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| Talking Story with Arlo |
By Arlo Agogo
A Day with Daisy at the Laughlin Desert Classic.
The desert sky was ablaze with streaks of orange and pink as I climbed into Daisy, my 1968 VW dune buggy, on a crisp Wednesday morning. Here in the tri-state area, where Arizona, Nevada, and California meet near Laughlin, the annual
Laughlin Desert Classic is the event of the year for off-road fanatics.
The races were set for Thursday through Saturday, but today was practice day—a chaotic symphony of revving engines and flying dirt as racers fine-tuned their machines on the 14-mile track just across the Colorado River from Laughlin’s neon-lit casinos.
I’m no racer, just an old beatnik with a love for cruising, but I figured Daisy and I could soak up the scene. With her bright yellow body, 90% chrome trim, and a 1875cc motor growling through straight-header “trumpet” exhausts,
Daisy was ready to turn heads.
Before hitting the road, I swung by McDonald’s for a sausage McMuffin, a hashbrown, and a steaming coffee to keep me sharp.
The racetrack was a quick 10-mile cruise north along the river, Daisy’s engine purring as we wound through the desert. Her electronic ignition and chrome-heavy motor—state-of-the-art for 1968—made her a rolling piece of history.
I named her Daisy for her sunny disposition, but don’t let the name fool you; those straight headers called trumpets roar like a lion when I fire her up.
Pulling into the racetrack’s staging area felt like entering a war zone of horsepower.
Trophy trucks, side-by-sides, and unlimited modifies of every stripe filled the lot, their crews tweaking suspensions and checking tire pressures. The air smelled of gasoline and dust, and the 14-mile track stretched out like a gauntlet of bumps, jumps, and loop-de-loops designed to break machines and men alike.
I found a prime spot to park Daisy, where I could lean back in her bucket seat and watch the practice runs tear through the desert. I wasn’t here to race—just to cruise, spectate, and maybe show off Daisy a bit.
As I sipped my coffee, I noticed the stares.
Daisy’s polished chrome gleamed like a mirror in the morning sun, a stark contrast to the matte-painted, mud-caked beasts around us. A group of young racers in branded gear sauntered over, smirking at my shiny relic.
“Nice show car, Grandpa,” one quipped, his buddy chuckling. I just grinned, letting them have their moment. Then they circled to Daisy’s rear and froze.
“Holy crap, look at that motor,” one said, eyeing the 1875cc beast hanging off the back. “That’s legit.”
Another nodded, suddenly serious. “Respect, man.” Daisy’s no trophy truck, but for 1968, she’s a monster, and they knew it.
As the morning wore on, Daisy became a magnet. The lot was packed with high-dollar machines—carbon-fiber Trophy Trucks and side-by-sides built to hit triple-digit speeds and soar 30 yards over jumps—but my little buggy stood out.
A photographer from Off-Road Pulse, an online magazine covering the desert racing scene, wandered over, his camera slung around his neck.
“Mind if I snap a few shots?” he asked, already framing Daisy in his lens. “This thing’s a classic. Readers love the retro vibe.”
I waved him on, and he circled Daisy like a vulture, clicking away. “Can you fire it up?” he asked. I obliged, and Daisy’s trumpets let out a throaty roar that turned every head in the lot. The photographer grinned.
“That’s the money shot.”
Then came the trophy girls—three of them, all decked out in matching red crop tops and shorts, promoting some energy drink sponsor.
They’d been posing with the sleek, modern rigs, but when they saw Daisy, they made a beeline. “Oh my God, this is so cool!” one squealed, running her hand along Daisy’s fender.
“Can we get a picture with you and the buggy?”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You sure you don’t want another Trophy Truck? They’re all starting to look the same.” The lead girl, a blonde with a megawatt smile, laughed. “Nah, this one’s got personality. And that chrome? Total Instagram gold.”
I shrugged, climbed out, and leaned against Daisy as they posed around her, giggling and snapping selfies. The photographer joined in, shouting directions:
“Smile, Grandpa! You’re stealing the show!”
I shook my head, chuckling. Grandpa’s in town, alright.The practice runs were in full swing now, and the track was a blur of motion. Trophy Trucks launched off jumps, soaring through the air like metal birds before slamming back to earth with bone-rattling thuds.
The crowd cheered, but I stayed put, watching from Daisy’s cockpit. I struck up a conversation with a racer named Mike, a wiry guy with grease-stained hands and a beat-up helmet. His side-by-side looked like it cost more than my house.
“Blew a transmission last year,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “But I’m back. Gotta chase that high, you know?” I nodded, but I didn’t know. These racers were a different breed, pouring thousands into their machines, risking broken bones for a shot at glory.
The prize money here wasn’t even that big—maybe a few grand for the winner. “It’s not about the cash,” Mike said, eyes gleaming. “It’s about flying over that jump, hitting it just right, and knowing you’re faster than the next guy.”
I got it, in a way. But me? I’m an old beatnik, not a racer. I like cruising fire roads at 40 mph, Daisy’s engine growling, the desert breeze in my face. I don’t need to get all four wheels off the ground or fly 20 yards over a dune. Daisy’s my ride, my art, my escape. Still, I had to admit, the energy here was electric.
The racers’ passion, their obsession with speed, was infectious. I found myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of revving engines, caught up in the chaos.By afternoon, the heat was brutal, and the practice runs were winding down.
The Off-Road Pulse photographer came back, showing me shots on his camera’s screen. Daisy looked like a rock star, her chrome glinting against the dusty backdrop.
“These are going viral,” he said. “You and this buggy are the story of the day.”
The trophy girls swung by again, asking for one more pic. “You’re cooler than these other guys,” one said, winking. “They’ve all got the same rigs. You’ve got… Daisy.” I laughed, patting the buggy’s hood. “She’s one of a kind.”
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the track, I decided it was time to head home. I fired up Daisy, her trumpets blaring through the lot. Heads turned, phones came out, and I caught those familiar smiles—some genuine, some patronizing, like I was the quirky old-timer who crashed the party.
“Nice pipes, Grandpa!” a racer shouted, giving me a thumbs-up. I waved back, grinning. I cruised through the lot, Daisy’s rumble drowning out the chatter, and headed for the river road. The casinos’ lights twinkled in the distance as I drove, the desert stretching out around me.
Those racers were chasing speed, glory, the next big jump. Me? I’m chasing something quieter—open roads, a loud engine, and the freedom to be who I am. Daisy’s my partner in that, a shiny, loud, badass piece of 1968 that still turns heads, even among the high-flying rigs of the Laughlin Desert Classic.
And as we rolled home, her trumpets singing, I knew one thing for sure:
I’m just an old beatnik, Daisy’s just a buggy, and that’s all we need to be.
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