Monster Tanked - Riding In Robosaurus

Monster truck rallies are confusing. The combination of diesel fume inhalation, truck noise, hordes of screaming children, angry dads, and afternoon binge drinking spins the mind a million miles an hour. Recently, about a quarter of the Toronto Vice office set out for an evening of bonding inside a massive building filled with dirt and gigantic vehicles. In addition to the trucks, the largest dinosaur on Earth – Robosaurus – was scheduled to make an appearance.

Obtaining our press credentials was no easy task thanks to the menopausal hens doling out media passes. At first they told us they would be giving us media vests, which got us super stoked on the idea that we'd be wearing light-up jackets so everyone would know we were with the drivers. Instead, we got crappy wristbands and an unceremonious elevator trip down to the Rogers Dome Centre Arena field. For whatever reason, the field showed up as "OOM" on the elevator's LED screen so Patrick – one of our ad guys – made a joke about this being the elevator of DOOM and the old ladies next to us got mad.

Once on the field, we got to walk around and meet all the grizzly hicks who drive these mega machines. One guy drove a truck named "Rap Attack." We were excited to find out what his favourite rap album of all time was, but he said he didn't listen to rap at all, "just country."

After that awesome interview, there wasn't much else to do but go to the neighboring brewery and continue to drink. We wanted to go on a tour, but instead just sat around in the lobby and drank for three hours. Patrick broke two glasses and Katie – our office manager – got picked up by an angry, red-faced, small-town Ontario drunkard who came down just for the monster truck rally. Now they are in love.

It was dark by the time we left the brewery. The snow had picked up and we were blindly stumbling back. "We need something to push us over the edge!" Patrick screamed. Fine. Five shots of whiskey later and we were down in the dirt. The entire stadium went dark, then red, as the American flag rippled 180 feet wide. No one could hear the anthem over the sound of revving engines. We were there.

666.

The innermost five sets are roped off into a designated area called the "kill zone." This area's kept empty in case a flaming two-story tire comes bouncing into the audience. Being a row back from the kill zone didn't inspire feelings of "safety."

The "Kill zone".

Our attention was starting to wane in the drone of engines and confusing sensory overload from all sides when the lights dropped and a twenty-foot flame shot up out of nowhere. Robosaurus is the world's largest robot. It also houses its own bumping sound system.

After it ate two cars it was time for intermission. We'd acquired Robosaurus's manager's number, so we called him up. He answered, asking "Can you see me? Look at the tail!" Looking down, we saw a tiny man waving in the pit, next to the retired Robo. A few minutes later Brooke Dunn (yup) was bounding up the steps to meet us in the lower bowl of the stadium. Breathless, smiling, he clapped us on the back and said, "So you wanna see it?"

He led us stumbling past multiple security checkpoints into the cold basement bowels of the stadium, all the while cheerfully shouting back answers to our questions. In case you are wondering, Robosaurus cost a lot of money to make, took about three engineers to design, and is the only one of its kind.

Brooke Dunn scratched his head as a security guard gently stopped us both short. A monster truck coming from the ring nearly ran us over. A group of guys called us over from a tunnel across the way. They were Brooke's team. We followed them around a few more bends and there it was, crouched on a flatbed truck, radiating heat. Before we said anything they asked if we wanted to climb inside.

We threw ourselves at it, scrambling up to the flatbed and then hoisting ourselves into either one of its "fore-claws." Only at Hooters and in Heaven is that kind of drunk recklessness encouraged. Patrick disappeared into its head and someone shouted "get the lady a ladder," but we were already up and in it.

The cockpit had about two dozen different keypads with smaller push pads attached to those, a few levers, a bunch of things to pull, a viewing screen, and a lot of lights. When we asked what all that stuff did they said "most of it does nothing."

After the excitement of sitting inside a giant transforming robot dinosaur, the rest of our evening felt a bit anti-climactic. Where do we go from here? How can we go on? We had no concept of how drunk we were, but just as we were deciding whether or not to call it a day, Mark Hays, Robo-pilot, walked by. Were we to party in his hotel room? Close. He took us up to the hotel bar that overlooked the stadium floor via one big wall of windows and let us – Patrick and Katie – ask questions to our hearts' content.

Patrick: What'd you do before driving a big robot dinosaur?
Mark Hays: Stunt work, it was never a full-time thing, but I've always been a thrill-seeker. I was a hot air pilot. On Monday I'm flying myself to Columbia to go kite-boarding, and I just got back from snow-kiting. It's all about the rush. You get over the fear.

Patrick: Is there any competition in the robot world?
No, because no one is stupid enough to make this. It cost six million dollars, no one would pay that much to make it again. The teeth could crush a car.

Patrick: Why do it? To be a household name?
No. Even Kim Kardashian, from what I've read, is a business woman. She knows what she's doing. She has this image she creates, and that's not necessarily who she is, but it is specifically designed to make money.

Patrick: Monster trucks apply to a very specific time and place. Sort of like how a UFC fighter couldn't keep up the same pace for 50 years, a driver might have the same problem.
Well, I think you could point to other things that are similar, Barn Stormers for example.

Katie: Are you kidding? I love this! This is incredible! I remember seeing this when I was a kid and being amazed-
Wait a minute, how old are you, put that beer down. So did you want to come back and pet Robosaurus the next day when you were a kid?

Katie: Fuck that! I was terrified!
Patrick: You're lucky Mark.
Well, look at what you guys are doing, you travel around, you're lucky too. I have a daughter, she's about your age. You're doing well.

Patrick: Probably not as well as you.
Don't worry, [laughs] I'll buy the beers.

Katie: How's your love life?
How's yours?

Katie: Here, look, [shows series of text messages, "I'm full of malaise", etc], what the fuck is that?
Maybe he's just sensitive? Maybe you should just offer him a nice massage, a back rub. [Takes phone, shows group of monster truck drivers who have shown up.]

Grave Digger driver: Back massage!

Excalibur driver: Cook him dinner?

Bulldozer driver: Find someone else!

Mark: I dated an LAPD officer once. She liked how I looked in handcuffs and took me home. One night her step-daughter called and said someone was outside her house. So we rushed over there, and as soon as we got there he took off running. I chased him down, tackled him, and he started crying. Then suddenly he yanked a gun out. I caught it and got it away from him. It turned out he had raped five women who were there in court and who said to me, "You should've killed him." Later even the D.A. took me aside and said, "Why didn't you kill him?"

Patrick: The D.A. said why didn't you kill him!?
Oh yeah. You don't know at the time though, you think, he's just some peeping Tom. And then you find out later he has five prior rape charges. Probably would've killed him had I known. You never know, it's not like they all wear black hats.

Katie (looking out the window, excessively drunk): This doesn't look so demolition to me. It's so tame! This one crazy orange car's just rippin' around everyone else. Everyone is just sitting in the middle, "Oooh I'm on fire! Put me out!"
Patrick: Do you have any more vigilante stories?
I try to steer clear of that stuff.

Katie: More of those cars should be crushed, I think.

KATIE HEINDL & PATRICK MCGUIRE