Every summer, humanity finds new and creative ways to shake off the burdens of decorum. If you needed more proof, look no further than Auburn, Washington, where the Emerald Downs racetrack—usually reserved for horse racing—recently became the prehistoric stage for the annual T-Rex World Championship Races. There were no amber fossils or animatronics involved. Instead, more than 300 people zipped themselves into inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes and charged down the track, proving that, at least for now, the urge to run like a dinosaur survives extinction.
From Team-Building to Dinosaur Dash
The UPI report highlights the unexpected origins of this event: TriGuard Pest Control first ran it as a team-building exercise in 2017. Word (and video footage) spread, internet attention followed, and by the next year the T-Rex races were open to the public—turns out it doesn’t take much for this particular brand of mayhem to go viral. Like many traditions, the races hit pause during the pandemic years of 2020 and 2021, only to stomp back onto the scene in 2022 as if nothing had happened—except perhaps a few more home workouts.
Central Oregon Daily notes that the competition features men’s, women’s, and children’s heats, all strictly enforcing the inflatable reptile dress code. Quite democratic, really, as there are few other places where a blue costumed dino can chase a purple one down a professional racecourse.
This Year’s Prehistoric Podium
In a detail featured by centraloregondaily.com, the women’s division went to Linsey Lovrovich of Gig Harbor, Washington, who, decked out in a blue T-Rex suit, sprinted clear of the pack. The men’s final, as the outlet reports, ended in a literal photo finish: Houston resident Andrew Stuber edged out his competition “by a T-Rex snout.” The children’s race, though less publicized, carried equal amounts of wobbly-legged enthusiasm—another fact referenced in the Central Oregon Daily coverage.
Spectacle was not confined to the ground. UPI and centraloregondaily.com both document the “aerial event,” where three costume-clad contenders, courtesy of Skydive Snohomish, leapt from a plane at 5,000 feet. Chutes deployed, they floated down to the track and—because running post-parachute apparently wasn’t enough—sprinted in those same T-Rex suits toward the finish line. If there’s an evolutionary chart for absurdity, this must at least be a new branch.
Dinosaurs Don’t Have Televised Rights—But These Do
For those who missed it in person—or need more time to come to terms with televised inflatable reptile racing—ESPN2 will air full coverage later this summer. Having thoroughly blurred the boundary between sport, comedy, and performance art, the T-Rex World Championships now join the ranks of competitive tag and dodgeball as must-see summer television.
Earlier in the UPI report, it’s mentioned that the event’s popularity continues to grow, and the addition of aerial stunts feels less like feature creep and more like the inevitable escalation of a tradition founded on the unexpected. And let’s be fully honest: is there a grander metaphor for post-pandemic exuberance than hundreds of people running awkwardly in costumes, arms flapping, after surviving years of social hibernation?
The Persistence of Whimsy
You could spend all day studying human nature, and still be surprised when a herd of synthetic dinosaurs barrels past in a cloud of hot air and perspiration. Maybe that’s why these races feel so reassuring: there’s no higher purpose than fun, no barrier to entry larger than an inflatable zipper. Athletic achievement and slapstick exist in perfect harmony, with family-inclusive races as proof this fossil-free Jurassic can welcome all ages.
So anyway, the T-Rex World Championships happened. Maybe next year they’ll add hurdles, or a synchronized fossil pose. After all, isn’t the point to chase not just the finish line, but the next unlikely bit of joy?
