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?”
CHAPTER 14
Requiem for the Blue Mercedes
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.
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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.
CHAPTER 15
The District Attorney’s Daughter and the Sheriff ’s Wife
TUESDAY, APRIL 22, 2003
I-10 EASTBOUND—VICINITY OF MOBILE, ALABAMA
720 MILES TO FINISH LINE GUMBALL + 5
“Alex, man, I’m really glad you came out last night. I love New Orleans, and you needed to unwind. What happened with you and that girl?”
“Dave,” I said, using his first name for the first time since the start, in an effort to convey the gravity of the prior night’s events, “her dad’s a district attorney. It’s best if we just don’t talk about it. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure she’s over twenty-two.”
“That’s the part of Gumball no one warns you about. Just make sure my girlfriend doesn’t hear about it, or she’ll think I was involved.”
I-10 EASTBOUND—VICINITY OF PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
ESCAMBIA BAY CAUSEWAY
665 MILES TO FINISH LINE
135
I was glad to have Maher drive. He was 5 percent faster than I was, even at my best. He’d done slightly less than half the driving—I should have given him more.
“Nice one back there”—Maher chuckled—“hitting One-Arm Wes with the Polizei Blue Light Special. You got that on video?”
“The whole thing. I can’t believe how many Gumballers have fallen for that one, especially in the daytime.”
“Dude,” said Maher, “look.”
There it was—the tall black shape of a truck, antennas raked back.
“Look, Alex, it’s your favorite Avalanche.” It was Rawlings, and we were about to pass him.
Rawlings lowered his window, his hair whipping in the wind, bared his teeth in a huge grin, and gave us the international hand signal for “Rock On.”
How did we catch up with him? We’d left the New Orleans checkpoint midpack. Rawlings had been up front.
I thought back to the Tucson–to–White Sands run.
If Rawlings wanted to be first to every checkpoint, and would do whatever it took—within reason—to do it fair and square, and if Collins was with him the whole time, maybe there was one other way they could’ve beaten us to White Sands.
Maybe Rawlings wasn’t leaving early. Maybe Rawlings was employing every single strategy I’d thought of, but with greater discipline and focus. He was leaving at precisely 9 A.M. in first place. He and Collins—Lone Wolves paired, cooperating over and discussing navigation, scanner, and CB traffic—weren’t pushing past 150 mph as often as we had. They were cruising at 120, conserving fuel, because that was the sweet spot of fuel economy vs. time and distance elapsed.
I’d ignored my fuel tables, running with Kenworthy at 150 at nine miles per gallon.
Rawlings had been approximately 25 minutes ahead of us into White Sands—almost precisely the length of time we’d spent getting out of Tucson because of our GPS failure and additional fuel stop(s).
And now we’d caught up with him.
Rawlings had left New Orleans approximately 15 minutes ahead of us. We’d inadvertently caught up only because Maher had driven a consistent 130 mph, which—although more fuel efficient than 140, was worse than their 120—meant we were going to fall behind them again.
“Maher, Collins is right up ahead.”
“Don’t say it. Let’s run with these two until we need gas.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
120
“Maher, just make sure we pass both of them before we refuel.”
“Why?”
“Just do it when we’re beyond their visual range.”
Once we disappeared, if Rawlings thought there was even a chance we might beat him to the Ocala Hooters—the 2003 Gumball’s penultimate checkpoint—he might push harder, make a mistake, waste gas, get pulled over…anything.
I-10 EASTBOUND—VICINITY OF WESTVILLE, FLORIDA
UNKNOWN GAS STATION 570 MILES TO FINISH LINE
“The world’s fastest refuel,” I said, “starts in…ten seconds. I just hope Rawlings and Collins didn’t see us pull off for gas.”
We stopped, jumped out, and Maher ran to the bathroom. Rawlings and Collins pulled in right next to the M5. I waved and looked at the pump.
Maher waltzed back, t
ook out his camcorder, and walked over to the Avalanche.
“How ya doin’?” he said to Rawlings.
“Ahriiiiiggggght! How ’bout you boys?”
“Just fine,” said Maher, walking over to Collins. “How you doing?”
“Real good,” said Collins, uninterested.
Amazingly, inexplicably, catastrophically, all three of our pumps finished almost simultaneously. Rawlings and Collins pulled out to the edge of the road, then stopped.
“Dude,” said Maher, “they want you to go first.”
“Duh, they want us as bait. Haven’t you been listening to the scanner? Every cop in the panhandle is looking for us after that 180 mph shit we just pulled.”
“Maybe we should take side roads.”
“I’ll pull out and take it slow, it’ll drive them nuts.”
75
Then the CB squawked and everything changed.
“Hey, Polizei,” said Collins, “got your ears on?”
Maher took the handset. “Ten-four, Dennis.”
“Hey, Richard?”
“That’s aaa Teeeeeeeeen-four!”
“Hey, Polizei, you got your fancy scanner up?”
“Sure do!” said Maher.
“And we got ours!” said Rawlings.
“Hey, Polizei, we’ve got the same as yours…let’s see if we’re picking up the same stuff.”
“Pol-eez-eye,” said Rawlings, “what say we all take it easy until we’re clear of these coppers, then we’ll hammer down!”
“Ten-four!” said Maher, smiling as he peered ahead for radar traps.
I smiled my happiest smile of the week, and for the next 200 miles we ran with Rawlings and Collins.
We’d joined the world’s fastest Wolf Pack, that is, until we got to the Ocala Hooters checkpoint, stepped inside for my favorite cheesesteak, and snapped pictures of the waitresses in their tight orange short shorts. I went to look for our new convoy partners, stopped to watch Kenworthy paint rubber donuts in the parking lot, but Rawlings and Collins were gone.
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL, MIAMI BEACH
GUMBALL FINISH-LINE PARTY
I waded through a sea of grins, outstretched hands, Gumballers’ wives, children and even several rally girlfriends who’d made it more than one checkpoint past where their relationships had begun.
Rings of wide black rubber stained the hotel driveway.
I walked out and stood at the center of the circular driveway, surrounded by cars, red, yellow, and orange paint dusted, dulled, and in the darkness nearly indistinguishable from those black and gray, some with Gumball stickers and car numbers partially torn away.
The Driver Page 13
