“Dunno, but he was definitely worried about copycats. Everyone was scared someone would get killed on another race that might let anyone in, and then everyone would be screwed.”
“What happened to the other events?”
“There was the Four-ball, and another one, but none as big as the Express.”
I tried to sound nonchalant, but there was no avoiding the question. “So…when can I see more footage, or at least learn more about the Express, especially since you can’t fit everything you’ve got in 90 minutes, right?”
“Alex”—her voice hardened—“no one gets to see anything until I’m done. No one. I’ll be done when I’m done, and that goes for investors, too.”
“Cory…I totally understand, and I’m glad my investment’s in safe hands. Let me ask you this, then, how long before there’s more to see? Three months? Six months?”
“Call it a year. This isn’t some street-racing video. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”
One year meant…September 2005. I couldn’t let a year pass without showing the flag.
Unless the phone rang before the January cutoff for the 2005 Gumball, I’d have to go out again.
But it didn’t. I had to do something spectacular.
Part IV The Golden Age
CHAPTER 22
I Think Those Priests Were Lying
Now one of the world’s few four-time rally veterans, I was on the periphery of an even more exclusive group, among whom respect was accorded by a loose set of rules: Leave on time. Push safely. Pass with respect. Help stricken drivers. Finish well.
Although I had abided by all of these, I remained best known merely for my Team Polizei antics. The Polizei/Rawlings war had unfolded out of sight of the predominantly European veterans. Their respect couldn’t be bought with fragmentary anecdotes.
Then Gumball unintentionally gave me a gift of incalculable value.
Every 2005 Gumball car would be a equipped with an ALK “CoPilot” GPS-enabled cell phone. Gumball’s motivation was to help non-GPS-equipped teams find the checkpoints, an unbelievably real problem given most teams’ failure to purchase even paper maps. But no one given a CoPilot, least of all Gumballers only hours from the kickoff party, was going to read the instruction manual. Expecting them to master its use on the inaugural 835-mile (London–Prague) endurance stage was like expecting a high-schooler to make sweet, beautiful, successful love—on his first try—to a Czech porn goddess.
I knew that no GPS was 100 percent reliable, especially on Gumball, and especially one programmed by topographers ignorant of the necessity of plotting routes around potentially finish-rank crushing interchanges and mobile police roadblocks. Plotting these on the fly, at 100 mph or more, required a navigator as familiar with the GPS as he was with his wife or girlfriend. My solution was to custom-program my top-of-the-line, Garmin 2650 GPS with multiple routes into and out of each checkpoint, using the BMW and CoPilot units as backup.
Although the mass distribution of CoPilots would slightly diminish my navigational advantages, this would be offset by my knowing precisely everyone else’s route, and therefore where the police would ambush them, allowing me to bypass them and escape.
All this was minor compared to the CoPilot’s other function. Each CoPilot would transmit Gumballers’ locations to a moving map on ALK’s website, allowing anyone to follow their progress in real time. Although Gumball’s intention was to help fans follow the action live, they had unintentionally created the perfect method of tracking departure rankings and start and finish times.
I was ready for a merciless demonstration of everything I’d learned. I knew I was more than Team Polizei. Now I could prove it.
THURSDAY, MAY 12, 2005
TRAFALGAR SQUARE HILTON, LONDON
GUMBALL-2
“I always wanted to make love to a priest,” the concierge whispered into her phone downstairs.
“It’s very noisy in the lobby,” I said with sincere incredulity. “Can you repeat that?”
“I said, Mr. Roy, that I want to make a love to a priest, since I was a little girl in Poland.” However convenient her response to my request for custom-made, same-day church vestments in my size, I couldn’t say that I’d ever wanted to make love to anyone—not even a gorgeous, six-foot-tall, sin-ready Polish girl—while dressed as a priest. Nine, the logical copilot for Team Polizei’s impending 150 mph assault on Germany and Eastern Europe, poked his head out of our suite’s bathroom. “What’s she saying?”
“My dear Paulina,” I said, ignoring Nine, “then I’m sure you know where to find some priests’ outfits right away.”
“Aliray,” said Nine, “with the shit you get away with, I’m surprised everyone on Gumball doesn’t bring a fake police car.”
Much to my surprise, Team Polizei’s London arrival had been greeted by dozens of fans asking for autographs and pictures beside the M5 now stickered as—in a tribute to the Spanish authorities’ anti-Gumball operations in 2004—a Barcelona Contra-Gumball Venganza Guardia Civil Interceptación Policia M5. Gumball’s highly enthusiastic fans, to whom I felt closer than many drivers, had deigned to add Team Polizei to the pantheon of legends like Kenworthy and (ahem) Schmitz. Although I was neither the best driver nor in the best car, Team Polizei seemed to have struck a populist, perhaps even antiestablishment, chord. Given how many months I’d spent scouring eBay for uniforms and gear I couldn’t borrow or cobble together, I was flattered and grateful, which was why, upon spotting a copycat fake Italian Polizia Lamborghini Gallardo in the hotel garage, I was within an hour of burying Team Polizei forever. If the Polizia team wore full uniforms, half my backup plan was already in the M5’s trunk. The other half was minutes away.
“So, Aliray, if we switch up, what’s our new team name, Vatican Motorsports?”
I pulled out my notes from an online English-to-Latin translator. “Sanctus Urbs Altus Volo Templum Sanctimonia.”
“What does that mean?”
“Holy City High-Speed Church Chariot.”
“We’re going straight to hell.”
“Any better ideas?” said Nine on the cab ride back from our unsuccessful visit to the tailor across from Westminster Abbey.
“Oh yes. Ooooooooooh yes.” I explained my plan, after which he didn’t speak until we arrived back at the hotel.
“Good luck with this one, Aliray.”
“Paulina,” I said, stepping up to the concierge desk, “I need you to call another church…and say that two American bishops lost all their luggage.”
“You are soooo bad.” She winked. “Perhaps I should have them send someone here for the fitting?”
“Aw yeah,” said Nine. “Now you’re talkin’!”
“An excellent idea,” I said.
Paulina pulled up a list of numbers on-screen and reached for the phone.
“Maybe,” said Nine, “they can messenger over a catalog of all the fancy outfits they wear, and we can pick out something special.”
“Nine, you’re not concerned about…you know…blasphemy?”
“You think the big guy upstairs is gonna punish a nice guy like you for dressing like a priest after all the other crap you’ve done?”
“How about his nonpracticing Jewish best friend?”
“Alex,” said Paulina, smiling at me, phone in hand, “so I shouldn’t tell them you’re not Catholic?”
“See you at the bar,” said Nine, waving at Ant and Pete—emerging rally legends raising their pints on the far side of the lobby.
“Hang on, tough guy. Let’s see how ballsy those Lambo guys are. Tell everyone that we’re terrified of wearing our uniforms. Spread the word that the police have already threatened us about it.”
“Wow, smart guy, it’s like you’re some kind of psychologist or something.”
“Cute. Paulina, will you just please send the catalog over to the bar, unless anyone official looking brings it, in which case please tell him we’re very, very ill. Nine, ready for your homework?”
“Can’t I just get a drink and relax?”
“Not yet. We’re looking for Mark Muss and Seamus Conlon, new guys who’ve prepared more than anyone. They’ve got a lot to share with us about Eastern Europe they’re not telling anyone else. I’ve invited them to convoy with us. And look out for—”
“Aliray, I thought this was supposed to be fun.”
“This is the fun part. Work starts in the car.”
SATURDAY, MAY 14, 2005
WATERLOO PLACE, LONDON
GUMBALL START LINE
LATE AFTERNOON
“Aliray, is it always like this?!!?”
We’d been standing astride the Policia M5 for over an hour, posing for pictures with hundreds of fans who, out of the thousands ringing the prestart staging zone on Waterloo Place, had pushed their way through the crowd and called out my name from behind the barrier tape. We invited them through in pairs, smiling and shaking hands with as many as possible until engines began firing up across the street at the start line.
“Not like this,” I said. “There’s gotta be…five thousand people right here!”
“At least! I saw a lot more around the corner.”
“You see my mom?”
“She’s waiting right at the desk where they give us the cards.”
We handed out every spare Polizei 144 T-shirt and cap we had and got in the M5 for the customary last-minute systems check. The crowd cheered as Nine hit the switch, our siren’s WHOOOOOP echoing off the surrounding buildings, then he switched on the red-blue and green-yellow police lights I’d installed front and rear. Dozens of camera flashes lit up in my rearview mirror. Not only had the mechanics who’d double-checked my car at BMW Battersea come—with their children—to see us off, so had several of London’s Finest. They were very impressed with the bright orange jackets I’d bought online—to which I’d affixed fake Spanish police badges and patches—all agreeing they were far more authoritative (and visible) than any real uniforms, including their own. To my surprise and the crowd’s delighted clapping, a bright-yellow-jacketed officer removed his hat, pulled off its silver London Metropolitan Police badge, and placed it on my dashboard “for good luck, mate.” Nine asked a bobby-hatted duo to estimate the crowd size, their guesses ranging from ten to fifty thousand, all debate ending when their commander summoned them for the flag drop—the same commander who, after Maximillion’s earlier orientation briefing, told the assembled drivers to be careful beyond the city limits. The cheering Gumballers—with a twisted understanding of what this meant within the city limits—nearly carried him out on their shoulders.
“Mate,” said the copper, pumping my hand, “me and the boys want you to show these poncy wankers. Cane it. Do it for us.” His eyes hardened as he looked over my shoulder, switched back to cop-on-duty, and began barking at fans trying to sneak under the tape.
I turned to Nine. “Cane it?”
“It’s a British thing, smart guy. It’s gotta mean drive balls out.”
“Duh. Funny that he wants us to represent, I guess…the police worldwide?”
“I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it. Crazy. Are all European cops that cool?”
“Not in France. I hear the Belgian parliament wants to make an example of Gumball, but I speak French, so we should be okay. Germany I don’t know, but it’s got to take a lot to get stopped there. Austria’s probably the same. I’ve got my mom checking the news; she’ll call if she hears anything. Muss says Eastern Europe is like the Wild West…just bring cash.”
“Thank God you did, but you wanna know our most serious problem?”
“Well, Nine, you know what my dad always said.”
“Bad news first.”
“Okay, what’s the new problem?”
“You think you’ve got it pretty good in NYC, with your cute little girlfriend and loft parties, but you’re a total loser there compared to London. Alex Roy and Polizei are household names here. The least you can do is move here and take advantage of your minor celebrity before it runs out, or you get too fat.”
“Can we talk about serious problems?”
“This is a serious problem. Everybody saw you on last year’s Gumball show with Kinsley, and the few hot chicks who come up to us think the two of you are still together.”
“So? We’ve both got girlfriends. Nothing’s secret on Gumball.”
“What I’m saying is, aren’t there any chick fans that, you know, maybe if we’re single again and come back to London…I mean, pretty much ninety percent of the Polizei fans are guys.”
“Look.” I lowered my window. “Here comes a cute girl right now.”
“Finally! We have any hats left?”
I removed my sunglasses as the young, pale woman ran up to my doorsill.
“Oh my God!” She giggled. “Team Polizei! You guys are complete morons and I love love love it! Can I have your autograph for my little brother?”
“My pleasure,” I said with a smile. I signed her copy of the 2003 Gumball DVD with my face on the cover, then she kissed me on both cheeks and ran off.
“Gotta say it, Aliray, your mom sure looks hot in that Polizei jacket.”
I sighed, slowly pulling the M5 up to the start line. Ingeborg, my sixty-one-but-looked-forty-and-acted-twenty-five mom, stood beaming, waving her arms just beyond the mass of newscasters and cameramen waiting to interview us before we took off. Nine hit the lights. Cheers erupted. Disembodied arms—cameras in hand—reached out from the crowd to snap our picture in a kaleidoscope of flashes, a chorus of goodwill: “Go for it, Roy!” “Show those tossers!” “Go Polizei!”
“London loves Aliray.” Nine laughed. “It’s the exact opposite of New York!”
I read my mom’s lips as she leaped in the air. “Ali! Ali! I love you! I love you!” Although she wasn’t the only female within earshot expressing such feelings, she was suddenly surrounded by journalists wanting to know the identity of the pixieish woman with the platinum-blond crew cut and black leather Polizei jacket. “How do you know Alex Roy?” said one as I rolled up to kiss her good-bye. “That’s my son!” she screamed. “That’s my son!”
I reached for the PA handset. “Mom!” My voice blared over the crowd. “I love you, too, just don’t read the paper for the next five days!”
CHAPTER 23
The Coefficient of Danger
AUTOROUTE E40 EASTBOUND
APPROACHING BELGIAN-GERMAN BORDER
500 MILES FROM PRAGUE CHECKPOINT
“Aliray, are we going to be driving this fast the whole time?”
“We’re only doing 145.”
“Like I said, are we going to be driving this fast the whole time?”
“We’ve only been doing it for half an hour. Any news from Schtaven?” Schtaven, aka Steven Jennions or Steve J, was our inner circle’s representative in London, a half-English, half-Norwegian, sixty-two, bald, importantly stomached, car-loving banker-cum-explorer who—having honeymooned with his dreadlocked, stunning obsidian goddess wife, Ester, in Syria, and having just returned from a guided vacation of North Korea—considered staying up overnight to report news from the CoPilot Web page but a minor favor.
“Nothing since he said we’re tied with Ross. For first.”
Our second hour at 150 or more inspired a highly unscientific analysis of the actual danger we faced. I concocted what I called The Danger Coefficient (DC). I guessed the average NASCAR driver, in a thirty-six-race season including practice, probably drove 15,000 miles—with a safety cage and onboard active-fire suppression—on highly prepared tracks, with hospitals less than 15 minutes away by choppers on standby. Assuming this represented a DC of ten, Gumball’s 3,000 miles meant our DC was two…until factoring our relative safety deficiencies. High speeds over potholes had to triple our DC to six. Civilian traffic doubled it again, to twelve. Time and distance to medical help? Double again, to twenty-four. Lack of roll cages, harnesses, and HANS devices? My guesses ended when I realized Gumball—at least the way I did it�
��was at least five times more dangerous than NASCAR.
It had to be. Thank God Nine was there to take over once I got tired. But that would make it six times as dangerous. At least.
“Hey, Aliray, I don’t think I can drive.”
“Are you sick?” We were approximately 500 miles into an 835-mile stage, and although our absurdly, criminally high sustained cruising speeds—far higher than in the States—would shorten its duration, safety demanded we switch seats soon. Nine was an experienced Porsche Club driver, far better on the track than I. Without him, my plan was doomed.
“I’m not sick, I just…look, I knew we were gonna drive fast, but I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
“We’re doing 165. Light rain, no traffic. The road’s straight and perfect.”
“Listen, if you wanna win this thing, I know you’re going to take some risks that I’m just not willing to take.”
“You mean like this? You’ve got veto power. Do you feel unsafe?”
“Not at all. Alex, I may be better than you on the track, but what you’re doing right now…is incredible. I can’t believe it. If we didn’t have the camcorder, no one would. As long as you feel good, you drive and I’ll be the world’s best copilot ever. Unless you need me to take over, I’d rather you run as hard as you can.”
Nine still felt guilt over an incident I’d forgotten. Three weeks after the M5’s purchase, at the end of its second day of testing, with Nine at the wheel and summer tires between us and the icy driveway to The Weis’s country house, a 15 mph skid ended against a tree. My first question was whether everyone was all right. I never expressed any anger, even upon receipt of the $10,000 damage bill. The tire decision had been mine. My faith in him had never wavered, otherwise I’d never have invited him on Gumball.
“Nine…are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Eight-hundred-odd miles was nothing compared to the 1,270-mile Paris–Marbella stage from 2004. I could finish it alone.
The Driver Page 19
