In memory of Yahuarcocha

In those days, everything was farther away. Taking a trip to Ibarra was like what a journey to Loja would be today. My father had his ritual, which began with taking the pickup truck to the neighborhood mechanic, to get the "good to go" from the thorough master Gato. We also had to go to bed early the night before and get up at five a.m. on the dot, to load up his unforgettable light blue Mazda 1000.

Ecuador's highways at the time consisted of a few narrow roads; some barely paved and others of dirt and gravel, with a generous amount of potholes and dust clouds, just as they were portrayed by the great photographer and filmmaker Rolf Blomberg in his memorable adventures in black and white. For Papá, returning to Imbabura was to visit his memories, exploring the early scenery of his life. Without even trying, Papa gradually instilled in me an indestructible love for our land. "That is San Pablo lake; behind it, the Taita Imbabura mountain", he would show us while we were stopped in Cayambe for a breakfast of biscuits and queso de hoja (fresh cheese wrapped in an achira leaf) at one of the cafés surrounding the central park, where the local indigenous people hung out, many of them deformed by goiters.

This is the Ecuador of the seventies, during the first big oil boom. And the reason for the excursion was another event which still grips my heart: the automobile races at Yahuarcocha, a modest racetrack you reached by passing through Ibarra and then maneuvering through the unending curves of Oten on a narrow and serpentine gravel road, where you prayed you would not come across any trucks traveling the opposite way.

Madera, Merello, Ortega: Monsters on the blacktop

At that time, televisions were black and white and my hero was a daring racecar driver: the young Meteoro on board his powerful Max 5, a car that could even fly, who I emulated on my primitive ATU bicycle. Ibarra, the city one always returns to, featured the Hotel Turismo and the helados de paila (ice cream made in large brass “pailas” or pots) of dolls. Rosalía Suarez.

Papá used to park his truck on a little hill looking out on the famous dove curve, a difficult test of the skill and valor of the memorable drivers who became legends: Palito Ortega and his Porsche 908, Fausto Merello in a Ferrari 250MI., the fabulous and enormous Camaro Z-28 of Guayaquileño Michel Vignolo, among other kings of the sport who tore up what was then a 10 kilometer circuit.

The ultimate event, unequalled in the history of Ecuadorian racing, was the Marlboro 12-Hour Race, which began at midnight and provided a spectacle with the fire of engines at 220 km per hour, shifting from third to fourth gear, the smell of burnt gasoline and the long headlights which, like the rays of some nocturnal god, appeared and disappeared swallowed up by the blackness of the night The date was September 26, 1971, I was eight years old and had a little dog named Rahman.

The Automobile and Tourism Club of lmbabura (CAT1) emerged as a powerful force, promoting not only the races, but also the tourism industry in beautiful Imbabura: this land of lakes and nogada, arrope de mora (blackberry syrup), guava sweets, tender corn and empanadas de morocho; of enchanting Andean music and the remote villages of El Chota; tourism and auto racing grew up together.

The families went to cheer on the cars and their drivers. The scene was complete with all of the glamour and action of the pits, the hoarse announcer narrating each turn with emotion, his voice breaking; beautiful models added to the intense mix of sensations. And cameras snapped photos as the valiant champions lifted up their trophies, kissed their girls, dedicated their victories, and sprayed champagne. Wow!

The Yahuarcocha races grew to attract over 30,000 fans, filling local hotels and sleeping in improvised camp sites. I will never forget my fascination and my father's generosity in taking me to the races, to experience the first indestructible feelings of pure joy and wonder in our simple lives. One day I dreamed of being Meteoro and going crazy putting the petal to the metal in a Ferrari, kissing the Marlboro girls, getting my picture taken.

That didn't happen. And like the thunder of a Camaro Z-28 in my face, all that is left is nostalgia, the thrilling smell of burnt gasoline, the crazy beams of light cutting through the blanket of night. And what my daddy told me: live today, son. Enjoy, live and die now, once and forever. Not even I will attend the funeral of your memory. Yahuarcocha forever! I haven't forgotten you. I love you, Pa. Start your engines!