The Driver (13 page)

“—sorry Mart, come back—”

“—some boys dressed like doctors just peeled out Dale Earnhardt
–
style headin' south—”

“—can someone maybe get these boys to come back?”

“I
told
you,” I said.

79

“Nice,” said Maher, “to see you pick up the pace a little.”

“Maher,” I said, my heart racing, “if we don't get some distance—”

“Cop on the left! Moving!”

AZ MOB B:
“—just spotted another rally ve-hicle southbound 93—”

“Shit,” I said, “he's talking about us!”

Route 93 South was perfectly straight. There was nowhere to hide.

We stared at each other across the median.

His radar wouldn't work until he made a U-turn.

AZ MOB B:
“—can someone confirm if these rally ve-hicles were involved—”

I craned my head.

Not turning
.

“Let's make a run for it,” I said. “Maher?”

“Do it.”

Then, with none of the reckless humor of the namesake film's drivers, one word came to mind.

86

99

 

114

126

 

133

 

141

Gumball

U.S. ROUTE
93
SOUTHBOUND
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF KINGMAN, ARIZONA

“Maher, how far to Phoenix?”

“About…a hundred and sixty, hundred and seventy miles?”

“High-speed convoy ahead!” said Maher. “Last car is…black 550, large antenna!”

Collins. We were close—and getting closer—to Rawlings. Rawlings meant Kenworthy. This was the lead convoy.

I bore right—behind Collins.

133

121

I matched his speed. Collins flashed his hazards in recognition, then waved.

“Maher, I'm gonna hang right here. He knows what he's doing.” Maher nodded. This was the first time he'd consented—unless police were in sight—to staying behind anyone. He reached forward and turned up the scanner volume.

AZ DPS DSPTCH:
“—all units on South 93…Gumball rally cars are going through Wikiup milepost 120 still at a high rate of speed, again…Gumball rally vehicles at a high rate of speed Thirteen-twenty-six—”

“That's us,” said Maher.

“Wikiup
has
to be just ahead of our convoy…how many cars you think?”

“Looks like fewer than twenty cars.”

“Which means this convoy can't be more than a mile long, which means we should be right on top of Wikiup
now,
but I haven't seen any signs—”

“Any Gumballers,”
the CB squawked,
“got your ears on?”

“Who's that?” I asked as Maher reached for the CB handset.

“Ten-four,” Maher broadcast, “this is Polizei, who's this?”

“Hey, Polizei, this is Dennis Collins and brother James in the 550.”

“Copy that, Dennis. Any word on bears around here?”

“We heard something about a speed trap in a place called…Wikiman? Wikiup? About 15 miles from here.”

“Holy shit,” I said to Maher. “If Wikiup is 15 miles away, and the lead vehicles are already through, then this isn't the lead convoy. Collins must have fallen behind.”

Fifteen miles was a huge gap. Given
no
traffic and
no
police, we
might
be able to catch up with Rawlings's Avalanche, but only if we greatly exceeded his 130 mph top speed. Catching up with Kenworthy would be impossible. His GT2 had at least a 20 mph top speed advantage over the Polizei M5's theoretical 180 mph limit.

EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL
20, 2003
LOEWS VENTANA CANYON RESORT TUCSON, ARIZONA GUMBALL +
3

“Don't tell me,” I said, hunting desperately for a piece of luggage I was quite sure I'd unloaded.

“Duuuuude,” Maher said from his bed, “you should have seen this one girl at the bar last night.”

“Katie? I saw her, the one who mooned us.”

“Yeah,” Maher groaned. “I wish we could fit her in the car.”

“Me, too, but we've got a bigger problem. Missing bag of Polizei uniforms. Today's Plan B. Meet me at the M5 in ten.”

I'd gotten up an hour early to position the M5 at the start of the grid, and with great satisfaction I walked out through the lobby doors only to find approximately ten Gumball cars forming a single line from the end of the hotel's driveway back to the parking lot. But not Rawlings or Kenworthy.

I sprinted to the M5, closed the door on Team Polizei's Plan B uniform of the day—a Tucson Loews Ventana Canyon Resort quilted bathrobe—then quintupled the parking lot's 10 mph limit and pulled into line—

Fucking silver Porsche cutting me off?

—in
twelfth
place, right behind Kenworthy.

We emerged from our cars.

“It's the policeman!” he said with a boyish grin.

Rob “Lonman” Kenworthy, six-foot-one with a crew cut, looking every bit the rugby player he was, the legendary Gumball veteran, heralded on the Gumball, BMW, and Porsche message boards as the “fastest” Gumballer of all time, The Driver whose car I'd never seen moving, one of the two Gumballers every
other
Gumballer wanted to run with, one of the Gumballers most likely to know, know of, or be known to The Driver,
knew who I was.

“Hey!” I said.

“Good luck today, Roy!”

He even knew my name.

 

“Know where we're going?” I asked Maher.

“Heard it's a
BIG
one today!” he yelled, standing through the M5's open sunroof. His bathrobe flapped against my face as we inched toward the start line.

“Maher! Do you see Rawlings from up there?”

“No!”

“Collins?”

“No!”

We moved up to the start line. Maher dropped into his seat to review the route card and program our finicky GPS.

“White Sands Missile Range,” he read out loud. “Three hundred and five miles.”

“That's not gonna be in the GPS. Near Las Cruces?”

“I
did
hear a rumor we're going to San Antonio.”

“San Antonio, Texas?” I looked at the map. “About a thousand miles.”

One thousand miles straight across the desert. There would be nowhere to hide from police, and there was only one way to get there.

I
-10
EASTBOUND
10
MILES SOUTHWEST OF WILCOX, ARIZONA

One hundred and sixty-four miles per hour.

“High-speed convoy ahead!” said Maher. “White Mercedes SL, silver Porsche, black Mercedes SL, and the lead cars are…a silver—” Maher leaned forward as if inches would make it clear. “GT2!” he yelled. “And a red…it's the F50!”

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “The F50!”

Kenworthy's GT2, the million dollar F50, and Macari's SL55 AMG; the lead convoy.

“Pick it up!” Maher yelled. “That GT2 can do 212, and the F50…”

We became the tail of the world's fastest snake, following its red-and-silver head from the right lane to left and back again—around the occasional truck and civilian—at over 150 mph.

 

163

DING-DING-DING

Wha
—

TIRE DEFECT

Don't panic.

My hands froze on the steering wheel.

158

The road is straight. The shoulder is clear. There's nothing to hit.

My right foot shivered with doubt.

“What do I do?” I yelled. “Do we slow down?”

“I checked the pressures,” Maher said calmly, “they're fine. Ignore it. Trust me,” said Maher.

146

I needed to make up for even this momentary hesitation on the throttle.

 

“Nice one catching up,” said Maher, “but I still can't believe those guys are right behind us.”

“Who?” I looked in the rearview mirror.

Holy shit.

The only BMW X5 in the United States capable of 147 mph was less than one car length behind us and trying to pass.

“Jesus,” I said. “A BMW X5 SUV? Those Koenigsegg support guys are crazy.”

“What's in that thing? The new 4.8?”

“I think it's a 4.6,” I said, eyes darting to the mirror, “engine's similar to ours, newer, I guess.”

“But carrying a lot more weight…with four people and luggage.”

“Maher, we're three and
more
luggage.”

“Alex, did you forget Cassius isn't in the car today?”

“Oh yeah, where is he anyway?'

“In our convoy,” said Maher, “with Macari in the SL55.”

“Dude”—Maher smiled—“the Plan B bathrobe idea was sweet.”

“I like to be comfortable. Bathrobe plus a/c is the only way to Gumball.”

The X5 driver chose to stay behind us, but his intermittent lunges made it clear he was gauging his top-end acceleration.

“What about Frankl? Haven't seen him since he stopped to help that accident.”

150

“Dude,” said Maher, “pick it up a little. The F50 and GT2 are getting away.”

“Truck on the right, hang on.”

I moved left.

“Maher! X5 passing on the right shoulder!” The X5 pulled in behind—Joe Macari's black Mercedes SL55 AMG—cruising with its top down.

“Dude,” said Maher, “
now
pick it up so they don't all get away.”

 

Kenworthy and the Ferrari F50 dueled at over 170 mph for the next ten minutes. Maher videotaped the spectacle, smiling.

The red-and-silver pair slowed and moved to the right lane.

155

I moved left and passed the F50. We waved. The F50 crew, both wearing aircraft-style noise-canceling headsets and microphones, waved back.

158

We passed Kenworthy. We waved. He waved back.

We were in convoy with the most heralded veteran in Gumball history. The fact that he'd allowed us to pass—however temporarily—was a gesture of respect.

159

Kenworthy, Macari, the unknown F50 driver, and the X5 formed a single line on our bumper. The convoy formed and re-formed with our every brake light flash warning of
Danger! Police Ahead!
For the next 15 minutes—they passed, we followed, then took the lead once more—the gentleman's handoff repeated in a surreal hour-long ballet of musical cars at one-fifth the speed of sound—
we were the head of the snake.

 

“Maher?”

“Yeah?”

“What's that sound?”

I
-10
EASTBOUND
APPROXIMATELY
25
MILES WEST OF LAS CRUCES,
NEW MEXICO APPROXIMATELY
45
MILES FROM CHECKPOINT
GUMBALL +
3

It was the wind.

153

The M5 was silent.

The rpms had fallen to zero. The engine had died.

We were in first place. The convoy was lined up on our bumper, Kenworthy half a car length away, ready to pass at my slightest hesitation to stay above 150 mph—the F50, Macari, and the X5 in close pursuit.

“You're going to get us killed!” said Maher.

“I…it's not me, it's—”

The steering was locked.

150

The air-conditioning cut out.
Kenworthy passed on the left
. The GPS display was blank. The F50 passed. All was silent except for the wind's roaring struggle—and impending victory—over our zero-horsepower aerodynamic brick.

“Maher…Don't…say…a…word.”

I turned the ignition off.

133

I waited one second, pressed the clutch down, turned the key back to start, and…

The engine restarted. I let the clutch out and hit the gas.

“Alex,” Maher said quietly, “that was incredible, nerves of steel.”

Now we were the tail of the snake.

“Maher, shouldn't we be worried that our entire car's electrical system just failed, I restarted the car while rolling at a hundred and thirty and—”

DING-DING-DING

“Not again.” I sighed, then saw the message on the driver information display:
REIFENPANNE.

“What does
that
mean?” I yelled.

“What does it say?”

“Reef-en-pane,”
I said in my best phonetic reading. “It's German. The whole system just rebooted to German!”

“Don't slow down,” said Maher, “we'll figure it out.”

“Hand me my phone, Maher.”

136

“Hello, BMW Roadside Assistance, may I have your VIN number, please?”

“That's gonna be tough right now—”

“Can you speak up, sir? There seems to be a lot of noise on the line.”

“Maher, set the cruise control.”

141

Maher leaned over and engaged it for me.

“Hello? Sir?”

“I can't get the VIN right now, um…”

“If you give me your name, I can loo—”

“Alexander Roy, 2000 BMW M5.”

“Okay, I've got it right here. What seems to be the problem?”

I explained.

“That is very odd, to say the least, but I'd be glad to make an emergency appointment for you at BMW Manhattan—”

“That's not going to work.” We passed a truck, the loud rush of wind buffeting the M5.

“Sir, are you currently driving? If you are, I recommend you stop the car immediately.”

“Have you heard of the Gumball Rally?”

“Gumball? One of your friends in an M3 called us earlier.”

“Do you have any suggestions other than stopping?”

“I'm afraid not, but if you know your next overnight stop I can make an emergency appointment for you there.”

“I'll call you back.”

“Any luck?” said Maher.

“Nada,” I said, then shivered with revelatory genius. “Maher! My mom's German! She'll know what it means.” I called her home number in Bad Homburg. No answer. I called her cell, to no avail.

142

“Pick it up a little,” said Maher, “while you're thinking about it.”

“Maher, I've got the craziest idea yet.” I dialed again.

“International Information?”

“Can you please connect me to BMW Roadside Assistance in Germany?”

“Please hold one moment.”

“Alex, you're right,
that
is crazy.”

“But not a bad idea, right?”

“Guten Abend…BMW…automatische—”

I pressed O, the international button for “I need a human
NOW
!”

150

“Hallo,”
said a young German man who had just received the phone call he'd tell his kids about,
“das is—”

“Guten Abend,”
I started in what little German I knew. “Do you speak English?”

“Ja…
I speak some English. Do you haf your car ID code?”

“No, it's complicated. I'm in America right now—”

“You are calling from America? So I give you a phone numb—”

“We have an alarm in German we don't understand, and…” I explained our problems to date.

“Ah,
ja,
what model car?”

“An M
funf
.”

“Gut
car.”

“Thanks.”

“What does the alarm say?”

“Reef…en…pane?”

“Reifenpanne?!? Mein Gott! This iz a…broken tire! Shtop the car now!”

“It's okay, we had that before.”

“
Mein Gott!
Are you certain alles okay wit there tires?”

“Yeah, look, do you have any other ideas?”

“Ja…
okay…you muzt make a date
für
ze electrical inspection—”

“I really can't do that—”

“But you muszt—”

“Have you heard of the Gumball?”

“Gumball? You are on Gumball now? What are you doing?”

“In kilometers, I'd say we're doing—”

“Two-forty,” said Maher.

“Two-forty,” I said into the phone.

“Mein Gott!
You are in ze front, I hope!”

“We were, but do you have any ideas that don't include stopping?”

“Ah ja…nein…hmm…nein…okay…nein…hmm…nein—”

“Anything?”

“Ehh…no…but…please call me if you finish! I give you my name und—”

“Just hang up,” said Maher, “and drive.”

We had to catch up with Kenworthy—barely in sight, at the head of the snake—before the White Sands checkpoint. We had to arrive
with him,
in a show of endurance, aggression, and commitment. Kenworthy…and perhaps…the driver of the F50 were my keys to The Driver, I was certain.

Las Cruces was almost in sight, and White Sands was approximately twenty miles beyond. Just far enough for us to catch up. We might not have another chance until 2004.

163

Rawlings was far behind. His Avalanche wasn't capable of these speeds. All I had to do was shake hands with Kenworthy in White Sands.

I
-10/
US ROUTE
70
EASTBOUND
VICINITY OF LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO
20
MILES FROM WHITE SANDS CHECKPOINT GUMBALL +
3

“Kenworthy's just ahead,” said Maher, “running slow.”

“X5 pulled over with cops on the right.”

“Alex,
that's
the cop the Ho Ho Ho Express just warned us about.”

“Thank God for those truckers,” I said.

The Ho Ho Ho Express Trucking driver had given us the precise location of every police car for the last 70 miles. Our virtual immunity from capture had become apparent to all in our convoy, which is why they'd let us take the lead even when they could have passed.

Respect.

As good as they were, the convoy was running blind until we caught up and shared what we knew by the only means possible—brake-light flash warnings.

“Maher, remind me at the checkpoint to exchange numbers with
everyone
from today's convoy.”

“Maher, you think the Ho Ho Ho Express is still in range?”

“Try his buddy Gilbert.”

I reached for the CB. “Hey, Ho Ho Ho Express, come in, Ho Ho Ho Express, or come in, Gilbert, can you hear me?”

“This is Gilbert! Don't think Ho Ho can hear you, blue Mercedes!”

“When,” said Maher, “are these guys going to stop calling us the blue Mercedes?”

“Copy that, Gilbert, can we get a bear check?”

“Ten-four, blue Mercedes, standby.”

Maher's phone rang. “It's M-Trouble; turn down the CB and warn her about the cops behind us.”

“Hey, Gilbert, got a call, gimme five!”

“Copy that, blue Mercedes.”

M-Trouble was Alison Cornea in the gray M5.

“Hey, Alison! I've got all the police locations on the I-10 into Las Cruces, where're you now?”

“Oh…just leaving White Sands.”

“What?”

“We just left White Sands…headed for San Antonio with—”

“You're leaving White Sands right
now
?”

We still were eastbound on U.S. Route 70, approximately 10 miles and 15 minutes from the White Sands checkpoint.

“Yeah, we're cruising with a couple of cars.”

I spotted a bright red car covered with stickers—across the median.

“Maher!
Why
are there Gumballers headed the opposite way?”

“Alex? Alex?”

Maher peered across the road. The red car disappeared behind a berm.

“Sorry, M-Trouble, I'm back.”

“You have to double back from White Sands on 70 to get back to the 10.”

“Wait, Alison, how many cars are with you?”

“I guess, five or six?”

Kenworthy was with
us
. The F50 was with
us
. Macari was with
us.
We were in the lead. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Gotta drive! See you in San Antonio.”

A new voice bellowed from the CB.
“Hey, Gumballers, be careful goin' into this missile range! We gotta buncha coppers down there!”

“Love these truckers,” said Maher.

A black truck flashed past in the opposite direction.

“Maher—”

“Dude, isn't
that
—”

“Was…that…
Rawlings
? Going the other way?”

“Who cares?” said Maher. “We're almost there, and I'm starving.”

Maher was right. There was still one more police trap between us and White Sands, and
then
another 600 miles to San Antonio.

Then I had some strategy reassessment to do. A
lot
of strategy reassessment.