C huck Vaughn is ready to hunt. As he steps out of his Tempe apartment building one recent Sunday, his steely eyes scan the messy alleyway behind his building. His years as an outdoorsman, adventurer and trail-runner have sharpened his senses. As a seasoned darts player, he has mastered the art of honing in on a target. He sets out on a hunch that his prey lurks among the urban shadows of late afternoon. Vaughn and danger are old friends. He has scaled canyon walls and leaped from a rooftop into a pool wearing a luchador mask and flaming swimsuit. Today his quarry happens to be ... a shopping cart. His best bet, he decides, is to prowl the alley like a human raccoon. His instincts prove correct within a few hundred feet. Alongside a trash barrel caked with filth, he spots an unmarked grey and black cart resting upright on all four wheels. Despite its grimy appearance, scratched-up plastic bumpers and clamorous rattle when it rolls, it’s exactly suited to Vaughn’s needs. Bullseye. “There it fucking is,” he says. “That’ll be my cart. You can’t ask for much better than this.” Now the ramshackle cart designed to ferry groceries has a new purpose: helping Vaughn and some friends make a rainbow connection. A few days from now, they’ll transform it into the quaint scene from 1979’s “The Muppet Movie” in which Kermit the Frog strums out folksy tunes in a swamp. Meanwhile, they’re prepping costumes to transform themselves into other characters from the Henson-verse, including Animal, Beaker, Dr. Teeth and the Swedish Chef. Vaughn and friends are set to partici- pate in this Saturday’s Phoenix Idiotarod, the gleefully chaotic annual shopping cart race, urban prank and bar crawl. Organized by counterculture collective the Arizona Cacophony Society, the largely unknown downtown Phoenix event is high-concept, lowbrow fun. In recent years, it’s also bene- fited local nonprofits, including UMOM, through donations of clothing and house- hold items. The Phoenix Idiotarod has been a delightfully absurd, gloriously messy staple of downtown’s countercultural scene for nearly 20 years. But for the first time in its history, the race feels like it’s facing a make-or-break moment. Its new organizer — and self-proclaimed “king of the idiots”— was handed the pudding-stained reins after longtime organizers stepped down and has grand plans for its future. But can the Idiotarod reach its lofty goals while remaining true to its earthy roots? The moment is suddenly precarious. Maybe that’s fitting for an event that breeds chaos. A hallmark of any Phoenix Idiotarod, after all, is that no one ever knows what’s around the corner. “‘Mayhem’ is the perfect word to describe it,” Vaughn says. “It’s an epic day with amazing costumes where you get to make an ass of yourself. It’s my favorite day in Phoenix.” ‘It’s different from anything else’ Phoenix’s Idiotarod has taken place almost every February since 2007. The event draws inspiration from Alaska’s legendary Iditarod sled dog race in name and setup. There, the comparisons end. In the Idiotarod, teams of five or more costumed “idiots” race decorated shopping carts along the streets and sidewalks of downtown and Roosevelt Row. Each group has a particular theme, usually inspired by pop culture franchises or notable events. Along the way, teams make pit stops at bars and local parks for gonzo and colorfully profane challenges typically involving alcohol (think: drunken Twister, >> p 12 Phoenix’s bawdiest, booziest event returns after a brief death scare. Its new organizer wants to make it respectable. But can the deranged race stay weird? BY BENJAMIN LEATHERMAN Valley resident Duane Freeman, second from right, with friends during the 2017 Idiotarod. A colorful cart during the 2019 Phoenix Idiotarod. A “Star Wars”-themed cart at 2013 Idiotarod gets an additional passenger.
