(FORTUNE Magazine) – Erase una vez, or once upon a time, the smart money looked to Latin America as the setting for the next burst of international prosperity. The year was 1950, postwar industries seemed unstoppable, and Mexico in particular fairly glowed from global attention. The country had just finished building its 2,135-mile contribution to the asphalt ribbon of the Pan-American Highway and, as a celebration of hope, worldliness, and industrial growth, hosted a glamorous world-class auto race along its length. Carmakers such as Ferrari, Lancia, and Mercedes-Benz sponsored the fastest drivers to undertake the brutal, high-speed, for-profit race. The celebrity talent--no less than the likes of Juan Manuel Fangio and Phil Hill--throttled priceless autos across an exotic landscape, drawing the world's eye to the Carrera's cachet, cutthroat corporate competition, and near-gladiatorial loss of life (drivers and bystanders). But the 18-karat era ended quickly: By 1955, with a new political regime, La Carrera was stopped as an unnecessary and expensive spectacle. The fun, for Mexico and the race, was over.

Until now, that is. In 1988 two determined Mexican race fans revived the event--as a flashback. Today up to 100 vintage guzzlers gather for a high-speed, seven-day, 2,000-mile chase on a route that roughly follows the original, from Tuxtla Gutierrez (hilly guerrilla country near the Guatemalan border) to Reynosa (a hubcap's throw from Texas). The event lures international figures: captains of industry, TV producers, rally drivers, car collectors, rock groups (Pink Floyd penned a theme song for the race a few years back), and assorted other auto-smitten, adventure-seeking nostalgics. Regardless of day jobs, the demographic profile tends to post-40, rich, and male, so as part of this year's lineup, I added a little variety on all counts. We were drawn to the idea of careering around treacherous roads for eight hours a day, landing in a new town each night, wallowing in tequila-soaked fiestas (after handling the late-night car repairs), and rousing ourselves to do it all over again. We were not drawn to the dangers--crashes (inevitable), kidnappings (occasional), and thefts (routine); many of the high-profile entrants brought along bodyguards.

For the contemporary Carrera, only models that existed at the time of the original race are allowed--from 1939 to 1954 (or later if similar in body style); there's a little more leeway given to what goes under the hood. The result is a time-warp lineup each morning of Studebakers, Hudson Hornets, VW Beetles, Packards, and Kurtises. And there's no more winner's purse: the incentive has shifted from corporate image-building to the individual kind. "Above all, La Carrera should be fun," says technical director Pedro Davila.

On that count it delivers, especially if you have a taste for adversity, extremes, and the unexpected. The night before the start, on our way to the drivers' meeting, my co-driver and photographer, Mark Jenkinson, discovered an oil leak under our car. Ours, rented from a race regular, was not one of the fancier rigs present. Nicknamed the Pink Panther, it was a radioactive rose 1948 Plymouth fitted with a straight-six Australian engine. Soon afterward we noticed the smoking clutch. We made some adjustments the next morning--enough, we thought, to survive the first day. But after the elixir of the start--the green flag, the thousands of local fans lining the avenida--we crashed back to earth when the car suddenly lost power. No clutch, no gears, no go. We were temporarily out of the running.

Luckily, bonhomie was as abundant as trouble. Within a few minutes a service vehicle pulled over, loaded our bulky car onto the trailer, and chauffeured us to the next town, Oaxaca--11 hours away. I experienced the exhilaration of mil curvas (a thousand turns) in the back of the truck, the pink hulk bouncing and squeaking behind us.

We weren't alone. Seventeen out of the starting lineup of 68 cars didn't make it to the finish. French Formula One driver Phillipe Alliot came loaded with resources, yet in the first two days blew two engines in his Porsche 356 and went home. Bill Shanahan, president of Colgate-Palmolive, had chronic brake trouble in his American-built PV444 Volvo, despite a trailer full of Pepsi-sponsored parts and mechanics; a low-budget team from Sweden came in three places ahead of him. Rob Walton, son of Wal-Mart titan Sam Walton, nursed an oil-pan leak in his lemon-yellow 1954 Lincoln, yet finished first in his class. Federico Zambrano, a member of one of the powerful Mexican families that control Monterrey's industries, blew the engine in his 1954 Studebaker. Undaunted, he had two more cars delivered to him a few towns ahead--and then promptly broke down again, this time in a 1953 Kurtis. When, after the tragic death of our pink Plymouth in Guadalajara (just try to find parts for an Australian engine), he offered me the third vehicle, a 1953 Allard, I needed no translator for his exquisite Mexican rationale: "I think God tells me not to drive, no?"

So grabbing hold of the upside of unexpected, on the last day I climbed into the Allard (powered by a Cadillac V-8) and finally did what Carrera racers are supposed to do: drive a rare and aging beauty as fast as possible--without traffic, tickets, or track limits--through the mesmerizing cactus-rich plateau. Everything fell into place. Some 140 police lining the route (and the six patrol cars shepherding the race) were there to hurry us along, not slow us down; they also happily accepted a cold Corona. !Viva Mexico!

Thanks to the unflagging kindness of strangers, I crossed the finish line. A senorita in Lycra, a brewery logo stretched across her amplitude, leaned over to embrace me, then hesitated when she saw through my helmet that I was a woman. I grabbed the beer and steered the Allard through the crowd. A second young woman dropped a medal around my neck, and yet another presented a fifth of tequila to Federico, my co-pilot on the last day, who with native awareness promptly offered the bottle for mass swigging. The crush of people finally forced us to stop; families rushed over to pose for photos, kids clamored for autographs, and a mother shyly handed over a baby for kissing. A fiesta had erupted. We had finished far behind the winner, Mexican driver Carlos Anaya, but no one cared. Not the old man who asked to sit in the driver's seat, not the overzealous radio reporter who cornered us, not the jet-fueled woman who threw off her high heels, mounted the Allard's hood, and danced a furious tattoo. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Rob Walton smiling and mixing it up with well-wishers--the first time in a week I had seen him in a crowd. Apparently, no one was immune to La Carrera's charm.

REPORTER ASSOCIATE Patty de Llosa