Authors: Alexander Roy
The Driver (18 page)
“Roy, you and Rawlings are the only ones so serious about it. I really enjoy our
Polizei Stra-teg-eez,
but I have a mind to turn off the scanner and turn on the radio. I had quite good fun rallying before I met you, you know, and I never had any of this stuff.”
“What about your dad?” I asked, pausing before the question I'd waited on all week. “The Yates book said he did the '79 Cannonball, but what about after? There had to be guys who wanted to keep racing.”
“You read the book, Roy,â¦there was too much publicity, it became impossible to continue Cannonball with all the press tipping off the authorities to the start. Think about itâ¦if the police know where and when everyone is leaving and there are only a few possible routes to Los Angeles, the whole thing is pointless. It was no longer underground, so they stopped it.”
“Surely, Frankl, there
had
to be Cannonballers who wanted to go out again. But if there was a race like that, a
real
race, totally secret, would you go?”
“
Of course
I would go, but only with a few people I trust so it won't get all fucked by some
idiotem
. If you knew how to drive, then we could start something.”
“What about Rawlingsâ¦and Collins?”
“If Rawlings could keep quiet about it, sure. You could invite Collins, too, if you trust him.”
“I do.”
“Well, get cracking,
Mein Kapi-taaan
! Let me know when you've got it all set up!”
“Frankl, how'd your dad do in '79?”
“He came in last.”
FRIDAY, JUNE
11, 2004
SEBRING INTERNATIONAL RACEWAY
LUNCH CHECKPOINT
171
MILES TO MIAMI FINISH LINE
FINAL DAY BULLRUN
2004
“Kicked yo'
ass
again, Mr. Pol-eez-eye! What's your excuse this time?”
Rawlingsâhaving stood to get the attention of the hundred-plus Bullrunners eating barbecue trackside while waiting to take their cars outâsat down in a flurry of high fives to finish his burger.
I ignored those staring and pointing at me as I approached his table, pulled up a plastic chair, sat beside him, and explained.
How our car had been sabotaged. How the air had been let out of our tires. Again.
“Wait,” said Rawlings, “you're not making this shit up?”
“Look at my face.”
“I can see you're upset, but we're all friends here, but, manâ¦I'd be
mighty
pissed off if somebody laid a finger on my truck!”
“I know, I know.”
“Well, you woulda have to have beaten me here
and
Miami to win it for the Pol-eez-eye. I reckon best you coulda done was tie with me, so let's just shake hands and call it.”
“You're a good man, Richard.”
“
Richard?
Hell! You never call me that! We must be getting too friendly. Better not let anyone see us talkin' too long.” I stood up. “Don't worry, Alex, we'll find out who did it, and I'll even help y'all kick his ass!”
“Thanks, man. I'm gonna go watch Frankl do his thing.”
“Now excuse me while I finish my burger, I gotta do an interview after where I tell 'em how much y'all suck!”
“Fear not,
Herrr Rowwwwlings
! I shall have my vengeance next year!”
Â
“Hey, Alex.” It was Vegas Mike, still not entirely recovered from food poisoning that had plagued him all week. “I heard what happened. Good thing you checked the tires, or you, my rims,
and
the CL would have been toast.”
I nodded. He patted me on the back.
“Why don't you take out the CL? It'll cheer you up some moreâ¦when you're done, I'll let you take out the Murcie.”
Oh my God.
As lucky as I was to be able to afford to enter
this,
my third rally in two years, as lucky as I'd been to have Mike lend me a $150,000 car on a handshake, the mere possibility of driving a $300,000 Lamborghini Murcielago
on a track
âin its domainâhad seemed inconceivable.
“Mikeâ¦you'll let meâ¦take your Lamborghini on the track?”
“Alex, I totally trust you, but there's one catch.”
“Don't go over 100?”
“You
better
go over a hundred, because I told that girl back there you're my personal, ex-military, professional high-speed escape and evasion driver, and that you'd take her for a rideâ¦you know, since I'm not feeling well.”
He waved at a slender, tan five-foot nine-inch brunetteâher flat stomach exposed between a tight white baby T and black low-riding sweatpantsâwho smiled and waved back.
“Alex, Michelle over there
really
wants a ride.”
I wasn't a race-car driver, nor had I ever claimed to be. All I was, and had ever expected to be, was a long-distance endurance driver.
That
was what I'd prepared for since my father first spoke of Cannonball, The Driver, and the Wallâthe unbroken 32-hour barrier between New York and Los Angeles. Gumball and Bullrun were my research, school, proving grounds, andâI was increasingly convincedârecruiting grounds for The Driver and his associates. Everything I'd done, bought, tested, and learned in 9,000-plus miles of rally driving had been in
that
context, toward
one
goal.
Find The Driver. Climb the Wall. Break 32 hours.
I considered myself a pretty good semiprofessional driver, a B-looking to move up at least one increment per rally. I knew I was too cautious, too scared. Driving well required practice. Driving fast required discipline. Driving fast and well required instincts I needed to hone.
The 6.2-liter, 12-cylinder, 580-horsepower Lamborghini engine roared behind us like a pack of caged lions peering at a pile of raw meat just beyond their reach. Its acceleration pressed my lovely passenger and me back in our seats, squeezing high-pitched squeals from her. Comically wide tires gripped through turns that would have spun or flipped my M5. The Audi-derived four-wheel-drive system allowed me to take turns far faster than I thought possible. I gained confidence and completed yet another, faster lap, until I entered the first turn at 130 mph, spun, and hit the wall.
My questâhaving once merely chipped at my dwindling (and not so great) fortuneâhad become a wrecking ball. If only I gave up my ludicrous quest, then normal lifeâalien to me since the morning of my father's deathâcould resume. I returned to Europe By Car for the first time in a month, and with teary eyes Alfred lifted me off the ground in a first-ever-between-us bear hug. The entire staff made a point of saying how glad they were to see me safe, although Genia, my ever tough-loving godmother scolded me in heavily Russian-accented English for being
stupidstupid,
then hugged me as if I'd never left.
Perhaps my quest
was
over. The Driver would never call now, and I had a $30,000 debt to pay.
Â
“I'm delighted hear from you,
Mein Kapitan,
but you better not ask me to help cover the Lambo damage.”
“No, Frankl.”
“So how much do Murcielago front ends cost these days?”
After trading friendly insults, Frankl surprised me when he said, “Now go dig into your Polizei gadget budget and find a way to pay our friend in Vegas. I
do
admire you for being a man about it. A lot of people would have tried to weasel out of it. You're almost a grown-up, which is quite rare these days!”
Â
“You told him
what
?!?!?”
The Weis, now expecting a son, was the last person I wanted to tell. “The Weisâ¦Iâ¦I told Mike I'd pay, whatever it costs.”
“You're not crazy, you're stupid. Just plain stupid. Did you sign anything?”
“I gave him my word.”
“Oooooooooh, Aliray's word counts for something now?”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you, too. How much do you owe this⦔
“Mike,” I said. “The Weis, I've got thirty thousand reasons not to tell you.”
“Holy shit! Thirty Gsâ¦waitâ¦that car runs about two seventy-five. You know something, you might actually be the luckiest idiot in the world, since it
was
your fault. Poor Aliray, there goes your 2005 rally budget. Maybe it's a reality check. You're thirty-two now, you're not a kid. Wake up and think about what you're doing with your life.”
Maybe he was right.
Â
Handsome Dave called a few days later.
“Roy! How are you, mate? Gotta get back on your feet, man! The world's best race drivers have all had a few spills.”
“But they didn't have to pay for the damages.”
“I'm sure a guy like you has some tricks up your sleeve.”
“Why are we talking?”
“We're planning another Bullrunâ”
“That's like asking a one-legged solider to get back in the trench.”
“âin September, London to Ibiza. Three days, a perfect little trip. Bring the M5.”
“It's not going to happen. I can't ship the M5 in time, and I can't afford to ship the M5 in time. I need some rest.”
“All right, Alex, but it won't be the same without you. Malmstrom is comingâ”
“I can't.”
Malmstrom
. But there was no way.
“Very well. I'm calling Jesse next. I'll let you know if he's in a better mood.”
My phone rang again fifteen minutes later. “Hey, Alex,” said Jesse/Vegas Mike, an anvil suddenly chained to the phone I struggled to hold against my ear.
“Jesse, man, long time no speak, I've been waiting to hear from you.”
“You got five minutes?
“For you? Of course. I'm ready for the address, and I'll FedEx the check today.”
“That's exactly what I wanted to talk about. You see, Alex, I like you. I've noticed something really interesting about you. You
always
answer the phone, even from restricted numbers. When you're involved in nightlife in Vegas, people
always
want something. People
always
answer the phone when they want something, but they
never
answer the phone when
you
need something. People who always answer the phone have nothing to hide. That's how you know who your friends are. After you crashed the Lambo, the first words out of your mouth were âI'll pay for it, whatever it costs.' That meant a lot, and now you're answering the phone. I know you saw my name on the caller ID. That means you're my friend. I don't gamble money, I gamble on people, and I was right about you.
“So, Alex, here's what I'm saying. We both agree you owe me this money, and we both know the damage is about thirty grand. Thirty grand might mean shit to a lot of these rally guys, but I know it's a lot of money for Alex Roy. So I'm gonna make you an offer.
“Because I consider you a good friend, I'm gonna put the accident on my insurance, and all you have to cover is the deductible. I'm gonna give you four conditions, and if you break them, I won't be mad, I'll be hurt, and you can't imagine how I'd take that. First, if anyone ever asks about what happened between us, you tell them. Any asshole who comes along and says I screwed you, you tell them the truth. We're friends, and friends don't screw each other. Second, after you put that check in the mail, I never want you to bring it up again. We'll never stay friends if you're always feeling guilty about me going easy on you and I don't want that. Third is I want you to get back out there and drive again. Everyone loves the German police shtick, and it wouldn't be the same next year without you. I'll even lend you the CL again. Fourth is that I want you to be my copilot on the Bullrun Ibiza in September. I'll pay for it, whatever it costs.”
Â
A few days later, while surfing the rally forums at work, I saw a post directing people to a new discussion thread:
GUMBALLING OLD SCHOOLâThese Gumballers aren't so toughâ¦check out the trailer for this doc about the real guys back in the day: www. 32hours7minutes.com.
I clicked on the link. A rapid montage began, CB-radio chatter over vintage in-car film footage.
“Hey, you westbounders up there, I've got a sports car comingâ”
Then two seconds of black-and-white aerial footage of a car on a highway.
“âdoing about 95 miles an hour!”
Four numbers flashed on-screen:
1983.
Then a bearded man in his fifties, interviewed quite recently, said,
“We were able to cross the country in as many hours as our pioneer forefathers had taken in weeks.”
Then another graphic.
2,874 miles.
Then Bobby Unser, the retired racing champion, appeared and said,
“To go from New York to California in 32 hours? It's unbelievable.”
I sat paralyzed until the trailer ended.
A secret race in 1983? Thirty-two hours, 7 minutes?
My quest was not nearly over.
Googling director Cory Welles returned nothing. I e-mailed him asking when the film would come out, then left my office without saying good-bye. I walked home in a daze. I began logging the 70 hours of in-car video I'd taken in the prior fifteen months. I had more to learn before I drove again.
Â
Cory e-mailed me a few days later. He was two years into compiling historical footage and interviews with the drivers, and needed money to complete the film. I asked for the prospectus, which arrived by FedEx the next morning. I ignored the thick legal documents, and began reading two items more valuable to me than a winning lottery ticket. The one-page plot summary read:
October 15, 1983. The sun is setting, the gas is topped, and it's time for one last run in the most outrageous road race in American history. Formerly the Cannonball Run, the U.S. Express gathers the best of the best, to speed nonstop from New York to Los Angeles, in a race where the only rule is there are no rules. These real-life, 32-hour outlaws drive over the limit and under the radar with one thing in their sights: becoming the fastest humans to ever cross the continent. Irreverent and gripping, this feature documentary chronicles the last great American outlaw race.
There was a photocopy of a twenty-one-year-old newspaper clipping showing two men, Doug Turner and David Diem, trophy in hand, standing in front of a Ferrari 308,
winners of the 1983 U.S. Expressâ¦new world recordâ¦32 hours, 7 minutes.
There was only one way to learn more before the film came out. I e-mailed Cory asking to meet in person as soon as possible. I was ready to underwrite the film's completion, whatever the cost. We set a meeting for September 18, twenty-four hours before I would leave for London to face Malmstrom.
Six weeks earlier I'd faced catastrophe.
I didn't believe in coincidence or divine intervention, but once again it seemed the stars had aligned in my favor, the sky clear of portents, until Vegas Mike called on September 2 to say he couldn't make itâ¦because of his heart condition.