Hellride '99
as told by Tim Crosby ('02), roommate to the bunker

     Upperclassmen here, especially seniors, like to reminisce about their happy-go-lucky days as frosh.  Or, maybe, happy-not-so-lucky days. Inevitably, these sorts of stories (about as welcome as your grandfather's detailed depiction of how boring life was on an Iowan fungus farm in aught-nine) start with the time-honored phrase "when I was a frosh. . . ."

     When I was a frosh, we tried to do a Hellride.  If you know what Hellride is, skip this paragraph, go get a cookie, then keep reading.  If you don't know what Hellride is, then I shall expound for you  (yeah, SAT word!).  Hellride is where the denizens of Hell, an all-frosh alley, play Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" at extreme volume, and the upperclassmen in the Hovse attempt to quiet them.  This activity always involves concrete and metal.  If the frosh are very successful it involves Caltech security asking us to turn down the music.  And then the frosh get showered.

      In order to do a Hellride, one of us in the alley had to give up his or her room for a while.  Preferably on the courtyard side, so the music could be "enjoyed" by the entire house.  Lucky me, I was in Hell on the courtyard side.  I guess I could consider the massive amount of concrete that was about to inhabit my room as a roommate for my single.  Pretty lousy roommate, though.  Always staying up late, made a mess of my room, and even kicked me out.  The jerk.

     Our fearless construction leader in this project was Nate Austin.  Nate sacrificed a lot for our Hellride effort.  I only had to sleep in friends' rooms.  Nate had to sacrifice Chem 3a lab write ups.  Also, Nate gave up sleep for about three days.
 

Stephen practices climbing in 
through the window...		 OK, so we mixed concrete.  We put metal and stuff (here read: a bunch of trash) in the hallway and in front of the doorway.  We had an air intake valve and an exhaust valve on a large concrete box, which contained a gas generator, a stereo, and two people.  The concrete box was placed so that it was next to the window so that the entire courtyard could enjoy our beautiful music.  In the interests of safety, we also gave the two inside (Todd Schuman and Stephen Thrasher) a carbon dioxide meter that we found at Home Depot for $30.  (We even splurged and got them the deluxe model.).
     In morning on the last day before finals week, Hellride '99 started.  As soon as they turned on the generator, the carbon dioxide meter maxed out.  Well, so much for safety.  The upperclassmen very quickly ran over the trash and started to pound on the concrete.
     The upperclassmen also started going at the concrete box from the window side, using ladders and rappelling equipment to go at the window.  Actually, that part was pretty cool.
     Our Hellride lasted only about 20 minutes.  We could have gone longer, but we had a little problem.  The air intake valve was accidentally crushed in the melee all around our bunker.  This meant that not only would the generator not work, but those in the box wouldn't have any air.  They make a quick mental calculation of "no air = dead," turned off the generator, and put out a note to the zealous upperclassmen that their efforts should cease.

     Eventually, with the combined efforts of both frosh and upperclassmen, a very sweaty and hot Todd and Stephen emerged from the box.
     My room didn't get back to normal until about the end of finals week.  Many buckets of concrete had to be hauled out, and the walls had to be thoroughly scrubbed.  I actually studied for my Math final sitting in concrete dust wearing a hard hat. Todd and Stephen were back to normal after a shower (which the upperclassmen were happy to provide), and Nate continued to sleep for three weeks.

      Okay, so that last part is a lie.  But the rest was true.

Editor's note: Tim and a block of concrete entered the roommate game at decompression at the end of that term and came in second place, missing the coveted title by only one question.