Half my gear would be useless. European police-radio frequencies and ten-code vernacular weren’t public, my near-fluent French probably wouldn’t be sufficient to understand them anyway, and I didn’t speak Spanish. European truckers didn’t use CB radios. I wasn’t sure my V1—despite its instruction manual—would pick up 100 percent of the French and Spanish police radar. In 2003 my Lidatek laser jammer alarm had rung every time a late-model LED-brake-light-equipped vehicle hit the brakes, so I’d replaced them with an as-yet-untested Escort ZR3 system. I’d decided to ignore the M5’s GPS and install a Garmin 2650, the best mobile unit available. I’d spent $1,000 on European and African DVD map sets, and an external backup windshield antenna.
Contrary to popular belief, European highways—however more suitable for speeding than those in the United States—did have speed limits, and although speed limits were often 90 mph or higher and police cars were rare, radar speed-trap cameras were common. I wasn’t worried about their shooting my license plates. I’d replaced the front with a $7.93, eBay-purchased, vintage Canadian Northwest Territories, red-and-white polar-bear-shaped collectible plate, last valid in 1973, and the rear with a New York State plate that read INPOL144, valid, suggestive, meaningless, and covered with a Specterguard antiphoto radar reflective shield. In the event we were caught by police, my situation would be far worse than back home. European traffic and criminal law were vastly different. I could be detained for days, even weeks, while a magistrate prepared charges. My car could be impounded and auctioned off before I was released and could bid on it.
Except for the loss of time and money, speeding tickets would be irrelevant. France and Spain didn’t have DMV moving-violation-point reciprocity treaties with any American state, and fines could be paid on the spot with a credit card.
If I hurt or killed anyone—life as I knew it would be over.
I hoped the presence of my long-distance, almost-ex-girlfriend/lover-but-who-was-such-a-good-friend-she-was-still-coming copilot, Amanda Kinsley, would cheer up any cops who might stop us. We’d met in L.A. when she’d seen me wearing a Team Polizei jacket with a bright orange Gumball patch, asked how many I’d done, then volunteered her services. Kinsley, the head concierge at a five-star hotel in Los Angeles, quickly procured voluminous research on European and Moroccan law, geography, projected fuel stops and pump octane levels, high-end tire stores, BMW service centers, and the most-likely-but-still-secret Gumball checkpoints.
She was clever, meticulous, excellent with maps, and never lost her temper.
She looked fantastic not only in the RCMP’s bright red tunic, jodhpurs, tall boots and campaign hat, but also in Team Polizei’s new-for-2004 white leather Svenska Motorvag Polis jackets, and in our lightweight-for-summer, black Tasmanian Highway Patrol uniforms.
She couldn’t drive stick, but she was my first line of defense against a speeding ticket or arrest.
Disaster loomed in Morocco, the quality of its road network eliciting only laughter from U.S. State Department offices in Washington and Rabat, and there were but two BMW dealers in the country—in the capital and the centrally located city of Meknes—in the unlikely event we broke down nearby. The Gumball would pass through for less than 48 hours.
If anything went wrong, we’d be stranded.
The Weis patted me on the back. “Relax, what do your little friends online say?”
“Some guys say Torquenstein’s going balls out, first into checkpoints, and to get the Spirit Trophy at the same time, but—”
“Aliray, did you really think you’re the only guy serious about this?”
“Well…the fans say Kenworthy can’t be beat.”
“Listen,” said The Weis, “this is all meaningless without real rules and time cards.”
“But there’s a code of honor…seriously…even if not everyone knows what it is. Kenworthy probably could be first every time, if he felt like it, but he doesn’t…and people respect him as the best.”
The Weis walked away, slowly paced around my living room, then took a seat at the bar facing me. “Aliray…why are you doing this again?”
“I have to show the flag. Kenworthy will be there, and Schmitz.”
“And this Rawlings guy isn’t going?”
“No,” I said. “Hardly any Americans are. Everyone’s freaked out about Morocco…breakdowns, carjackings, and it’s an Arab country, but my Moroccan friends said not to worry…they love Americans.”
“Read BBC.com, tough guy. You don’t wanna break down outside a major city. The king wasn’t elected, and there’re some unhappy people in the desert. Have a good time impressing your secret racer buddies.”
“The Weis, there’ll never be another one like this. Africa? C’mon, you gotta admit it’s nuts. I mean, it’s way more ‘once in a lifetime’ than San Fran to Miami.”
“Like I said”—The Weis deployed his most disapproving tone—“have a good time.”
“I’ll be careful…everyone loves Canadians.”
“You better hope so, because that red jacket and hat make you look like an idiot.”
“But no one’s gonna arrest me in Europe for impersonating a Mountie!”
The Weis, bored with my rationalizations, glanced once again at Torquenstein’s website. “So…if there’s no winning per se, and you’re just showing the flag, what’s the point? What if this Vanity Fair guy makes you look like a complete idiot? I mean, you’re pretty easy to make fun of, smart guy.”
“If I can speak for the intelligent, rational, normal people who do Gumball, and especially if I have a safe, professional drive and get better, I can pitch sponsors for the next one.”
“For 2005?” He stared, as if my doing a third rally had never occurred to him. “Aliray, I’ve said it before, but you really are crazy.”
Only a very unusual person could or would commit utterly—as I had—to Gumballing as if it were a professional motor-sport event. One had to have time, money, and, most of all, serious motivation bordering on a deeper psychological problem.
Torquenstein appeared to exceed me in all three. And The Driver would be watching.
HOTEL GEORGE V PARKING GARAGE
GUMBALL START DAY
1530 HOURS (APPROX)
The RCMP M5 wouldn’t turn over.
Kenworthy rolled past.
If all had gone as planned, we, having parked in approximately twentieth position, would already have pulled out and entered the line of cars slowly spiraling up the ramp, out of the garage, and into the prestart parade, and I, having lived in Paris, could have used my superior knowledge of the eighth arrondissement’s streets to cut ahead, advancing up the grid before the flag drop beneath the Trocadero.
Who did I know with jumper cables?
“Kinsley?” I said nervously, sweat rolling off my brow onto the wool RCMP tunic. We both suffered in the heat of a dozen cars idling two unventilated levels belowground. Kinsley was also afflicted by a mild but intensifying flu, and with futile sympathy I saw as she approached—with eager eyes and a forced smile—the unbalanced steps of one trying to delay necessary bed rest.
“Any better?”
“I’ll make it,” she said quietly. “What’s…wrong? You look—”
“The battery’s dead.”
“Alex,” she said, my shame reflected in her glare, “with all the stuff we packed, tell me you brought jumper cables. Didn’t this happen last year?”
I glanced at the police lights on the roof. “Yes,” I said with self-directed anger, “and it happened for the same reason. Kinsley…I think you have a better chance at getting cables than me, and keep an eye out for Ross or his copilot, Emma; they might only be one level up.”
She headed off without a word.
The last car of the main pack passed us by. Except for the occasional straggler and those disabled by more serious problems, we were alone.
CHAPTER 17
The Unluckiest Lamborghini Owner in the World
WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 2004
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br /> AUTOROUTE A63/N10 SOUTHBOUND
5 MILES TO SPANISH BORDER
GUMBALL + 1
SOMETIME BEFORE DAWN
I was exhausted. Kinsley’s flu was worsening. We’d run out of gas. We’d gotten lost. George and Julian had slept through virtually the entire ordeal.
“Kinsley, how far to Madrid?”
“Garmin says…300 miles.”
My phone rang, startling me. “Team Polizei,” I answered.
“Roy! It’s…we…south…police—”
“Can you speak up? Who is this?”
“Cops…took the lot…black Lambo…ahead three…threatened—”
Then I lost the signal. “Couldn’t hear a thing,” I said, “just ‘cops’ and ‘Lambo.’ Here’s a gas station, let’s be safe this time.”
Kinsley and the others stayed in the car while I inserted my Visa card into the pump. We were far behind the main pack. Maybe even last.
Nine hundred miles hadn’t seemed that bad—10 to 12 hours with no navigational mistakes—but every stressful hour spent lost was an emotionally and physically debilitating fatigue multiplier. I had no backup driver.
Something pattered against the metal awning over the pump. Rain—the enemy of speed.
Suddenly a high-pitched engine flared behind me. I turned and stared, stunned, as a bright red Gumball-stickered Porsche 996 turbo pulled up to the neighboring pump.
Somehow, someone in a very good car was behind us.
Two women stepped out, a redhead peering around the pump and waving.
“Alex!!!” she yelled. “Oh my God, it’s great to see you!”
“M-Trouble?” We ran toward each other and hugged. “Nice car,” I said, “but I didn’t see you in Paris!”
“It was a mess back there, but the car? Joe sold it to me!”
“Macari?”
“Yup! It’s been a tough leg. I heard the police stopped a lot of cars before Mas-du-Clos—”
“Wow,” I said. I guess two girls in a red Porsche can get away with almost anything in France. Have you seen Kenworthy or Torquenstein?”
“Hardly seen anyone, but you know Rory in the black Gallardo? At my last gas stop he told me the police stopped him so many times that if he’s stopped again, they’re taking the car!”
“Permanently?”
“That’s France!”
“M-Trouble, that’s what you get for Gumballing in a Lambo with temp plates.”
We both turned our heads at the sound of an oncoming car. It sounded like a sports car, but the whine of its engine and the growl of its exhaust approached too slowly for it to be a Gumballer. A pair of bright headlights appeared beyond the gas station and entrance. A low black shape cruised past very slowly.
“Alison, was that a—”
“Black Gallardo? Guess who!”
There was only one thing to do.
AUTOROUTE A63/N10 SOUTHBOUND
2 MILES TO SPANISH BORDER
I had to catch him.
91
I was pretty sure the speed limit was 130 kilometers per hour, about 80 mph. The Gallardo had passed the station very slowly.
110
He couldn’t get caught. The police would take his car. All he had to do was make it to the border.
126
“Kinsley, how far to the Spanish border?”
“Garmin says…1 or 2 miles.”
I spotted a pair of rear running lights ahead, close to the ground.
“Kinsley, camcorder ready?”
“It’s on.”
George stirred. “What’s up, Alex?”
“We’re chasing someone down.”
“Cool.”
There he is…at 81.
I matched his speed—the driver clearly desperate to save his brand-new, paper-plated Lamborghini Gallardo from seizure and the outright loss of $175,000.
And he was so close to escaping France.
“Everyone get ready.”
Team Polizei’s original raison d’être was the avoidance of tickets and arrest while racing, and the new-for-2004 installation of grille-mounted lights and sirens had proven very effective in cutting through Parisian rush-hour traffic, but I’d long believed that in the unfortunate event we fell behind, such gear, if used on other Gumballers in a Polizei Shock-und-Fear Strategy, would allow us to pass Gumballers who would otherwise never allow it.
It was inconceivable that I would ever do this to a friend, but to someone I didn’t know, someone fearful of losing his brand-new Lamborghini cruising at or under the speed limit, in a tail-between-his-legs saunter to the Spanish border, only a mile or 2 away, where he would certainly accelerate to 150 mph or more, I had absolutely no choice.
81
The Gallardo was now three car lengths away.
“PA system’s on?” I asked Kinsley.
“PA system is on.”
The Gallardo was now two car lengths away. I signaled Kinsley to flip down and activate the visor-mounted yellow lights. I pressed the steering-wheel tunnel switch for the white strobes concealed in our headlights. The Gallardo’s brake lights came on.
“Awwww yes!” Kinsley squealed.
“We got him!” I said.
“Get him to stop,” George said in an uncharacteristically aggressive tone.
I reached for the public-address system’s handset, and in what little French I could remember without laughing, ignoring all rules of grammar, in the most authoritative voice I could muster, I said, “ARRETE LA VOITURE…A LA DROITE.”
Whether the driver understood or not, the Gallardo slowed and moved onto the right shoulder.
“Awww,” George said with great satisfaction, “that’s so beautiful.”
“Yeesssssss!” said Kinsley.
The Gallardo came to a stop. I stopped the RCMP M5 one car length behind him.
“ARRETE LE MOTEUR DE VOTRE VOITURE.”
“Try to get them out of the car,” said George. “That would be funny.”
How can he not recognize a blue M5 covered with stickers? I shook my head. “ARRETE LE MOTEUR.”
“They don’t speak French,” said Kinsley.
I heard someone shouting. Was the driver calling out at us? I lowered my window.
“—don’t speak French!” came a faint voice from the Gallardo.
“It’s Eubanks,” said George, referring to Chris Eubanks, the retired boxer.
I reached for the handset. “METTEZ LES MAINS SUR LE VOLANT DE LA VOITURE.”
“Should I go to the side of the car?” asked Kinsley.
“SORTEZ LA VOITURE…A GAUCHE.”
“I don’t speak French!” the driver yelled.
I pressed the PA switch, and in what little German I knew said, “SPRECHEN SIE DEUTSCHE?”
“No!” the driver yelled.
Kinsley and I giggled while George and Julian tried to contain themselves behind us.
There was still one more thing I could do, and in my best ever impression of a French gendarme trying to speak English, I said, “TURN OFF ZEE ENGEENE OF ZEE CAR.”
The driver didn’t comply, but he did fumble with his visor, clearly looking for his car documents.
“PLACE YOUR HAND BRAKE.”
“Oh, man,” said George.
“ZEE DRIVER PLEASE STEP OUT OF ZEE VEE-HI-KUL!”
The Gallardo door opened to reveal a gorgeous beige leather panel, now being spattered with rain.
“Yes!” said Kinsley.
A tall slender thirtysomething guy stepped out, documents in hand, wearing a green shirt and track pants, looking exactly like the young banker-on-vacation I presumed him to be. I thought I’d seen him with Jodie Kidd at the prestart party, but the darkness made it hard to be sure.
He started walking toward us.
The driver crossed in front of our lights and toward Kinsley’s window.
“PLEASE BRING YOUR DOCUMENTS TO ZEE CAR.”
He must be close enough to see our stickers. He hesitated. Kinsley lowered her wi
ndow. Doesn’t he see our red Mountie jackets? He advanced once again, approaching her window just as we burst into uproarious laughter.
“YOU HAVE BEEN CAPTURED BY GUMBALL 144!”
“You,” he said upon seeing the camcorder in Kinsley’s hand, beginning to grasp the magnitude of the situation, any relief at our not being gendarmes outweighed by shame and anger, “are such a fucking loser.”
“I’m sorry,” I said over my passengers’ laughter. “What’s your name?”
“My name is…blow me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “really, man, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry, motherfucker.” He angrily stormed back to his car while I cackled along with my passengers.
Once this story got out, I was sure no one would try to outrun a cop for the rest of Gumball 2004. Alternatively, if Gumballers thought the flashing lights behind them were mine and they made a run for it—there was no telling the legal ramifications.
I’d done my part to ensure the safe driving of all Gumballers.
When we arrived in Madrid—after befriending the real Spanish police at our next gas stop—we learned that the overnight checkpoint was 370 miles farther, in Marbella.
I couldn’t believe I’d driven it alone. George and Julian had slept through most of it. Kinsley, despite her worsening condition, had remained awake. By the time we lay down for a preparty catnap, after driving 1,283 miles in something like 17 or 18 hours, I thought I might be in worse shape than she was.
We staggered through that night’s party drunk on DayQuil, then collapsed in bed. I stared at the ceiling and listened to Kinsley breathing laboriously beside me.
I sorted through the rumors I’d heard at the party, during which Gumballers—having driven 24 hours or more—continued to arrive.
We’d been lucky. French police roadblocks had stopped dozens of Gumballers, seized multiple cars, stranding many who’d had to hitch rides in what few cars had more than two seats, or fly to Marbella. Numerous drivers had paid 750-euro fines—some more than once—for the crime of driving while Gumballing, a euphemism for having stickers on an expensive car.
The Driver Page 15
