The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  Several cars were immobilized after their drivers filled them with diesel.

  A Saudi-plated, million-dollar, Gemballa-modified Porsche Cayenne turbo—hand-waxed by a team of four the night before departure—had broken down.

  So had a million-dollar red Ferrari Enzo, as if that were a surprise.

  But one rumor kept me awake.

  CHAPTER 18

  I Can’t Believe the King of Morocco Did That

  FRIDAY, MAY 7, 2004

  HOTEL MANSOUR EDDHABI MARRAKECH

  PARKING LOT/PREDEPARTURE STAGING

  GUMBALL + 3

  0850 HOURS

  We were precisely halfway through the 2004 Gumball. King Mohammed VI had lifted all speed limits and traffic laws for the 48-hour duration of our visit. We’d arrived in the port of Tangier 17 hours earlier. To my relief, George and Julian chose to escape the RCMP M5’s cramped rear for rides in other cars—taking their luggage with them.

  Departure was in 10 minutes. I’d warned Jim, our quiet, fortyish, shaggy long-haired English TV cameraman of the day, not to be late.

  “Alex, tell me you fixed the GPS.”

  “It wasn’t broken,” I said. “I’d loaded the wrong map set.”

  We were in approximately thirtieth position. Kenworthy was farther up. So was Torquenstein. Today was the day I caught them.

  “Here comes Jim,” said Kinsley, “right on time.”

  HIGHWAY P24

  NORTHEAST SUBURBS OF MARRAKECH

  282 MILES TO FEZ CHECKPOINT

  “Livestock ahead!” Kinsley screamed.

  I veered left into oncoming traffic—narrowly missing the donkey-driven vegetable cart—then jerked the wheel right just before colliding head-on with a horse-drawn cart.

  “Jesus!” I yelled. I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my blue NYPD uniform shirt. “That,” I exhaled, “was the closest one yet. I can’t believe no one’s hit an animal.”

  “Yet! Look, there they are!” Kinsley pointed at the Gumballers ahead, fighting through traffic like snakes surging through a pipe. I downshifted to third, lunging forward and around a dense group of donkeys, horses, bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles, stray dogs, and commuters in dusty hatchbacks.

  A trio of mustached Moroccan police—all in pressed royal-blue uniforms, double-breasted jackets, light blue shirts, black ties, shiny boots, bright white belts, shoulder straps, and hats—enthusiastically waved us on.

  I was driving 74 mph in a densely populated urban area. Legally.

  We were moving up the grid.

  Kinsley leaned right in her seat. “Traffic circle ahead!”

  77

  “Keep those warnings coming! We don’t need a North African Bonfire of the Vanities!”

  HIGHWAY P24

  APPROXIMATELY 100 MILES NORTHEAST OF MARRAKECH

  LATE MORNING

  The convoy’s tight columns uncoiled, lunging and fighting two and sometimes three cars abreast—one column against thankfully infrequent oncoming traffic, forcing locals onto the left shoulder, the other onto the right shoulder when debris didn’t force quick reentry into the one legal lane.

  “More livestock ahead!” Kinsley yelled.

  121

  We exchanged waves with a Moroccan farmer cradling a small dog in one arm.

  A pair of gray-clad Moroccan police stood back from the right shoulder, repeatedly thrusting their long white traffic gloves toward the horizon.

  Toward Fez.

  The Gumballers ahead accelerated as traffic thinned, yellow fields stretching far off to both sides.

  125

  “Wow,” I said, “these guys are really booting.”

  “You gonna stay with them?”

  “Sure.”

  We’d moved far up the grid, but Kenworthy and Torquenstein were still ahead.

  129

  “Watch out,” said Kinsley, “left, on the left!”

  Jim’s long, black hair, and pale arm loomed large in my left rearview mirror—he was hanging out the window, shooting the black 360 Spyder one car length behind us in the left lane, poised to pass.

  Suddenly a car appeared to the 360’s left—on the LEFT shoulder—passed the 360, and veered right toward us, still accelerating, turning in too tightly, the car beginning to spin—

  “Kinsley! Hang on!”

  —Just 6 feet ahead of us, flashing past our front bumper at a 90-degree angle before it rolled into the field to our right.

  “Oh my God,” said Kinsley, looking back at the long geyser of smoke and dust.

  I pulled over on the right shoulder, a long line of Gumballers stopping behind me, and we ran to where the car had come to rest.

  Gumball no. 57, the white-and-orange-striped Reyland Cosworth—a highly modified, race-prepared, 700-horsepower, 194 mph–capable Ford Escort with a roll cage—lay on its side, several hundred feet off the road, luggage and debris strewn in long colorful ellipses across the field. The Cosworth was the only pure race car on Gumball. Its crew even wore track-grade neck-protection devices—which might have been why this hadn’t been the first time I’d seen them make a risky pass like this. I’d tried to give them a wide berth anytime they came close.

  Dozens of Gumballers surrounded the car as we approached. The Moroccan police arrived within minutes.

  There was nothing for us to do. We stood among a crowd of silent Gumballers watching emergency personnel tend to the copilot lying prone, blood streaming from his nose. According to the police, he’d been unbelted and thrown from the car. He’d apparently suffered no more than a bloody nose and one or more broken ribs.

  The driver, a lanky Englishman with a single line of blood running down his pale, shaved head, stalked the scene, ensuring no one stole any of their personal items lying in the field.

  I knew it had been his fault. As far as I knew, this was the first-ever major accident on Gumball, and although I was relieved their injuries weren’t serious, everyone was lucky to see them out of the rally. He’d almost killed us.

  I held Kinsley close. “We’ll take it easy from here on.”

  We joined a long slow line of Gumballers pulling away from the accident. Laggards who came up quickly upon the accident slowed, then joined our pensive convoy. No one needed to explain.

  HIGHWAY P24 NORTHBOUND

  MIDDAY

  “Kinsley, any idea where we are?”

  The road gently dipped as if on its hind legs, then lifted its neck, its spine curving upward into the Atlas Mountains, the asphalt rising and curling around its golden cliffs—their rare split unveiling dark green patchworks planted in the yellow desert, far below.

  “Look who it is!” Two black coupes—a Bentley GT and a BMW 850—sat parked side by side. “We have to stop,” said Kinsley, “and take a picture.”

  The GT-Car no. 09…belonged to well-known veteran Michael Ross.

  The 850 belonged to Mark Quinn, a gentleman Gumballer of the highest order, a veteran of 2003 I’d chatted with but overlooked in my pursuit of Kenworthy and Rawlings. Quinn was a handsome, understated, fiftyish London real-estate developer who, had he not been so quick to flash a childlike grin, resembled James Mason at his peak.

  They waved as we skidded to a dusty halt.

  “Mr. Quinn,” I said, “it’s good to see you safe.”

  “And you, Mr. Roy, and you.”

  “You know,” I announced to all, “I still can’t believe the king of Morocco—”

  “I know,” said Ross, “but maybe you should take a moment.”

  Quinn nodded, looking out from our perch. Kinsley wiped her nose and inhaled the crisp, cool, fresh mountain air.

  We stood and looked out over the green, gold, and blue horizon, grateful for our first-ever quiet, motionless minutes together.

  HIGHWAY P24 NORTHBOUND

  APPROACHING KHENIFRA

  APPROXIMATELY 100 MILES TO FEZ CHECKPOINT

  EARLY AFTERNOON

  134

  Kinsley sighed. “Guess you got over that accident.
”

  “Too fast? I can slow down.”

  “The road’s decent…be my guest.”

  My phone rang. It was Julie, Max’s wife, Gumball’s Number Two.

  “Alex, Alex!” she yelled from a windy convertible. “Can you hear me?”

  “Barely! Julie, I tried to call you! There’s been another accid—”

  “I know about the Porsche!”

  “Kinsley”—I cupped my hand over my phone—“did anyone call you about a Porsche crash?” She shook her head and shrugged.

  “Julie, no! A red 360 hit a tractor and—”

  “Alex! Listen! No more speeding! We’re kicking people off who speed—”

  Then the signal cut out.

  HIGHWAY P1 EASTBOUND

  135 MILES EAST OF FEZ

  APPROXIMATELY 65 MILES FROM NADOR PORT FERRY

  LATE AFTERNOON

  A red speck appeared in my rearview mirror.

  “Kinsley, when we left Fez, how close was Torquenstein to being ready to go?”

  149

  “Omigod, did you see him standing on top of his car, throwing stickers at the people until the cops arrived?”

  “No, but it sounds like a classic Torquenstein move. Did he look ready to go?”

  “No,” said Kinsley, “but I think I saw him eating lunch when we arrived.”

  “Holy shit!” I yelled. “You saw him with his mask off?”

  “I didn’t see him, but I saw his wife and some people wearing those Torquenstein shirts, at a table…near the bazaar.”

  “Wait, was his mask on the table? He must have been one of them! What did he look like?”

  “Sorry, Alex, I didn’t know it was that important to you.”

  I hadn’t seen Torquenstein at the Cosworth accident, which meant he’d been ahead, maybe even running with Kenworthy…but Kinsley saw him in Fez, which meant that even once we’d slowed after the accidents, I’d almost caught up with him in Fez, which meant we’d been making great time, despite the accidents.

  I shouldn’t be proud of this.

  Red speck closing the gap, quickly.

  135

  An unidentifiable animal darted across the road.

  “I’m slowing, Kinsley, the road’s starting to suck anyway.”

  120

  “Those lights.” She pointed. “Is that a gas station?”

  “I don’t know…we’re really low now. Not enough to get us to the ferry in Nador. If we miss it, we’re out of Gumball.”

  I slowed to enter the station.

  Red speck approaching fast.

  If Torquenstein was back there, I was seconds from losing the enormous lead I thought I’d had. I checked the mirror one last time before turning into the station.

  Torquenstein’s red Viper roared past—a second’s rush of wind kicking up prior customers’ gas receipts—and disappeared over the hill.

  LOCAL ROAD 19 NORTHBOUND

  40 MILES FROM NADOR PORT FERRY

  “Kinsley…I see a lot of people up ahead.” The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains.

  “Oh, please no,” she said.

  Someone in a black Gumball jumpsuit stood atop a small rise a hundred feet from the left shoulder, a crowd of locals gathered beneath him. A truck had stopped on the right, as had a police car and official-looking white van.

  I stopped, got out, and approached one of the Moroccan bystanders.

  “Who was it?” The man shrugged. “The driver! Where is the driver?”

  “The driver?” he said in French-accented English. “The driver is dead or in jail.”

  I stood on the median stripes, paralyzed, at the exact point where the car had left the road. Then I walked the car’s path. The tire treads pointed diagonally left off the road and into the dirt, debris scattered along a pair of long shallow trenches leading several hundred feet up the low rise.

  A gray-clad police officer approached. “Monsieur!” he said sternly. “Vous parlez français?”

  “Oui,” I said sheepishly, “mais—”

  Someone had been killed. I knew it. I felt it as I had the morning almost exactly three years earlier, when I stood in the shower longer than I ever had—ignoring the ringing phone until emerging naked to answer the fifth call—and was told my father was dead.

  “Oui,” I said to the officer in uncharacteristically faltering French, “je parle français…mais…j’ai oublié comment… I’ve…just forgotten—”

  The officer looked at me, clearly a New York City police officer, on vacation. In uniform.

  “You are American?” he said in excellent English.

  “Er…yes?”

  “Allahu Akbar, we could use your expertise, monsieur,” he said. “Do you know the men in this car?”

  I peered over his shoulder at a single large piece of red debris lying halfway toward the wreck. The crowd separated. I spotted the front half of a red Viper.

  I’d caught up with Torquenstein.

  MONDAY, MAY 10, 2004

  CARLTON INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL BANQUET HALL

  CANNES

  GUMBALL FINISH PARTY

  “And this year’s winners of the Gumball Spirit Trophy are—”

  Gary Lutke and John Docherty—the crew of Gumball no. 112, the “General Lee”–liveried vintage orange Citroën 2CV, possibly the cheapest, oldest car in the rally—won, and they deserved it. Although their car’s maximum speed was 72 mph and the engine rattled like a loose chain saw in a metal box, they completed the route with no tickets, no accidents, and no complaints.

  Adrian Brody, who in his white Porsche turbo had briefly fallen for my Blue Light Special in Spain, claimed “victory” after leaving Barcelona early to guarantee his first-place arrival before the film-festival crowds.

  Kim Schmitz, after taking a shortcut through a crowd of pedestrians on the Cannes boardwalk, also claimed “victory.”

  Kenworthy, who had led in first-place stage finishes, was in jail, but expected to be released within 48 hours.

  Team Polizei received the Gumball Style Trophy.

  Despite the rumors of his death, despite the chase-car video showing his tire blowout and three midair flips, Torquenstein was alive.

  I’d forged a new and potentially important friendship with Ross. I was tired, and unsure if I’d ever hear from The Driver unless and until I made a spectacular display of competitive aggression. But that would have to wait another year.

  Someone tapped my shoulder from behind. “Excuse me…Alex?”

  I turned and faced a short, boyish-faced Gumballer roughly my age, tired but friendly eyes peering out from the bandage around the top of his head, around his neck a white makeshift sling in which one arm rested, a dangling hand holding the sunglasses he’d just removed.

  “Hi.” I paused. “Wait…Torquen—?”

  “Hey,” he said quietly, “I’m Jerry.”

  Part III Bullrun

  CHAPTER 19

  The Bed of My Enemy’s Avalanche

  FRIDAY, MAY 14, 2004

  NEW YORK CITY

  “Alex, Rawlings is definitely coming.”

  It was Handsome Dave, aka David Green, now cofounder of the Bullrun, a six-day rally from L.A. to Miami. I wanted to enter, but the cost, logistics, and stress of doing two rallies in one summer had seemed impossible until—

  “Rawlings, Alex—”

  “Tell him I’m coming. Tell him.”

  “Kinsley, are you sure you won’t lose your job for this?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her employer, the Ritz-Carlton Marina Del Ray, offered a near-perfect solution. Guests who booked a suite received a complimentary courtesy car during their stay, specifically a Mercedes E, S, or SL500. All were five-liter, V8-engined, which would be perfect, and although the $90,000 SL was but a two-seater, I could make the sacrifice. Suites’ daily rates began at $550, far below the cost of actually renting an E, S or SL500 for the same period.

  My perusal of the hotel’s courtesy-car contract ma
de it clear neither the Ritz-Carlton Corporation nor Mercedes-Benz had ever dealt with the likes of Team Polizei, or the document would have included mileage restrictions, and it would have specified to which Ritz-Carlton the car had to be returned.

  Marina Del Ray was half an hour from the Bullrun start line, in Hollywood. The Ritz-Carlton in Miami Beach, was 3,000 miles away. Bellhop jackets wouldn’t be a problem.

  “The Ritz Merc is a terrible idea,” said Vegas “Matchmaker to the Stars” Mike. Mike had a heart condition, and although we’d only convoyed together briefly on the 2003 Gumball, as soon as I heard he’d checked into a Miami hospital the day after the finish, I got his number from Maximillion.

  “I don’t forget things like that, Alex. Things like that make it clear who your friends are. I tell you what, why don’t you fly here, pick out one of my cars, and take that on Bullrun.”

  “Here where?”

  “Vegas,” said Vegas Mike. “Trust me, I’ve got something you’ll like.”

  “Mike—”

  “Call me Jesse.”

  SATURDAY, JUNE 5, 2004

  HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA MANN’S CHINESE THEATRE BULLRUN START LINE

  “Herr Roy!” said my Neue Master Co-Piloten Nicholas Frankl, Three-Time Gumball veteran and 2002 Gumball Spirit Trophy Winner, Three-Time Hungarian Olympic Team Bobsledder, automotive journalist, semiprofessional race-car driver, man-about-L.A., and son of Andrew Frankl. Frankl senior was founder of Car magazine and, according to Brock Yates’s memoir Cannonball!, veteran of the last Cannonball Run in 1979. Nicholas and I briefly met on the 2003 Gumball, again at the 2003 Gumball L.A. movie premiere, and again at the end of the 2004 Gumball in Cannes.

  Nicholas’s skills and pedigree made him precisely the type of recruit I’d pick were I The Driver. Frankl or his father might already know him, which is why Nicholas didn’t Gumball the way I did—he considered it a vacation.

  This chapter of my quest would have two prongs—beat Rawlings, and earn Frankl’s respect. I needed to succeed at only one and my phone would ring. I was sure of it. It might even be Frankl himself, or his father. Twenty-five years had passed since the last Cannonball, and it would make perfect sense if a secret successor race stayed in the family.