Authors: Alexander Roy
The Driver (23 page)
Now one of the world's few four-time rally veterans, I was on the periphery of an even more exclusive group, among whom respect was accorded by a loose set of rules: Leave on time. Push safely. Pass with respect. Help stricken drivers. Finish well.
Although I had abided by all of these, I remained best known merely for my Team Polizei antics. The Polizei/Rawlings war had unfolded out of sight of the predominantly European veterans. Their respect couldn't be bought with fragmentary anecdotes.
Then Gumball unintentionally gave me a gift of incalculable value.
Every 2005 Gumball car would be a equipped with an ALK “CoPilot” GPS-enabled cell phone. Gumball's motivation was to help non-GPS-equipped teams find the checkpoints, an unbelievably real problem given most teams' failure to purchase even paper maps. But no one given a CoPilot, least of all Gumballers only hours from the kickoff party, was going to read the instruction manual. Expecting them to master its use on the inaugural 835-mile (LondonâPrague) endurance stage was like expecting a high-schooler to make sweet, beautiful, successful loveâon his first tryâto a Czech porn goddess.
I knew that no GPS was 100 percent reliable, especially on Gumball, and
especially
one programmed by topographers ignorant of the necessity of plotting routes
around
potentially finish-rank crushing interchanges and mobile police roadblocks. Plotting these on the fly, at 100 mph or more, required a navigator as familiar with the GPS as he was with his wife or girlfriend. My solution was to custom-program my top-of-the-line, Garmin 2650 GPS with multiple routes into and out of each checkpoint, using the BMW and CoPilot units as backup.
Although the mass distribution of CoPilots would slightly diminish my navigational advantages, this would be offset by my knowing
precisely
everyone else's route, and therefore where the police would ambush them, allowing me to bypass them and escape.
All this was minor compared to the CoPilot's other function. Each CoPilot would transmit Gumballers' locations to a moving map on ALK's website, allowing anyone to follow their progress in real time. Although Gumball's intention was to help fans follow the action live, they had unintentionally created the perfect method of tracking departure rankings and start and finish times.
I was ready for a merciless demonstration of everything I'd learned. I knew I was more than Team Polizei. Now I could prove it.
THURSDAY, MAY
12, 2005
TRAFALGAR SQUARE HILTON, LONDON
GUMBALL
-2
“I always wanted to make love to a priest,” the concierge whispered into her phone downstairs.
“It's very noisy in the lobby,” I said with sincere incredulity. “Can you repeat that?”
“I
said,
Mr. Roy, that I want to make a love to a priest, since I was a little girl in Poland.” However convenient her response to my request for custom-made, same-day church vestments in my size, I couldn't say that I'd ever wanted to make love to anyoneânot even a gorgeous, six-foot-tall, sin-ready Polish girlâwhile dressed as a priest. Nine, the logical copilot for Team Polizei's impending 150 mph assault on Germany and Eastern Europe, poked his head out of our suite's bathroom. “What's she saying?”
“My dear Paulina,” I said, ignoring Nine, “then I'm
sure
you know where to find some priests' outfits right away.”
Â
“Aliray,” said Nine, “with the shit
you
get away with, I'm surprised
everyone
on Gumball doesn't bring a fake police car.”
Much to my surprise, Team Polizei's London arrival had been greeted by dozens of fans asking for autographs and pictures beside the M5 now stickered asâin a tribute to the Spanish authorities' anti-Gumball operations in 2004âa
Barcelona Contra-Gumball Venganza Guardia Civil Interceptación Policia M5
. Gumball's highly enthusiastic fans, to whom I felt closer than many drivers, had deigned to add Team Polizei to the pantheon of legends like Kenworthy and (ahem) Schmitz. Although I was neither the best driver nor in the best car, Team Polizei seemed to have struck a populist, perhaps even antiestablishment, chord. Given how many months I'd spent scouring eBay for uniforms and gear I couldn't borrow or cobble together, I was flattered and grateful, which was why, upon spotting a copycat fake Italian Polizia Lamborghini Gallardo in the hotel garage, I was within an hour of burying Team Polizei forever. If the Polizia team wore full uniforms, half my backup plan was already in the M5's trunk. The other half was minutes away.
“So, Aliray, if we switch up, what's our new team name, Vatican Motorsports?”
I pulled out my notes from an online English-to-Latin translator.
“Sanctus Urbs Altus Volo Templum Sanctimonia.”
“What does
that
mean?”
“Holy City High-Speed Church Chariot.”
“We're going straight to hell.”
Â
“Any better ideas?” said Nine on the cab ride back from our unsuccessful visit to the tailor across from Westminster Abbey.
“Oh yes. Ooooooooooh yes.” I explained my plan, after which he didn't speak until we arrived back at the hotel.
“Good luck with this one, Aliray.”
“Paulina,” I said, stepping up to the concierge desk, “I need you to call another churchâ¦and say that two American bishops lost all their luggage.”
“You are soooo bad.” She winked. “Perhaps I should have them send someone here for the fitting?”
“Aw yeah,” said Nine. “Now you're talkin'!”
“An excellent idea,” I said.
Paulina pulled up a list of numbers on-screen and reached for the phone.
“Maybe,” said Nine, “they can messenger over a catalog of all the fancy outfits they wear, and we can pick out something special.”
“Nine, you're not concerned aboutâ¦you knowâ¦blasphemy?”
“You think the big guy upstairs is gonna punish a nice guy like you for dressing like a priest after all the other crap you've done?”
“How about his nonpracticing Jewish best friend?”
“Alex,” said Paulina, smiling at me, phone in hand, “so I shouldn't tell them you're not Catholic?”
“See you at the bar,” said Nine, waving at Ant and Peteâemerging rally legends raising their pints on the far side of the lobby.
“Hang on, tough guy. Let's see how ballsy those Lambo guys are. Tell everyone that we're terrified of wearing
our
uniforms. Spread the word that the police have already threatened us about it.”
“Wow, smart guy, it's like you're some kind of psychologist or something.”
“Cute. Paulina, will you just please send the catalog over to the bar, unless anyone official looking brings it, in which case please tell him we're very, very ill. Nine, ready for your homework?”
“Can't I just get a drink and relax?”
“Not yet. We're looking for Mark Muss and Seamus Conlon, new guys who've prepared more than anyone. They've got a
lot
to share with us about Eastern Europe they're not telling anyone else. I've invited them to convoy with us. And look out forâ”
“Aliray, I thought this was supposed to be fun.”
“This
is
the fun part. Work starts in the car.”
SATURDAY, MAY
14, 2005
WATERLOO PLACE, LONDON
GUMBALL START LINE
LATE AFTERNOON
“Aliray, is it always like this?!!?”
We'd been standing astride the Policia M5 for over an hour, posing for pictures with hundreds of fans who, out of the thousands ringing the prestart staging zone on Waterloo Place, had pushed their way through the crowd and called out my name from behind the barrier tape. We invited them through in pairs, smiling and shaking hands with as many as possible until engines began firing up across the street at the start line.
“Not like
this,
” I said. “There's gotta beâ¦five thousand people right here!”
“At least! I saw a lot more around the corner.”
“You see my mom?”
“She's waiting
right
at the desk where they give us the cards.”
We handed out every spare Polizei 144 T-shirt and cap we had and got in the M5 for the customary last-minute systems check. The crowd cheered as Nine hit the switch, our siren's
WHOOOOOP
echoing off the surrounding buildings, then he switched on the red-blue and green-yellow police lights I'd installed front and rear. Dozens of camera flashes lit up in my rearview mirror. Not only had the mechanics who'd double-checked my car at BMW Battersea comeâwith their childrenâto see us off, so had several of London's Finest. They were very impressed with the bright orange jackets I'd bought onlineâto which I'd affixed fake Spanish police badges and patchesâall agreeing they were far more authoritative (and visible) than any
real
uniforms, including their own. To my surprise and the crowd's delighted clapping, a bright-yellow-jacketed officer removed his hat, pulled off its silver London Metropolitan Police badge, and placed it on my dashboard “for good luck, mate.” Nine asked a bobby-hatted duo to estimate the crowd size, their guesses ranging from ten to fifty thousand, all debate ending when their commander summoned them for the flag dropâthe same commander who, after Maximillion's earlier orientation briefing, told the assembled drivers to be careful beyond the city limits. The cheering Gumballersâwith a twisted understanding of what this meant
within
the city limitsânearly carried him out on their shoulders.
“Mate,” said the copper, pumping my hand, “me and the boys want you to show these poncy wankers. Cane it. Do it for
us
.” His eyes hardened as he looked over my shoulder, switched back to cop-on-duty, and began barking at fans trying to sneak under the tape.
I turned to Nine. “Cane it?”
“It's a British thing, smart guy. It's gotta mean drive balls out.”
“Duh. Funny that he wants us to represent, I guessâ¦the police worldwide?”
“I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it. Crazy. Are all European cops that cool?”
“Not in France. I hear the Belgian parliament wants to make an example of Gumball, but I speak French, so we should be okay. Germany I don't know, but it's got to take a lot to get stopped there. Austria's probably the same. I've got my mom checking the news; she'll call if she hears anything. Muss says Eastern Europe is like the Wild Westâ¦just bring cash.”
“Thank God you did, but you wanna know our most serious problem?”
“Well, Nine, you know what my dad always said.”
“Bad news first.”
“Okay, what's the new problem?”
“
You
think you've got it pretty good in NYC, with your cute little girlfriend and loft parties, but you're a total loser there compared to London. Alex Roy and Polizei are household names here. The least you can do is move here and take advantage of your minor celebrity before it runs out, or you get too fat.”
“Can we talk about serious problems?”
“This
is
a serious problem. Everybody saw you on last year's Gumball show with Kinsley, and the few hot chicks who come up to us think the two of you are still together.”
“So? We've both got girlfriends. Nothing's secret on Gumball.”
“What I'm saying is, aren't there any chick fans that, you know, maybe if we're single again and come back to Londonâ¦I mean, pretty much ninety percent of the Polizei fans are guys.”
“Look.”
I lowered my window. “Here comes a cute girl right now.”
“Finally! We have any hats left?”
I removed my sunglasses as the young, pale woman ran up to my doorsill.
“Oh my God!” She giggled. “Team Polizei! You guys are complete morons and I love love love it! Can I have your autograph for my little brother?”
“My pleasure,” I said with a smile. I signed her copy of the 2003 Gumball DVD with my face on the cover, then she kissed me on both cheeks and ran off.
Â
“Gotta say it, Aliray, your mom sure looks hot in that Polizei jacket.”
I sighed, slowly pulling the M5 up to the start line. Ingeborg, my sixty-one-but-looked-forty-and-acted-twenty-five mom, stood beaming, waving her arms just beyond the mass of newscasters and cameramen waiting to interview us before we took off. Nine hit the lights. Cheers erupted. Disembodied armsâcameras in handâreached out from the crowd to snap our picture in a kaleidoscope of flashes, a chorus of goodwill: “Go for it, Roy!” “Show those tossers!” “Go Polizei!”
“London
loves
Aliray.” Nine laughed. “It's the exact opposite of New York!”
I read my mom's lips as she leaped in the air. “Ali! Ali! I love you! I love you!” Although she wasn't the only female within earshot expressing such feelings, she was suddenly surrounded by journalists wanting to know the identity of the pixieish woman with the platinum-blond crew cut and black leather Polizei jacket. “How do you know Alex Roy?” said one as I rolled up to kiss her good-bye. “
That's
my son!” she screamed. “That's
my
son!”
I reached for the PA handset. “Mom!” My voice blared over the crowd. “I love you, too, just don't read the paper for the next five days!”
AUTOROUTE E
40
EASTBOUND
APPROACHING BELGIAN-GERMAN BORDER
500
MILES FROM PRAGUE CHECKPOINT
“Aliray, are we going to be driving this fast the whole time?”
“We're only doing 145.”
“Like I said, are we going to be driving this fast the whole time?”
“We've only been doing it for half an hour. Any news from Schtaven?” Schtaven, aka Steven Jennions or Steve J, was our inner circle's representative in London, a half-English, half-Norwegian, sixty-two, bald, importantly stomached, car-loving banker-cum-explorer whoâhaving honeymooned with his dreadlocked, stunning obsidian goddess wife, Ester, in Syria, and having just returned from a guided vacation of North Koreaâconsidered staying up overnight to report news from the CoPilot Web page but a minor favor.
“Nothing since he said we're tied with Ross. For first.”
Â
Our second hour at 150 or more inspired a highly unscientific analysis of the actual danger we faced. I concocted what I called
The Danger Coefficient
(DC). I guessed the average NASCAR driver, in a thirty-six-race season including practice, probably drove 15,000 milesâwith a safety cage and onboard active-fire suppressionâon highly prepared tracks, with hospitals less than 15 minutes away by choppers on standby. Assuming this represented a DC of ten, Gumball's 3,000 miles meant our DC was twoâ¦
until
factoring our relative safety deficiencies. High speeds over potholes
had
to triple our DC to six. Civilian traffic doubled it again, to twelve. Time and distance to medical help? Double again, to twenty-four. Lack of roll cages, harnesses, and HANS devices? My guesses ended when I realized Gumballâat least the way I did itâwas at least five times more dangerous than NASCAR.
It
had
to be. Thank God Nine was there to take over once I got tired. But that would make it six times as dangerous. At least.
Â
“Hey, Aliray, I don't think I can drive.”
“Are you sick?” We were approximately 500 miles into an 835-mile stage, and although our absurdly, criminally high sustained cruising speedsâfar higher than in the Statesâwould shorten its duration, safety demanded we switch seats soon. Nine was an experienced Porsche Club driver, far better on the track than I. Without him, my plan was doomed.
“I'm not sick, I justâ¦look, I knew we were gonna drive fast, but I didn't know it was going to be like this.”
“We're doing 165. Light rain, no traffic. The road's straight and perfect.”
“Listen, if you wanna win this thing, I
know
you're going to take some risks that I'm just not willing to take.”
“You mean like
this
? You've got veto power. Do you feel unsafe?”
“Not at all. Alex, I may be better than you on the track, but what you're doing right nowâ¦is incredible. I can't believe it. If we didn't have the camcorder, no one would. As long as you feel good, you drive and I'll be the world's best copilot ever. Unless you need me to take over, I'd rather you run as hard as you can.”
Nine still felt guilt over an incident I'd forgotten. Three weeks after the M5's purchase, at the end of its second day of testing, with Nine at the wheel and summer tires between us and the icy driveway to The Weis's country house, a 15 mph skid ended against a tree. My first question was whether everyone was all right. I never expressed any anger, even upon receipt of the $10,000 damage bill. The tire decision had been mine. My faith in him had never wavered, otherwise I'd never have invited him on Gumball.
“Nineâ¦are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
Eight-hundred-odd miles was nothing compared to the 1,270-mile ParisâMarbella stage from 2004. I could finish it alone.
“Then keep a close eye on me. If I'm about to make a mistake, start yelling.”
“Just punch it, Chewy.”
“In that case, 170 it is.”
AUTOBAHN A
6
EASTBOUND
APPROACHING SCHWANDORF, GERMANY
170
MILES FROM PRAGUE CHECKPOINT
EARLY MORNING
Ross's headlights flashed twice in my mirror. I pulled to the right as his Bentley passed at 185 mph, its 6-liter, twin-turbocharged, 12-cylinder engine emitting a high-pitched whine similar to a 747 at takeoff.
“I really don't give a shit about high-end hardware, Aliray, but that does sound pretty cool.”
“Me neither, but yeah, it does. Ross is probably the only Bentley owner on the planet who actually runs his car the way they're supposed to. Everyone else is going to dinnerâ”
“Hang on. Schtaven reportsâ¦He says we're in the lead, cane it, order him an extra steak when we get to Prague, and overnight it to him.”
Nothing could stop usâ
“Nine, what's that in the road?”
âunless I made a mistake.
The Bentley's rooster tails obscured our view of whatever had caused him to brake. Hard. Construction cones appeared out of the mist just ahead of himâthe left lane suddenly closedâand he squeezed past a civilian jalopy just as the road narrowed to one lane. Water burst up from beneath the Bentley and civilian as they ran over a piece of debris I barely avoided by jinking left.
“Nice one!” Nine yelled. “What
was
that?”
“Some moron hit a cone and left it there.”
We pulled over behind Ross, just past the construction zone.
“Nine, we've gotta get that debris off the road before fifteen Gumballers get killed.” There were at least seven medium-size pieces, but each required a separate near-suicidal sprint in front of thickening civilian traffic.
“Back to Ross,” Nine huffed as we ran back. “I'll start calling everyone we know. Where the fuck are we?”
“Just past the B85 turnoff. Use my phone. Call Jodie Kidd, Muss, and Ant and Pete. Between them, it'll get to almost everybody.”
By the time we reached the white-shirted Ross, he was already prone in the mud under the Bentley. “Tire puncture,” he said calmly. “Be so kind as to bring my jack and spare, and we can sort this right away. I brought a full-size for just this eventuality.”
“Of course he did,” Nine said as we unpacked the spare. “This guy's like James Bond.”
“We brought one, too.”
“Yeah, but you're more Austin Powers.”
We had no more than five minutes to fix it were we to maintain our lead. Within three, a loud crunch to our rear announced the arrival of a previously unseen Aston Martin DB9. They pulled over and took a cursory glance under their car before getting back in. Even from 20 feet away it was clear they were leaking oil. Nine ran to warn them, but they left seemingly unconcerned.
“Brand-new DB9”âhe shook his headâ“and these guys don't care. I'll bet you Taco Bell they don't make Prague.”
“Only someone with Ford stock would take that bet. I can't wait to see them stopped with a dead engine. That's gotta cost twenty grand.”
We were about to mount the spare when Ross spoke up from under the car. “We have a problem. Fluid leak, not oil, but potentially serious. Pass me the duct tape, then we'll mount the tire and be off.”
By minute four, multiple high-pitched engines flared behind us, a blue Lamborghini, a silver Porsche, a black Ferrari, and Loretta all stopping to help. I was little surprised and greatly delighted to see Jodie Kidd, her copilot and boyfriend Aidan Butler, Muss, Seamus, and two Gumballers I didn't know gathered around us on the shoulder. The black SLR kept going, as did another five cars. They were correct in assuming nothing more could be done.
Our unheralded, superhuman, nearly 700-mile run halfway across Europe had been for naught. I'd known enough disappointment in the past to remain quiet over my anguish. With the privilege of convoying with Ross came responsibility. Every car that passed while I stood by was another brick in the foundation of Ross's trust. This was the Gumball spirit for which I'd received the trophy in 2003. I had to live up to it.
We taped the leak and mounted the tire, thankfully urged our reluctant friends back on the road, and then Ross turned to me. “A quick pace won't be possible for the remainder of this stage, alas. Mr. Goodrich has volunteered to ride with me in case anything goes wrong. We hope you will safely deliver Lady Emma to Prague.”
“I'm not a lady,” she quipped. “I mean I am, but not by title.”
“As you wish,” Ross said to her, then shook my hand. “Go, Mr. Roy. We'll make it up tomorrow.”
“You needn't worry, Mr. Ross, about either task.” I returned to the M5, started the engine, and made a mental note to ask Nine why he and I adoptedâonly when talking to Ross or Emmaâa faux-English accent and cadence. With great sadness I watched the Bentley disappear in the rearview mirror. “Are you okay?” I cautiously asked my new copilot. We'd had drinks and dinner many times among friends, but this was my first time alone with the stunning girl pursued by so many. Her looks had been invisible to me since first noting Ross's paternal concern, back when she began dating Maher in 2003. Now given the instruction to deliver her safely, I thought of nothing but.
“Yesâ¦yes.” She stared straight ahead. Even with the seat all the way back, her long legs barely fit under the glove box. Despite her composure and six feet, three inches, she was still a twenty-two-year-old girl who'd just survived her second accident on Gumball. I dared not ask her to perform any of Nine's duties.
“Alexâ¦thank you for letting me have a quiet moment.”
“You've got another hour or two of quiet, I think.”
I proceeded, in an effort not to upset her, toward the border at 120. “Don't slow down because of me, Alex. I'm over it.”
“Are you certain?”
“Alex, you should see how Michael drives.”
“As you wish!” I accelerated to 140 and soon caught up with Ant, Pete, and Jodie Kidd at the tail of at least fifty cars waiting at the Czech passport control. I looked at Emma, who immediately read my mind, and we slowly advanced to cut the line. I was about to instruct her as to location of the siren controls when she blurted, “Oh Christ!”
“What? What?”
“I left my passport in the Bentley!”
“Emma, stay calm, okayâ¦let me thinkâ¦do you promise to do exactly as I say?”
“If Jon trusts youâ”
“Emma, take my camera, get out of the car, and start snapping pictures of me, the car, the border police, and every Gumballer who passes by. Start by standing on the German side, then as I drive through, slowly start walking to the Czech side. There's tons of fans. Look, even the police are taking pictures. No one will notice. Get out now.”
“Are you sure? Smuggling is quite a bad offense, I think.”
“You a law student?”
“Well, I do intend to go to law schoolâ”
“Then study immigration. Emma, would you prefer for us to wait for Ross?”
“I suppose not.”
“Then trust me. I impersonate cops for a living!”
No one noticed our ruse, except the Czech border guard who demanded a picture with the girl whose terrified expressionâtwo heads above his smileâwould become apparent only when he developed the roll of film in his camera.
We drove in silence toward Prague, where several thousand fans awaited our arrival in front of the Hotel Carlo IV finish line. A pair of young crew-cutted fans ran up to my window.
“Alex Roy!”
“Americans!? What are you doing here?”
“Dude! Can we get your autograph? We just got back from Iraq and drove all the way here from Ramstein Air Base to meet you!”
“That's better than me coming to Iraq to meet
you
! Come by the bar for drinks in thirty! If anyone stops you, tell them you're my pit crew.”
We rolled up to the checkpoint official. Amazingly, despite our ordeals, we were eighth in. Ross and Nine arrived several hours later, just in time for the lunch I ordered them.
Â
“Screwed up again, Mr. Polizei?”
“Roy's not that good, is he?”
I wasn't at all fazed by the passing insults from Gumballers I didn't know. Team Polizei's table in the hotel restaurant became the most efficiently organized command and control center outside of NASA Launch Control, with ours far more comfortable. While other problem-addled Gumballers stood on the hotel steps trying in vain to reach the local Ferrari or Porsche dealer on a Sunday afternoon, Ross's call to Bentley London reactivated a mechanism of English logistical prowess unseen since the days of empire. By one o'clock the owner of Bentley Prague had canceled plans with his family to repair Ross's transmission-fluid reservoir. A new clutch was already on a plane from the UK for Loretta, the black Lotus driven by Muss and Seamus. In order to improve the M5's performance by saving weight, I shipped my dirty laundry home and my clean clothes to the subsequent checkpoints in a schedule perfectly synchronized with my proprietary knowledge, which Muss was about to expand.
“Now listen to me,” said Muss. “Tomorrow morning Seamus and I will park Loretta beside your M5. Ross, you park behind Alex. Seamus will call Jon and give you instructions out of the city.”
Ross intuited why. Nine didn't. “I thought you lived in Budapest. How do you knowâ¦holy shit! You didn'tâ”
“Alex,” said Muss, “you want to tell him?”
“Nine, these two psychopaths called every hotel in every city until they figured out exactly where the checkpoints were. Seamus here was the one who recommended the midway checkpoint in Croatia. Two weeks ago they drove the
entire
route in real time as practice. They know the shortcuts into and out of
every
place we're going.”
Ross grinned more joyfully than I'd ever seen.