The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  Maybe he was right.

  Handsome Dave called a few days later.

  “Roy! How are you, mate? Gotta get back on your feet, man! The world’s best race drivers have all had a few spills.”

  “But they didn’t have to pay for the damages.”

  “I’m sure a guy like you has some tricks up your sleeve.”

  “Why are we talking?”

  “We’re planning another Bullrun—”

  “That’s like asking a one-legged solider to get back in the trench.”

  “—in September, London to Ibiza. Three days, a perfect little trip. Bring the M5.”

  “It’s not going to happen. I can’t ship the M5 in time, and I can’t afford to ship the M5 in time. I need some rest.”

  “All right, Alex, but it won’t be the same without you. Malmstrom is coming—”

  “I can’t.” Malmstrom. But there was no way.

  “Very well. I’m calling Jesse next. I’ll let you know if he’s in a better mood.”

  My phone rang again fifteen minutes later. “Hey, Alex,” said Jesse/Vegas Mike, an anvil suddenly chained to the phone I struggled to hold against my ear.

  “Jesse, man, long time no speak, I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

  “You got five minutes?

  “For you? Of course. I’m ready for the address, and I’ll FedEx the check today.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about. You see, Alex, I like you. I’ve noticed something really interesting about you. You always answer the phone, even from restricted numbers. When you’re involved in nightlife in Vegas, people always want something. People always answer the phone when they want something, but they never answer the phone when you need something. People who always answer the phone have nothing to hide. That’s how you know who your friends are. After you crashed the Lambo, the first words out of your mouth were ‘I’ll pay for it, whatever it costs.’ That meant a lot, and now you’re answering the phone. I know you saw my name on the caller ID. That means you’re my friend. I don’t gamble money, I gamble on people, and I was right about you.

  “So, Alex, here’s what I’m saying. We both agree you owe me this money, and we both know the damage is about thirty grand. Thirty grand might mean shit to a lot of these rally guys, but I know it’s a lot of money for Alex Roy. So I’m gonna make you an offer.

  “Because I consider you a good friend, I’m gonna put the accident on my insurance, and all you have to cover is the deductible. I’m gonna give you four conditions, and if you break them, I won’t be mad, I’ll be hurt, and you can’t imagine how I’d take that. First, if anyone ever asks about what happened between us, you tell them. Any asshole who comes along and says I screwed you, you tell them the truth. We’re friends, and friends don’t screw each other. Second, after you put that check in the mail, I never want you to bring it up again. We’ll never stay friends if you’re always feeling guilty about me going easy on you and I don’t want that. Third is I want you to get back out there and drive again. Everyone loves the German police shtick, and it wouldn’t be the same next year without you. I’ll even lend you the CL again. Fourth is that I want you to be my copilot on the Bullrun Ibiza in September. I’ll pay for it, whatever it costs.”

  A few days later, while surfing the rally forums at work, I saw a post directing people to a new discussion thread:

  GUMBALLING OLD SCHOOL—These Gumballers aren’t so tough…check out the trailer for this doc about the real guys back in the day: www. 32hours7minutes.com.

  I clicked on the link. A rapid montage began, CB-radio chatter over vintage in-car film footage. “Hey, you westbounders up there, I’ve got a sports car coming—”

  Then two seconds of black-and-white aerial footage of a car on a highway.

  “—doing about 95 miles an hour!”

  Four numbers flashed on-screen: 1983.

  Then a bearded man in his fifties, interviewed quite recently, said, “We were able to cross the country in as many hours as our pioneer forefathers had taken in weeks.”

  Then another graphic. 2,874 miles.

  Then Bobby Unser, the retired racing champion, appeared and said, “To go from New York to California in 32 hours? It’s unbelievable.”

  I sat paralyzed until the trailer ended.

  A secret race in 1983? Thirty-two hours, 7 minutes? My quest was not nearly over.

  Googling director Cory Welles returned nothing. I e-mailed him asking when the film would come out, then left my office without saying good-bye. I walked home in a daze. I began logging the 70 hours of in-car video I’d taken in the prior fifteen months. I had more to learn before I drove again.

  Cory e-mailed me a few days later. He was two years into compiling historical footage and interviews with the drivers, and needed money to complete the film. I asked for the prospectus, which arrived by FedEx the next morning. I ignored the thick legal documents, and began reading two items more valuable to me than a winning lottery ticket. The one-page plot summary read:

  October 15, 1983. The sun is setting, the gas is topped, and it’s time for one last run in the most outrageous road race in American history. Formerly the Cannonball Run, the U.S. Express gathers the best of the best, to speed nonstop from New York to Los Angeles, in a race where the only rule is there are no rules. These real-life, 32-hour outlaws drive over the limit and under the radar with one thing in their sights: becoming the fastest humans to ever cross the continent. Irreverent and gripping, this feature documentary chronicles the last great American outlaw race.

  There was a photocopy of a twenty-one-year-old newspaper clipping showing two men, Doug Turner and David Diem, trophy in hand, standing in front of a Ferrari 308, winners of the 1983 U.S. Express…new world record…32 hours, 7 minutes.

  There was only one way to learn more before the film came out. I e-mailed Cory asking to meet in person as soon as possible. I was ready to underwrite the film’s completion, whatever the cost. We set a meeting for September 18, twenty-four hours before I would leave for London to face Malmstrom.

  Six weeks earlier I’d faced catastrophe.

  I didn’t believe in coincidence or divine intervention, but once again it seemed the stars had aligned in my favor, the sky clear of portents, until Vegas Mike called on September 2 to say he couldn’t make it…because of his heart condition.

  CHAPTER 21

  Cory

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2004

  NEW YORK CITY

  Cory Welles’s name flashed on my caller ID, the number preprogrammed in anticipation of his arrival from L.A. that afternoon and our first, casual meeting that night at a local lounge.

  “Hey!” said a young female voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Cory! Who else would it be?”

  Cory’s…a…woman.

  I didn’t know why I was surprised. Strangely, irrationally perhaps, in the haze through which my quest advanced, I figured Cory Welles—the person who might hold the key to The Driver—passionate about cars and the history of such races, willing even to lose money on a project dear to his heart, had to be a man.

  “Alex, you were expecting a guy?”

  “To be honest, yes. I’m really sorry.”

  “This always happens. Where we meeting up?”

  “I’ll text you the bar’s address. How will I recognize you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll recognize you. If not, I’ll be the hot one.”

  She stopped me after I’d walked past her and doubled back.

  Cory Welles was thirty years old, stood five-foot-two, had a Farrah Fawcett mane of dirty-blond hair, a passion for yoga, a brown belt in two forms of martial arts I’d never heard of, and no patience for bullshit. She knew one of the drivers who’d set the 32:07 record and who, along with her father and stepfather, had invested her life savings to make this movie.

  She was one of the most beautiful and fascinating women I’d ever met.

  “Alex, you have no idea how
many tough-guy car people e-mail me about this movie. Seriously, everyone and their brother says they’ve done it, or done better, or come close, or that it’s all bullshit.”

  “Is it?”

  “No. I heard the stories growing up. It all sounded so crazy, so one day I asked my stepdad’s friend Doug if it was true.”

  “Who’s Doug?”

  “Doug Turner. As in Doug Turner and David Diem. They’re the ones who set the record.”

  “Wow,” she said, surveying the floor full of electronics I was inventorying before my flight to London. I’d left everything out until the last minute specifically so she would see it before I saw any footage. “I didn’t know you were that serious about this rally thing.”

  “I’m one of the few.”

  “How many other guys are like you? The Gumball site makes it seem like a bunch of guys partying.”

  “I’d say…there’re about five or six.”

  She pondered that for a moment, then set up her DV deck to show me the footage.

  “This is really rough,” she said. “What you’re about to see are interviews with some of the drivers, and some aerial footage. The guy with the beard and glasses is Rick Doherty, he was the organizer.”

  She hit play, and for the next 20 minutes I memorized every name I heard and saw. I sat in frozen silence when it ended.

  “So what do you think?” she said.

  “How much money do you need?”

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2004

  IBIZA, SPAIN

  “—and then,” I said over the crackling Ibiza–to–Los Angeles connection, “Malmstrom invited me to spend the weekend at his château north of London.”

  “Hang on,” said Cory. “You beat a Ferrari F40 halfway across Europe?”

  “London to Ibiza.”

  Photographic Insert

  NEAR THE END. Dad in 1999, one year before he passed away.

  MY FIRST CAR WAS A PORSCHE. Mom holds me in the Targa in late 1971.

  MY FIRST ACCIDENT AVOIDANCE CLASS. And first tow.

  MY FIRST RACE. The instructor has already fled in fear.

  THE 356. I inherited my love of fast cars from Dad, shown here with his Porsche 356 in the late 1950s.

  THE TARGA. Mom with Dad’s Porsche 911 Targa in early 1971. She’d been a stewardess in the swinging sixties.

  THE POLIZEI BMW M5. The M5’s Gumball 3000 debut in 2003 in San Francisco. I’m wearing the vintage 1950s Chaparral racing outfit.

  MY ENEMY’S AVALANCHE. The Chevy Avalanche of fierce competitor Richard Rawlings, sporting twin spare gas cans, parked in front of San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel before the start of Gumball ’03.

  YEEEEEHAWWWW! Rawlings celebrating Bullrun 2004 Victory.

  MAHER. Team Polizei copilot, Dave Maher, at the wheel during Gumball ’03. Maher was an experienced track racer—I had a lot to learn from him.

  HEART ATTACK TIME. Driving 140 mph with the “tire defect” warning flashing during Gumball ’03.

  THE HEAD OF THE SNAKE. As seen in the M5’s mirror, McCloud’s Ferrari F50 is on the left, Kenworthy’s Porsche GT2 on the right.

  MEIN GOTT! We found out from BMW Roadside Assistance in Germany that Reifenpanne was German for tire defect. Proof we didn’t imagine it.

  OUT OF GAS. Maher is amazed that Rawlings has left one of his spare jerrycans for us in Florida. Tough competitor—good guy.

  GUMBALL! Team Polizei made its mark as Maher and I won the coveted 2003 Spirit of the Gumball Trophy. Note the attractive fake gold Gumball chains given to us upon arrival at the Miami finish line.

  TORQUENSTEIN, I PRESUME? With Jerry “Torquenstein” Reynolds and Eric “Dr. Gruene” Ward.

  THE MOUNTIES ALWAYS GET THEIR MAN! Amanda Kinsley and I amused the Madrid police during Gumball ’04.

  OUR EVASION UND ARREST AVOIDANCE STRATEGY IS KAPUT! The Arizona Department of Public Safety demonstrates how real police slap on the iron bracelets during Bullrun USA ’04.

  GUT CUFFS. Die macht legendary Nicholas Frankl praises the quality of American metallurgy prior to my visit to the inside of the paddy wagon.

  VEGAS MIKE. And his yellow Lamborghini Murcielago, prior to my smashing it into the wall at the track during a Bullrun USA ’04 pit stop.

  “THAT’S MY SON!” Mom cheers Team Polizei at the Gumball ’05 start line in London.

  ATENCIÓN! The M5 sporting Spanish Guardia Civil Contra-GumballVenganza Interceptacion livery in London prior to the start of Gumball ’05.

  ROSS AND NINE. Michael Ross and Jon “Nine” Goodrich discuss potential damage to Ross’s Bentley after the traffic cone incident during Gumball ’05.

  SPENCER. Spencer Bourne and his Porsche 996 Turbo Race-spec X50.

  SCHTAVEN. Steve Jennions, kept us up to date on Spencer’s every move.

  MORLEY. Oliver Morley was secretly working with Spencer to beat Team Polizei to Rome.

  SPENCER ON LEFT! Spencer passes us in heavy traffic on Rome’s Circonvallazione Tiburtina.

  FIRST PLACE. Team Polizei is first to arrive at the Gumball ’05 checkpoint in Vienna.

  POLIZEI MAKEOVER. The last minute selection of Ross’s Bentley over the M5 for Gumball ’06 meant a quick and dirty installation of the necessary Polizei gear.

  NO ROOM TO SPARE. Cohosting the Gumball ’06 TV show meant trading one of the Bentley GT’s rear seats for four professional DV decks…and the two extra car batteries required to run them.

  LAST MINUTE PLANNING. Master pilot Michael Ross and I at the Gumball ’06 start line on London’s Pall Mall minutes before departure.

  OUT OF TIME. Maggie and I at the Gumball ’06 finish line party at the Playboy Mansion in front of Ross’s Bentley.

  MAXIMILLION COOPER. Gumball 3000’s ringleader—with his ubiquitous sunglasses.

  NUMBER 2. Julie Brangstrup, Max’s wife, with Koenigsegg owner, Arthur Chirkinian.

  LONMAN. Rob “Lonman” Kenworthy—the most respected Gumballer of all time.

  MALMSTROM. Gumball legend Peter Malmstrom refuels his Ferrari F40 while I shamelessly brag about beating him.

  EYHAB. The ever upbeat Eyhab with friends Rob and Mike.

  MACARI AND KIDD. Joe Macari with supermodel and professional race car driver Jodie Kidd.

  THEY WERE GIANTS. 1981 U.S. Express winner Mike Digonis and 1982 U.S. Express driver Steve Stander share their wisdom with Nine and me at New York City’s Classic Car Club.

  IF BALLS WERE CASH, SHE’D OWN WALL STREET. The unstoppable Cory Welles checks the M5’s front bumper camera.

  ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK. Another day of staring at Garmin’s MapQuest route planning application.

  SPARE. Rolling the M5’s front spare down New York’s Astor Place mere hours before the final cross-country run.

  HIGH PRESSURE. The enormity of our task finally got to the normally unflappable Maher.

  ABOUT TO CROSS THE RUBICON… Or at least the Hudson as I punch out on the time clock.

  POLIZEI AIR. Pilots Paul “The Weis” Weismann and Keith “The Captain” Baskett.

  CHESS, POLIZEI STYLE. Hiding from the cops in the shadow of an 18-wheeler in Oklahoma during the final cross-country run.

  WINKING AT THE POLICE. The M5 (left), with one headlight out, approaches the police cruiser on the Santa Monica Pier, and…

  passes by it without any trouble. Incredible.

  31:04. We did it—and I couldn’t believe it.

  “Driven by this Malmstrom guy, who’s one of the best? And then he forgave you for insulting him and—”

  “Invited me to his country house for the weekend.”

  “And how did you beat him?”

  “F40s suck in the rain, I sat on his tail all the way through a storm to Paris, and I just happened to know the city a little better, but that’s another story.”

  “Well…congratulations,” said Cory, with whom sharing details of my first unequivocal victory was but an ulterior motive. “The Express guys are mostly friendly now, even those who haven’t seen each other for
years. Good to know your guys are the same way. They sure don’t look it in the videos online. Thanks for your check, by the way, it really means a lot. You wouldn’t believe how many people waste my time just so they can see footage.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m curious. I googled ‘U.S. Express’ and didn’t find anything. I also tried the organizer, Richard Doherty, and Diem and Turner, and there’s basically nothing about them anywhere.”

  “Why do you think I’m making the movie?”

  “All right, then, if the race ran from ’80 to ’83, why did it end? What came after?”

  “Nothing. After Diem and Turner set the record and it got in the news, a lot of the guys were freaked out about press. Doherty thought someone else would pick up the reins in ’84, but no one did.”

  “Cory, you say a lot of the Express drivers were former Cannonballers?”

  “Doherty was…and a couple of others.”

  “And Brock Yates knew about Doherty organizing this?”

  “Yeah, and he tried to stop it.”

  “And you’ve interviewed Doherty at least once, recently. Does he know if anyone else tried to organize a similar race…later? Recently?”