The Driver (12 page)

“—the cycle cop stopped us, but then his radio went off about another speeder going even faster than us! So he took off without giving us a ticket—”

“
Our
cop,” chimed in a short bookish driver with glasses, “demanded our camcorder tape as evidence against us and ‘the other racers,' so while we were waiting I rewound the tape and recorded over it with us just sitting there.”

“Those guys are so fucked,” came a voice behind me, “can't believe they took 'em all to jail!”

“Whaddya expect,” said another, “after they're racing four abreast across the Golden Gate Bridge!”

A Gumball staffer I didn't recognize brushed past. “Excuse me,” I asked him, “have you seen Rawlings?”

“Who?”

“I see,” realizing I didn't recognize the staffer for the same reason he didn't know Rawlings—Gumball logistics required
two
checkpoint crews leapfrogging each other.

“Well, what about a tall guy with a goatee and cowboy hat?”

“
That
bloke? One of the first ones in, I think, but haven't seen him in a bit.”

“Maher!” I called out, and ran toward his most likely location. “We gotta go,
now
!”

“But they're waiting for everyone to come in before handing out the route cards.”

“Look,”
a Gumballer whispered behind us, “those police guys are taking off.”

“You mean that Roy guy?” said another. “Shit, we better go, too.”

“Maher,” I whispered, “walk out slowly so no one else tries to follow us.”

 

We drove away with our Las Vegas route cards in hand—just as a long line of Gumballers pulled in and parked behind us.

“How much gas do we have?” asked Maher.

“One-quarter-ish. How far to Vegas?”

“I'd say…no interstate this leg…about four-fifty.”

That didn't seem far at all. This was our chance to catch up.

U.S. ROUTE
95
SOUTH
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF FALLON, NEVADA

We cruised at an eerily silent 115 mph through the frozen desert. We slowed only for the infrequent burst of metallic, authoritative voices from the scanner, during which, in one instance, a pair of Xenons approached from behind at high speed and the Koenigsegg's black BMW X5 support vehicle—filled with passengers and luggage—passed us with at least a 20 mph speed differential, on the right shoulder. We shook our heads at their impatience. I tried not to laugh as flashing lights soon appeared in my rearview mirror, and the local sheriff 's Chevy Suburban crossed the solid white line to pass us on the left at 95 mph—this being far more dangerous than an X5 doing 90 on the shoulder. Within minutes the Koenigsegg support crew was parked on the right shoulder, making the acquaintance of that very sheriff.

I would have called the X5 to warn them, but neither of us had their number.

We needed to put some distance between us and whoever had called them in.

I accelerated to 130.

My Polizei Police Evasion Strategy was working perfectly.

We caught up with a Gumball convoy I estimated second from the lead. The Polizei M5 and cars we had not yet matched to their crews repeatedly traded positions in an exhilarating 135 mph dance across the solid white line, all rendered meaningless upon the group's seemingly telepathic exit and stop at an isolated and blindingly well-lit gas station. We were now approximately six hours and 318 miles into Gumball.

I wasn't disappointed to see them refuel their smaller tanks more quickly and disappear south into the darkness. A few minutes' lead was within range of our scanner. They'd make perfect bait, and I needed to learn more about its effectiveness before making a big push. We let Cassius shoot their departure, then followed them—from as far as we could make out their taillights—into the town of Tonopah, Nevada.

A town whose main street's signs read
MAIN STREET
.

A town with two gas stations, both closed.

A town totally devoid of cars or people, through which we drove at 75 mph.

A town with—500 feet from its outbound city limit—a 20 mph speed limit sign.

Then we were pulled over for going 62 in a 25 mph zone. Our arrest evasion strategy worked perfectly as I charmed the sheriff—who made the leap in logic that we were actually New York City cops without any suggestion from us—and we were let go without so much as a ticket being written.

SATURDAY, APRIL
19, 2003
GUMBALL +
2
MANDALAY BAY LAS VEGAS RESORT AND CASINO

The M5 sat in the center of three long columns of cars parked door-to-door and bumper to bumper. A bellhop gingerly lifted a colorful, overflowing backpack over each trunk and hood, slowly following a pair of dazed Gumballers unable to find their car, the trio like elderly mice in a maze.

I didn't see any red-shirted Gumball staff, but I saw the one thing I'd been looking for since Gumball started, a silver Porsche 996 GT2 with a Union Jack on the roof. Kenworthy's car.

And there, at the very front of the same row, sat Rawlings's Avalanche.

Based on the prior night's convoy and those who'd pulled into Reno behind me, the cars were in approximate arrival order. But within an hour, once the majority of Gumballers had shuffled out, entered their cars, and the staff had begun handing out route cards, it appeared that parking determined your grid position, and your prior day's convoy-relative position determined your next day's departure sequence.

Every day I failed to advance through the grid, whether by driving or aggressive postarrival parking-spot changes, I'd be treading water.

Rawlings and Kenworthy left first at the head of the right column, followed by many I'd passed the night before, including the silver-and-yellow Porsche 996 turbo X50s. My column, including those at the front who'd arrived in the top ten, were held until even last night's stragglers passed on the right.

I silently fumed while stuck in our midpack departure slot. Maher recounted rumors he'd heard about missing cars and drivers.

The Koenigsegg had allegedly been flatbedded to the local Volkswagen dealer, whose owner, having been awakened before dawn, had opened early to help—the $700,000 Koenigsegg apparently constructed with multiple parts common to the $25,000 VW Golf.

“Maher, I'm in no mood—”

“Relax, we're dressed like doctors. They never lose their calm.”

U.S. ROUTE
93
SOUTHBOUND
LEAVING HOOVER DAM

126

We began moving up the grid. Rawlings and Kenworthy—whose face I'd still not seen—had pulled out of the breakfast checkpoint less than a minute ahead of us, then made an inexplicable left turn and exited Vegas by a route whose superiority had eluded my
length-of-red-light-panic-unfold-map-in-lap
study of the shortest exit routes. At least ten Gumball virgins had followed them.

We headed south on Route 93 toward Kingman, a desert road straight, flat, and clear of traffic—perfect for detecting radar, scanner, and CB traffic at maximum range.

134

One hundred and thirty-four miles per hour was a safe and reasonable cruising speed given the road conditions and lack of police-scanner traffic.

We were approximately 250 miles from our next checkpoint—the Phoenix International Raceway.

The scanner lit up:

NV MISC DSPTCH:
“—Four-eight-four your traffic—”

126

NV MOB D:
“Ten-six.”

119

I thought
10-6
meant “busy,” but I didn't want to tell Maher, have him press me (as always) to accelerate, then get caught for being a poor man's know-it-all.

NV MISC DSPTCH:
“…U.S. 93/118 southbound…multiple sports cars—”

115

One hundred and fifteen was the perfect speed at which to maintain our position while granting us—given a radar or scanner warning—the two to three seconds necessary to brake and slow to within 10 mph of the speed limit, if only I could remember what it was.

NV MOB E:
“…'bout a Ten-nine—”

I had
no
idea what that meant.

AZ DPS DSPTCH:
“…Five-ten…188…southbound—”

“Someone called in somebody,” I said, “see anyone front or back?”

“Clear behind and…high-speed convoy top of next hill!”

111

“It really is beautiful,” I said as we crested the hill, the bright column of cars stretched out before us.

138

One by one the convoyers moved to the right lane as we approached and exchanged waves with each we passed.

141

DING-DING-DING

“Holy shit!” I yelled, and let off the gas. “What the hell is that?”

“
You
should know. It's your car.”

125

“I think it's some BMW warning.” I squinted to read the message on the M5's dashboard instrument panel, the letters barely visible in the bright sun:
TIRE DEFECT.

Holy fucking fuck!

Tire failure was the most common cause of accidents after driver error and drunk driving. I had to slow down, but a panic break might blow the bad tire.

“Tire Defect!” I yelled.

119

“Relax,” said Maher. “Does the car feel funny? Pulling left or right?”

“No!” I coasted into the right lane.

105

“Well,” said Maher, “the tires sound okay, and if there was a serious problem we'd hear it, or feel it.”

The cars ahead began to pull away, the cars behind bunching up on our rear bumper, poised to pass on our left. Frankl began his pass.

“Alex, no need to slow down just yet.” Our lives depended on the $1,200 worth of armored balloons spinning beneath us almost twice per second, the four Michelin Pilot Sports' 149 mph ZR-rating well exceeded just before dawn that very morning.

The silver Porsche began its pass.

Our tires had to withstand the stress of carrying Maher, Cassius, myself, our luggage, and my Polizei gear—the sum of which was certainly over the M5's recommended weight—and absorb 3,000 miles of bumps and potholes, resist puncture by nails and spikes,
and
the lateral forces of high-speed cornering at near-race conditions.

Had I set the correct pressures?

90

Tires expand and contract based on temperature. And tires heat up at high speeds. Using that logic, I'd told the BMW San Francisco tech to set them at 42/46, allowing for expansion to the Michelin recommended 44/48,
but I hadn't told him why
. And I hadn't consulted with Maher, despite his superior track-earned knowledge.

Maher would have—should have—made me stop 10 seconds earlier had he thought we were in danger. But Maher wasn't stupid.

He stared straight ahead, deep in thought. “Alex,” Maher finally decreed, “if one tire was bad we'd feel it, so either all four are shot, which is unlikely, or it's the system, which is most likely.”

“Unless I set
all
four too low, and now they're all about to blow.”

“Take it back to 95 so we don't lose these guys.”

“You sure?”

“Dude, this car's built like a fucking brick. We'll check the pressure at the next stop.”

“You're right,” I said. In the prior 17 hours I'd pushed this car harder than I ever imagined possible. We'd averaged 79 mph through traffic and snow to Reno, and over 100 mph—
including
one fuel stop—through the night to Las Vegas.

89

If he was wrong, we'd be killed quite soon, but I trusted him. Enough to risk my life on it.

“Just saw a sign for Arizona,” said Maher.

“Switching scanner frequencies,” I said out loud, leaning forward to switch scanner banks. “Arizona now active!”

It was time to catch up.

 

127

The convoy couldn't be far.

Traffic ahead suddenly thickened, red and yellow sports cars interspersed among local cars. “Whaddya see?” said Maher.

92

“Holy shit,” I said, braking harder, “what the hell is that?”

Three vehicles sat in the median, one at an odd angle.

The latter, its outline bent and crumpled, was slowly orbited by vague shapes kneeling and crawling around an elliptical ring of debris.

Clothes…

51

A green Mitsubishi minivan sat a hundred feet beyond.

“Everyone
looks
okay,” Maher said, clearly wanting to believe it. “No one on the ground, and someone's on the phone. I sure hope—”

I finished his thought with telepathic anguish “—it wasn't one of our guys.”

My greatest fear wasn't merely that
I
might be killed, but that I might injure or kill someone else. From the moment I chose to lap Manhattan, safety had influenced my every decision. Formula 1 racing school had included accident avoidance. The Manhattan runs had only occurred between 2 and 3
A.M
. The BMW 5-Series' crashworthiness was well known. I, unlike some Gumballers, had replaced every critical component—brake pads, fluid, tires, air bags, and more. Commitment to any potentially dangerous pass was made after having weighed the relative location, speed, and intentions of nearby cars—whether Gumball or civilian (with additional weight given to possible civilian panic over our speed differential)—and then only with Maher's consent.

The wrecked minivan—the very possibility that an innocent had paid the ultimate price for what I was part of—ripped this fantasy away.

The accident scene flashed past. “Maher! Gumballers stopped on the right! Do you think we should stop?”

Suddenly, as quickly as we passed Frankl's idling EVO,
Rally Alex
took over. “We can't stop!” I yelled. “
Look
what I'm wearing! I'm dressed like a doctor!”

The scanner lit up. AZ DPS MOB DSPTCH:
“Code Two…possible Nine-six-three…loc—”

“What does
that
mean?” I said, starting to panic.

AZ DPS MOB B:
“Ten-four on a—”

“We need gas,” Maher said with amazing calm. “There's—”

“But what if they think we're involved and fleeing the scene?”

“Dude, just pull in here.”

I came to a gentle stop at the pumps closest to the road—and exit—just in case. Maher hopped out immediately and turned to me. “Alex, wake up! Where's the tire-pressure gauge?”

I handed it to him, my eyes fixed on the gas station's ramshackle wooden structure, its single long, wide window offering a panoramic view out—and in. Several dozen locals, so far oblivious to the arrival of the German Highway Patrol and ersatz surgeon lacking even EMT training, were enjoying a quiet lunch at the Sunshine Grocery and Sundries/Diner/Bar/ Pool Hall/Game Room Express Mart.

“Maher, I gotta piss, can you get the gas?”

“I'm doing the tires! Piss while you pump!”

Normally, I would never object to making efficient use of the two-foot strip between the pump and the car. In an oft-rehearsed ballet I slid my oil-company-specific credit card out of its special pocket, slid it in and out of the pump, replaced it in its special pocket, then returned the nozzle with one hand and unscrewed the M5's fuel cap with the other. The rapidly rising sound of Gumballers approaching, slowing and turning to pull in
right
behind the M5—thereby preventing stealthy urination—suddenly triggered lightning bolts from deep within my bladder. I jammed the nozzle into the M5—unable to even pull the pump lever—and stumbled headlong toward the Express Mart entrance.

“Hey!” the cashier yelled after the white-coated man running toward the back.

I emerged three happy minutes later, walking nonchalantly as if no one would recognize me. Then, as if in a hallucinatory flashback, I heard from behind the cash register the metallic voices coming from a police scanner.

Everyone at the counter was leaning forward. Everyone behind the counter was listening intently.

“—reporting multiple sports cars with that wreck on 93—”

“Ten-four.”

I was almost at the door.

“Hey!” someone called out in my direction. “You, there!”

“Look!”
said one of the diners. “Outside! It's them sports cars!”

“Hey!” the cashier yelled after me. “You a doctor? There's been an accident!”

“Maher!” I said, out the door, running toward the first island of pumps. “Maher!” Maher, camcorder in hand, was shooting the Gumballers' arrival. “Mah—” I cut off my impatient summons when I saw the fuel hose pulsing behind him. I dropped into The Driver's seat and fidgeted.

“Slow pump,” said Maher.

Disaster loomed. “What about the tires?”

“They're fine!” he yelled over the
thrum
of the Ferraris idling in a row behind us.

I needed the scanner up. I turned the key halfway.

AZ DPS DSPTCH:
“—repeat…probable Nine-six-two…request medical…Route 93—”

One of the diners emerged from the door and urgently waved at us.

BINGBING!

AZ DPS MOB C:
“Ten-ninety-seven…vehicles fleeing southbound…possible hit-and-run—”

Maher replaced the nozzle. Another diner emerged and conferred with the first. The fuel cap clicked and locked. “Alex, want the receipt?” The diners pointed at us and turned back inside. I started the engine. “Guess not,” he said, sliding in and closing the door.

“Sorry,” I said, the M5's tires kicking up sand as we pulled away.

The CB radio—which had remained so quiet I'd forgotten it had been on since San Francisco—now lit up:
“Ten-four on them sports cars…we got a bunch of 'em here at the Mart right now—”