The Driver (25 page)

“ETA!” I barked.
“What's the ETA to intercept?”

“Schtaven's working on it.”

“Our average is moving up…101! If he's
still
closing, with all the slow parts, he's gotta be running that Porsche into the 170s!”

“How do you know it's a Porsche?”

“It's the blue Porsche with the white stripe! Spencer something with a
B,
semipro track guy, old-school Gumballer. Had a Ferrari in '04, Ross said he's one of the best!”

“Like Kenworthy best?”

“Maybe. I thought he was one of these mattress-testing playboys. Boy, was I wrong.”

“You've never been more wrong in your life.”

Schtaven's calculations suggested that unless I dramatically increased our average—which would require consistent speeds above 160, nearly impossible given traffic and road conditions—we'd be intercepted in the vicinity of Battipaglia, approximately 50 miles ahead. Not intercepted.
Passed
. Even 140 was difficult to sustain, and yet Spencer was greatly surpassing my theoretical safe limit.

“You wanna pick it up more, Aliray, be my guest.”

“One forty-five it is. Ask Schtaven if he can speed up the reports. And ask him to look up Spencer on the Gumball site, and check to see if his team number matches the CoPilot icon.”

 

“Approaching Battaglia,” Nine said 20 minutes later. “Schtaven confirms it is Team 35, Bourne, S., UK, Porsche 996 TT, Race Spec, X50. Codriver unlisted. He reports car still closing, but at a slower rate, and congratulates you on finding your manhood.”

“He said what?”

“Team 35, Bourne, S.—”

“Niiiine! The
last
part!”

“Well, he actually wrote…‘it's nice to see you stick your cock out.'”

“Nine, write back that I expect to see him out here in his thousand-horsepower Supra lawn mower next year, or else.”

“You're doing this next year? Are you insane? Isn't
this
enough?”

“We'll see. ETA to intercept?”

“He says…our new higher speed has now slightly delayed the intercept, but that he's no more than ten or fifteen minutes behind.”

“Time for the police lights. Hit the front white strobes, that'll clear traffic ahead,
and
the rear red-blue! Italian drivers are like New York cabbies, they
always
follow emergency vehicles.
That'll
slow him down.”

“You know this guy at all?”

“Spencer? No, but it's gonna drive him crazy. Get out the binoculars, eyes open to the rear. We have to keep talking to each other no matter what happens. Things are gonna get complicated
real
fast.”

AUTOSTRADA A
3—
NORTHBOUND
MIDSHIN OF THE ITALIAN BOOT, APPROACHING SALERNO
170
MILES TO ROME CHECKPOINT
1335
HOURS (APPROX)

“Five minutes or less!” Nine yelled, turning again to sit on his knees facing rearward. “Can't see shit with the binocs at these speeds!”

“See
anything
blue??!?!?”

“Not yet.” Nine flipped back into his seat. “Schtaven's refreshing the Web page now…he says…the icon's
right
on top of us!”

My eyes darted to the rearview mirror every few seconds. I had begun breaking my own safety rules—weaving through thickening traffic—and had collected a tail of the few locals in Alfas and Mercedes who thought they could keep up. A blue speck appeared in the mirror. “Is that—”

Nine, concerned over having to remove his seat belt every time he turned around, pointed the binoculars at his visor mirror. “Blue car approaching fast!”

“Dammit! Construction!” A line of orange cones sealed the shoulder, blocking the type of pass I would never make—but Spencer might. We were seconds from a close-quarters battle among local cars conveniently staggered
just
far enough apart for
one
car to weave between them, but whose proximity made passing the lead duelist impossible—unless he made a mistake. “Which side is he on?”

“Right lane! Stay left!”

Spencer, emerging from behind our two-car tail, hesitated upon spotting us. I accelerated to close the gap with a silver Fiat two car lengths ahead on the right. The small blue shape in my right-hand mirror quivered as if attached to a monstrous rubber band stretched between us. Then, the tension suddenly released, the Porsche flared in size—exhaust howling over the wind's deep roar—and catapulted toward us until disappearing in my blind spot.

Until five seconds earlier the arrival of
Team 35/Bourne, S. (UK)/Porsche 996 TT (Race Spec) X50
had remained an Outside Context Problem—an event so far beyond my ability to understand, adapt to, and mitigate its consequences that, rather than seek a new solution, I pretended my current plan would succeed. Having for the second time mercilessly applied will to ambition—my goal in sight, victory in reach—I refused to acknowledge the single-minded purpose implicit in Spencer's approach.

Beat Roy.

I genuinely believed, halfway into my fifth rally, after one accident and the Ibiza victory, that my ever-improving driving skills, combined with a Herculean investment in logistics and intelligence, made me unbeatable. Unless I made a mistake.

But, since leaving Taormina, I hadn't made any mistakes. Spencer wasn't part of the plan. It was far easier to believe he would never arrive, or didn't exist.

My vain hopes disappeared in the gust against which the M5 shuddered, Spencer's car materializing beside us in a blur of rain-sheared metal so blue it glistened purple as water sprayed up from its wheels. In the seemingly eternal half second we ran even, my car's reflection flashed in its side window, as if a single frame had been accidentally spliced into a film about the Italian countryside, shot from a train.

The Porsche's surge continued, Spencer miraculously sliding into the gap between our front right corner and the plodding Fiat's rear left,
precisely
one Porsche-911-length away. The turbo's high-pitched wail rose even as its blue-white tail narrowed in the distance, until, as if on a divine pendulum, it returned, its turbo eerily silent. He was trapped behind two trucks cruising side by side at a legal 93 mph.

I braked one irresponsibly short car length from his bumper, then fell back three. Nine released the door handle and wiped both hands on his thighs. “I need a cigarette,” he panted. “That guy's really good, Aliray. At least you gave it a shot. Let's have a Twix hors d'oeuvre first. You deserve it.”

My eyes remained locked on the blue bumper ahead. I wasn't fighting a car. Without Spencer, it was no more than a glamorous hunk of metal.

“Alex. Allllex!?!” Nine waved the Twix before my face. “So…I guess you're gonna give him this one?”

I was beatable. He was beatable. Anyone was beatable, but whether
I
could beat Spencer in the 165 miles remaining to Rome, or to the Monaco finish the following day, or even next year, would remain unknown unless I committed to transcending everything I thought possible. Who I was—and would be—depended on it. Spencer was a better driver, in a better car. I was better prepared, my will tempered steel. His worst mistake would be a wrong turn. Mine would be fatal.

I had to see. I had to know.

“No, Jon, not yet.” I stared at Spencer and his codriver's heads bobbing in discussion. The left truck accelerated and moved right, but Spencer unexpectedly chose not to exploit this potentially brief opportunity. Given the increasing traffic, this immediately buttressed my battered but now resurgent, more powerful determination.

“Nine!
Look!
He's got a mechanical problem, or…doesn't that car get, maybe, twenty-two on the highway?”

“I see where you're going with this. Where do you get twenty-two?”

“Right. Fuel economy on Gumball is half what manufacturers say, or worse. He's getting ten, I
know
it. Text Schtaven! How big is a 996 fuel tank?”

“Seventeen gallons,” Nine said without hesitation.

“Oh,
reeeeeeaaaalllly
? And
how
do you know
that
?”

“We're all the same when chicks pass out.”

Spencer's range was no more than 170 miles. We were 300 miles out of Taormina. He had to have stopped once. He was now perhaps 40 miles from his second refuel, or, if he was getting
less
than 10 MPG—

“He's pulling off?! Aliray, no matter what The Weis says, you
are
a genius.”

“Distance to Rome?”

“About…165, what a coincidence! Guess old Spence here's gonna need
another
fuel stop before Rome, unless he wants to run out of gas two blocks from the hotel!”

“Don't celebrate yet,” I said. “We need one more stop, he
might
need another.”

“So Mr. Fuel Economy Strategy's
not
gonna give him this one?”

“Oooooohhhhhhh noooooooooo!”

“Let me guess, you've got a plan for this, too.”

“Oooooooohhhh yeeeeessss! Three, in fact, and only two need to work to beat him. You know the first one. Get ready for sirens. Eyes open for choppers. Don't worry, we can outrun them.”

“Oh…maaan.”

Clear roads favored the faster, better-handling car. Traffic favored one with lights and sirens. Virgin asphalt favored a lower, stiffer car. Rough pavement favored a bigger, heavier car. The lower the frequency between GPS instructions, the less relevant the CoPilot's small display and weak amplification. The more complex and frequent the GPS instructions—especially in the cramped, noisy environment of a car speeding into one of Europe's largest cities—the more critical our Garmin's large display and external speaker.

If only I kept Spencer in sight, close enough to exploit advantages potentially worth as much as three minutes, every mile closer to Rome improved our odds of victory.

Racing is chess.

If only I didn't make any mistakes.

If only he made one. Just one.

 

“Tollbooth ahead,” I said, suddenly recalling my father's road-trip rules. “Wallets in the armrest. Combine and sort our bills. It'll save time.”

“And our asses won't hurt.”

We needed gas. We would be invisible to Spencer for the three and a half minutes it took to refuel his car, however long was necessary for his codriver to urinate inside (if he was too cultured for Team Polizei's pumpside stealth evacution), and as long as it took to catch up. Would seeing us stopped at a pump satisfy his ego and slow him down? Or would it embolden him?

“Nine, next major gas station
on
the road. A big one.”

“Esso coming up, one mile…Angionia Est, 145 miles from Rome.”

“Prepare for the world's fastest refuel. I'm only putting in enough to get there. That's worth maybe one minute. Get your orange jacket on and stand by the road while I pump. Make sure he sees you. Smile and wave, like it's all fun and games.”

Spencer flew past the instant the pump spit out my receipt. “Perfect timing,” I said, gently pulling out of the station to save gas, “now let's see if he slows down. We need to pass him before he starts kicking the beehive on the last stretch. Watch for Autostrada A1, that's where the roadblocks are gonna start. Forget choppers and cars. Only cycles can catch us.”

We covered the 22 miles to the A1 in nine minutes.

“Averaging 140 won't be enough, Nine. If I sprint up to 170, maybe—”

“Schtaven reports…Spencer slightly ahead, just hit 197, but averaging 150ish.”

“That won't last once traffic builds. Setting cruise control at 150.”

Rome was 124 miles. All was not lost.

“Heads up!” I yelled when the V1 beeped before the Caianello exit. Nine pointed out three Polizia Stradale motorcycles stopped on the right. Spencer had either slowed down, or 150 wasn't enough to get their attention. I slowed to 100. “What does it take to get arrested in this country?”

“Stop pussyfooting, we're a hundred miles out. Schtaven sends congratulations…we are now running even, about seven miles behind him.”

“So he's three or four minutes ahead?”

“Just drive, Dr. Hawking.”

Scattered showers—having no effect on Spencer—forced us as low as a hundred. Accelerating back to 150 burned additional fuel. Nine stopped reading me Schtaven's reports, then the reports stopped altogether.

“Alex, there's no shame in second, not against this guy.”

I wasn't ready to concede, but my pessimism grew with every mile during which the phone remained silent. The rain cleared near Frosinone, 53 miles from Rome. I prayed for everything Gumballers despised. I could evade police, I could eviscerate traffic, but I couldn't match Spencer's 170-plus cruising speed. I was losing.

Nine lifted his vibrating phone, then furiously began typing.

“Bad news first,” I said.

“Spencer's car disappeared from the tracking. I'm asking where. Maybe he had an accident. If anything happened, we have to stop.”

“If anything happened to him, I'm never doing this again.”

The sky ahead turned purple and gray. Spotting light beyond the murky deluge, I accelerated into it; pattering droplets became thudding sheets, the car cast in shadow before we could remove our sunglasses. The car fishtailed ever so slightly, Nine's hand moved to the door handle, then suddenly we burst out into the sun blinded, vestigial water stretching against our windshield in luminous streaks.

“Sorry, Nine, I—”

“No prob—” Nine's head snapped right. “There he is!!! At the gas station!”