THE EARWIG RACES
‘In telling this mostly true tale, I confess, I let my imagination run away with me!’
This contributor’s amusing “mostly true” tale might bug some!
The little town that I’m going to tell you about has been kept secret for a long time. The reason for the secrecy is that once this story is out, the people living there will need to be protected from thousands of spectators arriving in town to witness what I’m about to describe! Although it’s been kept a secret for many years now, I decided the story had to be told—so here it is.
YOU’RE RACING WHAT?
It was 1970 and my wife Bridget and I had settled into the routine of the town. I was working in the logging camp and she as a cashier at the only grocery store.
On Sunday morning, June 18—I remember the day well—i heard the telephone ringing and went down the hallway to answer it.
“Good morning,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“It’s me, Jerry!” I then recognized him as one of the guys from work.
“Hey, are you coming to the Earwig Races today at the bar?” asked Jerry.
“Run that by me again?” I said.
“Every Sunday in the spring and summer we have Earwig Races down at the bar. I’ll be over to pick up you and your wife at 11 a.m.. The first race starts at noon so we have to get a good seat.”
Before I could ask any more questions he’d hung up. I didn’t know his last name at the time so I couldn’t phone him back to cancel.
I walked into the kitchen, where Bridget was ironing clothes and said to her, “Better change your clothes and do your hair because we’re going to something today called the Earwig Races.”
She looked at me as though I had just lost my mind, but she unplugged the iron and did as I asked.
As 11 o’clock arrived, Jerry drove into the driveway and ten minutes later we entered the local saloon. Inside the smoke-filled bar, Jerry took a medium-sized clear plastic pill bottle from his coat pocket. Inside were six earwigs of dierent sizes.
Some of them appeared to be painted with nail polish or some sort of paint. A barmaid arrived with a tray of suds as we sat down at a table near the bar.
A crowd had gathered at a larger table in the centre of the bar room floor. On that table was a piece of three-quarter-inch plywood, 16 inches wide and about six feet long. It had eight grooves cut into it with a table saw, each about an eighth of an inch wide. I guessed that the one groove cut crossways was the starting gate. The top was covered with a sheet of clear Plexiglas, which could slide back in order to place the insects inside.
As we watched, a thin strip of wood was inserted crossways at the starting gate to hold back the anxious insects. A few moments later an announcement was made over the bar’s loudspeaker:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the first race of the afternoon is about to begin. Please place your bets with Susan in the corner and would the owners of the British Columbia Thoroughbred Earwig Racing Association place their insects into the starting gate. We are about to begin this afternoon’s Earwig Races!”
I watched in awe as grown men placed tiny little bugs into the racing slots. The bugs were all painted up with nail polish. Some insects had spots painted on them, some had glitter mixed with paint sprinkled on their backs. When the gate was loaded everyone took their places around the table. Beer glasses clinked together as bets were placed. A fog of thick cigarette smoke filled the room.
The glass cover was in place. A young woman with streaked blond hair grasped the thin strip of wood that held back the bugs at the starting line. She then raised one arm in the air as she spoke into a microphone connected to a huge loudspeaker on the wall.
“Now they’re at the starting gate.”
The wood strip was yanked out as she yelled into the microphone.
“And now they’re o and Bluebird is in the lead by a half and coming up second is High Henry, followed by Billie-bob. Now charging down lane five is Iron Lady, following behind is Dillinger. And we’re coming down the final stretch. Bulldog is in the lead, following behind by an inch is Bluebird. And the winner is Bulldog, yes I said Bulldog, by a feeler!”
Then an argument started about who was the second place winner, Bluebird or Iron Lady. When I glanced over at my wife, she smiled and shook her head in disbelief.
Money changed hands and arguments were won or lost as beer slopped over and spilled onto the floor. There were yelps of pain when the insects pinched their owners as they placed them back in their pill bottle cages. After another announcement and another round of draft beer, the gate was loaded for the next race.
GET IN THE GAME
I asked Jerry who had started this event on Sundays. He said that in a small community where there wasn’t really much in the way of entertainment, one of the guys had noticed that there was a surplus of earwigs in town, and he had thoughts of having a race. Plus it was another reason to open the local saloon on Sunday, but strictly as a private racing club. This race was just like they have in the big cities with horses. Here, they couldn’t aord horses, so earwigs were the logical choice.
Now I have to admit something here. The following week before the big race, I was outside my house, down on my hands and knees, an empty pill bottle on the ground beside me. I pulled back dry grass from the house in search of a true Canadian thoroughbred that would win the big prize for me at the Earwig Finals.
The next race was to be held over the July 1 weekend, along with various loggers’ sports, a trap shoot and a salmon barbecue. I could hardly wait.
The day finally came. There I stood, a bottle full of thoroughbred racing insects in one hand and a glass of beer in the other, placing my bet.
Bridget couldn’t find her bottle full of winners, because I had them hidden inside my jacket pocket, to cut down on the competition.
I put her earwigs back into the glove compartment of the truck after the race. She never suspected a thing.
My Canadian thoroughbreds were not in top form because they didn’t make it through the first heat. But it sure was fun trying.
From then on, every Sunday until the snow flew and the earwigs went into hibernation, we were there at the track—bridget and I never missed a race. n