve resulted in a healthy hangover if we didn’t all have the vast Fountainbleau Hotel pool to recover in the next day. And after about 4 Long Island Ice Teas, the world was back to normal again. Till next year, Bull Run…
