The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  “Code Nine on…”

  Maher shook his head. “I wish we knew what the codes meant.”

  “…numerous vehicles…high rate of speed…One-oh-one…”

  “Now you’re talking!” I giggled.

  Sausalito PD: “…APB…multiple vehicles…northbound…”

  An APB was an All Points Bulletin—just like in the movies.

  “Bad news for those guys!” I said. “The good news is we haven’t picked up anything from Oakland or Berkeley, which is the other side of the Bay Bridge.”

  “Roy,” Maher said with the greatest respect, warmth, love, and gratitude possible between two straight men who’d only recently met and were risking their lives together, when one realized the other was as smart as he’d hoped, “turn that thing to max and pick up the pace! Bay Bridge, baby!”

  “Look!” I pointed at a silver convertible cresting a distant hill. “Gumballer?”

  “It’s those watermelon helmet guys in the Z8! They must be headed the same way.”

  The entrance to the Bay Bridge was only a few blocks away.

  We chased the Z8 over the bridge through dusk rush-hour traffic, weaving across the solid white lines two or three lanes at a time.

  “This is incredible,” I said, “not a cop in sight.”

  87

  “Yeah,” said Maher, “I can’t believe we’re getting away with this.”

  91

  “Maher, what’s the speed limit?”

  “Who knows?” he said, uninterested in checking the list I’d earlier told him was in the right-side door pocket. Maher now glanced at the maps. “Follow the signs, there, at the end, to 580 West, then 80 East. And pick it up!”

  I bore left off the bridge onto I-80/580, its six lanes sprinkled with light commuter traffic cruising at 75 mph.

  “I’ll take it to 95.”

  “There’s the Z8,” said Maher, “they’ve slowed down.”

  “Their top’s down. If I’m cold they’ve gotta be freezing.”

  “They’ll have to stop to put it up. Pass ’em.”

  The Z8’s distinctive blue-tinged Xenon headlights disappeared in my rearview mirror.

  101

  “Maher, the Golden Gate guys, if they’re on the west side of the bay…how long until their route intersects ours? Because they’re gonna be bringing the whole damn CHP with them, and we need to get past that intersect point before they do.”

  “Looks like”—Maher ran his finger across the map page—“we hit the I-80/37 interchange in…maybe 25 miles. Fifteen minutes at this speed.”

  “Keep your eyes open as we approach.”

  “Passing through…” Maher said. “Town of Vallejo, California, interchange coming up.”

  My phone rang. “Roy…Roy! Can y…ear me?” His English voice was smothered by wind and engine noise.

  “Who is it?”

  “…all o…them nicked…the bridge…we—”

  “Maher, what does nicked mean?”

  “Maybe ‘caught’ or ‘stopped,’ I guess?”

  “…was…massacre…wh…are you?”

  “I can’t hear you!” I lost the signal.

  “Who was it?” said Maher.

  “I don’t know, but he did say ‘massacre.’”

  “Interchange,” said Maher, “any second now.” Maher peered at the interchange’s entry ramp. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Cops?”

  “That’s what I was looking for.”

  “Gumballers?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The scanner’s been quiet,” I said, checking that its volume was at maximum. It was.

  “Let’s hope we passed the main pack,” said Maher.

  “If not, we’re dead.”

  110

  The scanner lit up.

  Vacaville PD: “Ten-twenty-three on those rally vehicles…”

  I let off the gas.

  “Maher! We just passed signs for Vacaville! And we’ve got Xenons coming up behind us at high speed!”

  “I see him,” said Maher, “it’s the Z8!”

  “I’ll let him pass…wait, hang on!” I yelled. “Yellow Ferrari! Passing on the left shoulder! And the scanner’s going crazy!”

  DEEDEET!

  It was the Valentine 1. My hearing, keenly attuned after ten childhood years of classical piano training, recognized the single DEEDEET as a K-band signal, almost always evidence of a police radar gun within (assuming a straight road with no obstructions) four miles in either direction. This instantly set off a series of responses so frequently practiced they were as involuntary as breathing.

  I hit mute and kicked the brake, sending every loose object in the car—the map book in Maher’s lap, Cassius’s spare DV tapes, and all our cell phones—flying forward, my seat punched by the mountain of bags behind me in the sex doll’s lap.

  I released the brake when the speedometer read 70—moved to the right lane in an effort to hide my AutobahnPolizei M5 among a cluster of local commuters, and set the cruise control.

  “Alex, can we get a warning next time?”

  “Just being cautious.”

  “Hang on, wait, we’ve got flashing lights coming up fast. Left lane!”

  A black-and-white police car flew past us at least 90 mph.

  “Whoooaaa!!!” we yelled in unison.

  A CHP motorcycle flew past doing at least a hundred.

  “WHOOOAAAAAA!” we yelled together.

  My body tingled with excitement at our escape. “Good eyes, Maher! You saved us!”

  “Looks like we’ve got a Z8 about to get pulled over. And a yellow Ferrari!”

  Five minutes later we spotted a single, stationary set of flashing lights on the right shoulder.

  “Slow down more,” said Maher as he lowered his window, “so I can get a good shot.”

  Cold air blasted into the car.

  “Looks like,” Maher yelled in the wind, “the Z8!”

  “Those poor watermelon-helmet guys.” I thought I saw both of them on their knees being handcuffed.

  Over the next hour we spotted four more sets of flashing lights on the right shoulder—each behind a stopped Gumballer.

  “Any cell reception yet, Maher?”

  “No, but I think we’re about…90 or 100 miles from Reno.”

  “It’s starting to snow.” This was bad news for an M5 riding on summer tires.

  “I’m slowing to 75.” We flashed past a Ferrari. The M5 fishtailed slightly, but held its grip. “Maher, I’m gonna pull back to 65.”

  “If you have to.”

  I made a mental list of every Gumball car with four-wheel drive, not including the Porsche turbos and Lamborghini Murcielagos—their OEM summer tires rendering four-wheel drive useless in snow—which left a silver Audi S4 and Rawlings’s Avalanche.

  “Whooooaa!”

  Thousands of people lined the three blocks to the Reno Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. Reno PD officers waved and cheered with the crowd as we rolled alone toward the red-shirted Gumball staff in the distance.

  “Maher! There’s only one thing to do!” I pulled up to the nearest officer and lowered my window.

  He laughed heartily. “Blue-light special?” I nodded in agreement while we held up our police lights. “Sure! Just make a right up there and you’ll find all your buddies!”

  “Danke, Officer!” I said.

  The crowd and police whooped and applauded as we parked in front of the mobbed Circus Circus entrance—behind a row of at least fifteen Gumball cars amid what looked like every on-and off-duty cop in Reno.

  A Gumball staffer walked up to me. “What’s your car number?”

  “One-four-four,” I said. “How’d we do?”

  “You’re here, aren’t ya? Go upstairs and join Max for the party!”

  “No,” I said to the staffer, “I mean, where’d we place?”

  “Oh, I’ve no idea. You should relax and enjoy the party.”

  “What about our route cards?�
��

  “Roy!” Maher yelled. “C’mon upstairs!”

  “You’ll get those after the party.”

  What appeared to be every Reno resident between 14 and 25, dressed in a variety of official race-team, unofficial racing-style, and bomber jackets—the latter sporting collages of racing and military patches—stood behind the ropes and along the red carpet. Girls lifted their shirts, their brothers or (apparently shameless) boyfriends trying to hand us markers with which to sign the girls’ pale stomachs.

  I tried to keep a straight face as I followed Maher to the doors a hundred outstretched hands, pens, and blank pieces of paper away.

  “We’re like fokkin’ celebrities!” yelled one Gumballer. “Wit a red carpet and all!”

  “’Ow old were those girls?” said another.

  “Alex, Alex!” Cassius yelled from behind me. “Stop! I need a shot of you walking in!”

  The fans craned their heads trying to identify the celebrity upon whom the foreign cameraman trained his spotlight. Then they saw…me, and questions rained down from all sides.

  Do you know Tony Hawk? Where’s Ryan Dunn? Is Tony Hawk coming? What about Ryan? Are you friends with Tony Hawk? Ohmiiigod! I love Ryan! Is he here? Is he coming?

  “Roy!” Maher yelled from inside. “Let’s go!”

  “Look for Rawlings,” I said.

  “Look for food,” said Maher.

  “Riiiggght over here, gentlemen,” said the Circus Circus host, one of the countless staff assigned to the Gumballers now hugging and slapping hands in the roped-off Gumballers-only section of the casino floor. Fans four deep called out to us over the shoulders of security guards beside each stanchion. Max worked the crowd, signing autographs and taking pictures.

  The Gumball rumor mill coalesced around the hot-food buffet table.

  “—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.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gumball!

  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 op
ened 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.