GEORGETOWN • On a Saturday morning, traffic crawls along Interstate 70 through the mountains, those drivers on their way to the ski slopes. Their heads turn to a frozen lake — to the scene of a much more obscure wintertime activity, but one perhaps just as quintessential Colorado.

As a national trade magazine put it in 1975: “There are many forms of automotive competition, some of them very strange indeed. The strangest of all might well be Colorado’s wild and wonderful high-altitude ice racing.”

Welcome to the affair on the verge of 50 years: truly wild and wonderful, say these motor-crazed oddballs out there atop a solid Georgetown Lake, accelerating, swerving and sliding between cones in their old, souped-up Jeeps with names like Ain’t Skeered, Ice Grinder and Beer Money.

It’s not really about money for this thick-skinned bunch called Our Gang, which has scheduled race weekends through this month and next for its 47th season. Some are more competitive than others, but nor is it really about the trophies. Those are known to be mixed up in fitting, disorderly fashion.

It’s about the ephemeral thrill. The camaraderie. The tradition, however bizarre, that has played a serious role in family bonding for generations.

“I’ve taught three kids and four grandkids how to drive up here on the ice,” says Littleton’s Dave Ling, who joined Our Gang more than 30 years ago.

This morning, he’s one of two dozen people gathered around for the pre-race briefing at the event headquarters that is a dumpy trailer. They are scraggly, grease-stained men and young hot shots and mothers and grandmothers who also show the babies how it’s done on the ice.

As the club’s organizer talks, they put oil funnels on their heads as hats. They’re all hugging. In the cold of morning, this is a warm reunion.

The ice is a good, consistent 16 to 17 inches, reports Our Gang’s organizer, Donny Cryer. Much better than last year, when suspect conditions forced him to cancel Our Gang’s six weekends of racing. (Twelve inches of ice is generally considered suitable for trucks).

“We’re gonna run this thing,” Cryer says to applause.

And soon, the engines are roaring.

They’ve been roaring across Colorado’s high, frozen waters since the 1960s. Our Gang traces its roots to some gearhead friends who called themselves the Rat Patrol. They started running their Jeeps over a pond above Central City.

“I mean it in the best way,” Lee Bashline says of those guys he knew, “but they were a bunch of nut cases.”

They started on bare rubber — the name of one of today’s racing classes. That is a much slower-going class than “studs,” named for the small bolts in tires that provide enough traction for speeds reaching upwards of 30 mph. Like spikes of some heavy-metal rocker, longer bolts provide even more traction and speed in the “cheater” class. That’s named for an old Rat Patrol story, in which a rig showed up with chains and incited shouts of protest: “Cheater!”

“The cheater class, that’s the one that turns my crank,” Bashline says.

So it’s been for him since the 1980s at Georgetown Lake. Our Gang settled here after Central City and other, lesser-viewed stages in the mountains. The site by I-70 brought more attention to the “unusual diversion,” as that trade magazine back then, Motor Trend, called it.

The magazine noted the appeal of the low cost and ease of entry that continues today: If a spot is available and if a basic inspection is passed, anyone with a four-wheel drive vehicle can test their bare rubber on the ice. They might find the occasion to be like drifting, if they are familiar. Like “a cross between asphalt racing and dirt racing,” Bashline says.

There is, of course, an added layer of danger.

As Motor Trend reported in 1975: “The end of nearly every season is marked by someone’s plunge through the ice into the very chilly drink.”

People here speak of a wheel or two plunging in more recent years. They say some racers have slid and bumped on ill-advised courses. They say the scariest moments are when those 1 1/2-inch bolts in the cheater tires stick to the ice and a notorious gust overcomes a Jeep, causing it to topple. No one seems to recall any serious injuries.

There’s been riffraff on Georgetown Lake in the event’s after hours, causing some anxiety around town.

“They don’t like us out here after the sun gets below the other side of the mountain,” Cryer says.

As long as the sun is up, some passersby find the foray irresistible.

It was spontaneity that started Josh Tenge’s decade in ice racing. The then-snowboard instructor pulled off the highway to race his Xterra.

“I’d get eliminated and just go snowboard after that,” he says.

Now the Colorado Springs mechanic races in a sleek, turbo-charged Audi displaying his company’s name. As he zips over the ice in his Evel Knievel helmet, his friend films a convenient, eye-catching promotion.

“This is the most fun I have in my car, hands down,” Tenge says.

It’s a car that represents what some Our Gang lifers see as the future of racing here. The old way of modified Jeeps, they say, is now too expensive and too technical for today’s generation that they see as preferring more ready-to-run imports.

Then there are some who don’t see much of a future at all.

“If it lasts another 10 years, we’ll be lucky,” says JR Davis, who hails from the Rat Patrol days and sports a cowboy look from the outlaw days. “It’s fading out, partner.”

As the group ages, it’s a time of “rebuilding that family,” Cryer says. “Getting some new blood in.”

It’s a time also of more regulation and attention to safety. Permits are paid a year in advance for weekends on the lake, followed by pricey insurance. That underscores the financial plight of cancelling the event, like last year.

“If we cancel a season, we literally lose all that money. The town and insurance company doesn’t give it back,” Cryer says. “So if it continues to happen, we’ll run out of money. That’s our concern.”

All races have been called off twice in the past five years. It had never happened once in the club’s history before, says Bashline. He blames climate change.

“The ice just doesn’t get the same,” he says.

He sees the same faces every year, but that’s changing, too.

“Several of my close friends have dropped out,” he says. “Like Dan here, this is his last season.”

So it’s one more race between old friends. With fewer contestants this day, it’s decided there’s enough time for double elimination. More time — lucky for them.

They have until the sun goes down behind the mountain. And the sun is still high.

GEORGETOWN • On a Saturday morning, traffic crawls along Interstate 70 through the mountains, those drivers on their way to the ski slopes. Their heads turn to a frozen lake — to the scene of a much more obscure wintertime activity, but one perhaps just as quintessential Colorado.

As a national trade magazine put it in 1975: “There are many forms of automotive competition, some of them very strange indeed. The strangest of all might well be Colorado’s wild and wonderful high-altitude ice racing.”

Welcome to the affair on the verge of 50 years: truly wild and wonderful, say these motor-crazed oddballs out there atop a solid Georgetown Lake, accelerating, swerving and sliding between cones in their old, souped-up Jeeps with names like Ain’t Skeered, Ice Grinder and Beer Money.

It’s not really about money for this thick-skinned bunch called Our Gang, which has scheduled race weekends through this month and next for its 47th season. Some are more competitive than others, but nor is it really about the trophies. Those are known to be mixed up in fitting, disorderly fashion.

It’s about the ephemeral thrill. The camaraderie. The tradition, however bizarre, that has played a serious role in family bonding for generations.

“I’ve taught three kids and four grandkids how to drive up here on the ice,” says Littleton’s Dave Ling, who joined Our Gang more than 30 years ago.

This morning, he’s one of two dozen people gathered around for the pre-race briefing at the event headquarters that is a dumpy trailer. They are scraggly, grease-stained men and young hot shots and mothers and grandmothers who also show the babies how it’s done on the ice.

As the club’s organizer talks, they put oil funnels on their heads as hats. They’re all hugging. In the cold of morning, this is a warm reunion.

The ice is a good, consistent 16 to 17 inches, reports Our Gang’s organizer, Donny Cryer. Much better than last year, when suspect conditions forced him to cancel Our Gang’s six weekends of racing. (Twelve inches of ice is generally considered suitable for trucks).

“We’re gonna run this thing,” Cryer says to applause.

And soon, the engines are roaring.

They’ve been roaring across Colorado’s high, frozen waters since the 1960s. Our Gang traces its roots to some gearhead friends who called themselves the Rat Patrol. They started running their Jeeps over a pond above Central City.

“I mean it in the best way,” Lee Bashline says of those guys he knew, “but they were a bunch of nut cases.”

They started on bare rubber — the name of one of today’s racing classes. That is a much slower-going class than “studs,” named for the small bolts in tires that provide enough traction for speeds reaching upwards of 30 mph. Like spikes of some heavy-metal rocker, longer bolts provide even more traction and speed in the “cheater” class. That’s named for an old Rat Patrol story, in which a rig showed up with chains and incited shouts of protest: “Cheater!”

“The cheater class, that’s the one that turns my crank,” Bashline says.

So it’s been for him since the 1980s at Georgetown Lake. Our Gang settled here after Central City and other, lesser-viewed stages in the mountains. The site by I-70 brought more attention to the “unusual diversion,” as that trade magazine back then, Motor Trend, called it.

The magazine noted the appeal of the low cost and ease of entry that continues today: If a spot is available and if a basic inspection is passed, anyone with a four-wheel drive vehicle can test their bare rubber on the ice. They might find the occasion to be like drifting, if they are familiar. Like “a cross between asphalt racing and dirt racing,” Bashline says.

There is, of course, an added layer of danger.

As Motor Trend reported in 1975: “The end of nearly every season is marked by someone’s plunge through the ice into the very chilly drink.”

People here speak of a wheel or two plunging in more recent years. They say some racers have slid and bumped on ill-advised courses. They say the scariest moments are when those 1 1/2-inch bolts in the cheater tires stick to the ice and a notorious gust overcomes a Jeep, causing it to topple. No one seems to recall any serious injuries.

There’s been riffraff on Georgetown Lake in the event’s after hours, causing some anxiety around town.

“They don’t like us out here after the sun gets below the other side of the mountain,” Cryer says.

As long as the sun is up, some passersby find the foray irresistible.

It was spontaneity that started Josh Tenge’s decade in ice racing. The then-snowboard instructor pulled off the highway to race his Xterra.

“I’d get eliminated and just go snowboard after that,” he says.

Now the Colorado Springs mechanic races in a sleek, turbo-charged Audi displaying his company’s name. As he zips over the ice in his Evel Knievel helmet, his friend films a convenient, eye-catching promotion.

“This is the most fun I have in my car, hands down,” Tenge says.

It’s a car that represents what some Our Gang lifers see as the future of racing here. The old way of modified Jeeps, they say, is now too expensive and too technical for today’s generation that they see as preferring more ready-to-run imports.

Then there are some who don’t see much of a future at all.

“If it lasts another 10 years, we’ll be lucky,” says JR Davis, who hails from the Rat Patrol days and sports a cowboy look from the outlaw days. “It’s fading out, partner.”

As the group ages, it’s a time of “rebuilding that family,” Cryer says. “Getting some new blood in.”

It’s a time also of more regulation and attention to safety. Permits are paid a year in advance for weekends on the lake, followed by pricey insurance. That underscores the financial plight of cancelling the event, like last year.

“If we cancel a season, we literally lose all that money. The town and insurance company doesn’t give it back,” Cryer says. “So if it continues to happen, we’ll run out of money. That’s our concern.”

All races have been called off twice in the past five years. It had never happened once in the club’s history before, says Bashline. He blames climate change.

“The ice just doesn’t get the same,” he says.

He sees the same faces every year, but that’s changing, too.

“Several of my close friends have dropped out,” he says. “Like Dan here, this is his last season.”

So it’s one more race between old friends. With fewer contestants this day, it’s decided there’s enough time for double elimination. More time — lucky for them.

They have until the sun goes down behind the mountain. And the sun is still high.