The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  My eyes darted to the rearview mirror every few seconds. I had begun breaking my own safety rules—weaving through thickening traffic—and had collected a tail of the few locals in Alfas and Mercedes who thought they could keep up. A blue speck appeared in the mirror. “Is that—”

  Nine, concerned over having to remove his seat belt every time he turned around, pointed the binoculars at his visor mirror. “Blue car approaching fast!”

  “Dammit! Construction!” A line of orange cones sealed the shoulder, blocking the type of pass I would never make—but Spencer might. We were seconds from a close-quarters battle among local cars conveniently staggered just far enough apart for one car to weave between them, but whose proximity made passing the lead duelist impossible—unless he made a mistake. “Which side is he on?”

  “Right lane! Stay left!”

  Spencer, emerging from behind our two-car tail, hesitated upon spotting us. I accelerated to close the gap with a silver Fiat two car lengths ahead on the right. The small blue shape in my right-hand mirror quivered as if attached to a monstrous rubber band stretched between us. Then, the tension suddenly released, the Porsche flared in size—exhaust howling over the wind’s deep roar—and catapulted toward us until disappearing in my blind spot.

  Until five seconds earlier the arrival of Team 35/Bourne, S. (UK)/Porsche 996 TT (Race Spec) X50 had remained an Outside Context Problem—an event so far beyond my ability to understand, adapt to, and mitigate its consequences that, rather than seek a new solution, I pretended my current plan would succeed. Having for the second time mercilessly applied will to ambition—my goal in sight, victory in reach—I refused to acknowledge the single-minded purpose implicit in Spencer’s approach.

  Beat Roy.

  I genuinely believed, halfway into my fifth rally, after one accident and the Ibiza victory, that my ever-improving driving skills, combined with a Herculean investment in logistics and intelligence, made me unbeatable. Unless I made a mistake.

  But, since leaving Taormina, I hadn’t made any mistakes. Spencer wasn’t part of the plan. It was far easier to believe he would never arrive, or didn’t exist.

  My vain hopes disappeared in the gust against which the M5 shuddered, Spencer’s car materializing beside us in a blur of rain-sheared metal so blue it glistened purple as water sprayed up from its wheels. In the seemingly eternal half second we ran even, my car’s reflection flashed in its side window, as if a single frame had been accidentally spliced into a film about the Italian countryside, shot from a train.

  The Porsche’s surge continued, Spencer miraculously sliding into the gap between our front right corner and the plodding Fiat’s rear left, precisely one Porsche-911-length away. The turbo’s high-pitched wail rose even as its blue-white tail narrowed in the distance, until, as if on a divine pendulum, it returned, its turbo eerily silent. He was trapped behind two trucks cruising side by side at a legal 93 mph.

  I braked one irresponsibly short car length from his bumper, then fell back three. Nine released the door handle and wiped both hands on his thighs. “I need a cigarette,” he panted. “That guy’s really good, Aliray. At least you gave it a shot. Let’s have a Twix hors d’oeuvre first. You deserve it.”

  My eyes remained locked on the blue bumper ahead. I wasn’t fighting a car. Without Spencer, it was no more than a glamorous hunk of metal.

  “Alex. Allllex!?!” Nine waved the Twix before my face. “So…I guess you’re gonna give him this one?”

  I was beatable. He was beatable. Anyone was beatable, but whether I could beat Spencer in the 165 miles remaining to Rome, or to the Monaco finish the following day, or even next year, would remain unknown unless I committed to transcending everything I thought possible. Who I was—and would be—depended on it. Spencer was a better driver, in a better car. I was better prepared, my will tempered steel. His worst mistake would be a wrong turn. Mine would be fatal.

  I had to see. I had to know.

  “No, Jon, not yet.” I stared at Spencer and his codriver’s heads bobbing in discussion. The left truck accelerated and moved right, but Spencer unexpectedly chose not to exploit this potentially brief opportunity. Given the increasing traffic, this immediately buttressed my battered but now resurgent, more powerful determination.

  “Nine! Look! He’s got a mechanical problem, or…doesn’t that car get, maybe, twenty-two on the highway?”

  “I see where you’re going with this. Where do you get twenty-two?”

  “Right. Fuel economy on Gumball is half what manufacturers say, or worse. He’s getting ten, I know it. Text Schtaven! How big is a 996 fuel tank?”

  “Seventeen gallons,” Nine said without hesitation.

  “Oh, reeeeeeaaaalllly? And how do you know that?”

  “We’re all the same when chicks pass out.”

  Spencer’s range was no more than 170 miles. We were 300 miles out of Taormina. He had to have stopped once. He was now perhaps 40 miles from his second refuel, or, if he was getting less than 10 MPG—

  “He’s pulling off?! Aliray, no matter what The Weis says, you are a genius.”

  “Distance to Rome?”

  “About…165, what a coincidence! Guess old Spence here’s gonna need another fuel stop before Rome, unless he wants to run out of gas two blocks from the hotel!”

  “Don’t celebrate yet,” I said. “We need one more stop, he might need another.”

  “So Mr. Fuel Economy Strategy’s not gonna give him this one?”

  “Oooooohhhhhhh noooooooooo!”

  “Let me guess, you’ve got a plan for this, too.”

  “Oooooooohhhh yeeeeessss! Three, in fact, and only two need to work to beat him. You know the first one. Get ready for sirens. Eyes open for choppers. Don’t worry, we can outrun them.”

  “Oh…maaan.”

  Clear roads favored the faster, better-handling car. Traffic favored one with lights and sirens. Virgin asphalt favored a lower, stiffer car. Rough pavement favored a bigger, heavier car. The lower the frequency between GPS instructions, the less relevant the CoPilot’s small display and weak amplification. The more complex and frequent the GPS instructions—especially in the cramped, noisy environment of a car speeding into one of Europe’s largest cities—the more critical our Garmin’s large display and external speaker.

  If only I kept Spencer in sight, close enough to exploit advantages potentially worth as much as three minutes, every mile closer to Rome improved our odds of victory.

  Racing is chess.

  If only I didn’t make any mistakes.

  If only he made one. Just one.

  “Tollbooth ahead,” I said, suddenly recalling my father’s road-trip rules. “Wallets in the armrest. Combine and sort our bills. It’ll save time.”

  “And our asses won’t hurt.”

  We needed gas. We would be invisible to Spencer for the three and a half minutes it took to refuel his car, however long was necessary for his codriver to urinate inside (if he was too cultured for Team Polizei’s pumpside stealth evacution), and as long as it took to catch up. Would seeing us stopped at a pump satisfy his ego and slow him down? Or would it embolden him?

  “Nine, next major gas station on the road. A big one.”

  “Esso coming up, one mile…Angionia Est, 145 miles from Rome.”

  “Prepare for the world’s fastest refuel. I’m only putting in enough to get there. That’s worth maybe one minute. Get your orange jacket on and stand by the road while I pump. Make sure he sees you. Smile and wave, like it’s all fun and games.”

  Spencer flew past the instant the pump spit out my receipt. “Perfect timing,” I said, gently pulling out of the station to save gas, “now let’s see if he slows down. We need to pass him before he starts kicking the beehive on the last stretch. Watch for Autostrada A1, that’s where the roadblocks are gonna start. Forget choppers and cars. Only cycles can catch us.”

  We covered the 22 miles to the A1 in nine minutes.

  “Averaging 140 wo
n’t be enough, Nine. If I sprint up to 170, maybe—”

  “Schtaven reports…Spencer slightly ahead, just hit 197, but averaging 150ish.”

  “That won’t last once traffic builds. Setting cruise control at 150.”

  Rome was 124 miles. All was not lost.

  “Heads up!” I yelled when the V1 beeped before the Caianello exit. Nine pointed out three Polizia Stradale motorcycles stopped on the right. Spencer had either slowed down, or 150 wasn’t enough to get their attention. I slowed to 100. “What does it take to get arrested in this country?”

  “Stop pussyfooting, we’re a hundred miles out. Schtaven sends congratulations…we are now running even, about seven miles behind him.”

  “So he’s three or four minutes ahead?”

  “Just drive, Dr. Hawking.”

  Scattered showers—having no effect on Spencer—forced us as low as a hundred. Accelerating back to 150 burned additional fuel. Nine stopped reading me Schtaven’s reports, then the reports stopped altogether.

  “Alex, there’s no shame in second, not against this guy.”

  I wasn’t ready to concede, but my pessimism grew with every mile during which the phone remained silent. The rain cleared near Frosinone, 53 miles from Rome. I prayed for everything Gumballers despised. I could evade police, I could eviscerate traffic, but I couldn’t match Spencer’s 170-plus cruising speed. I was losing.

  Nine lifted his vibrating phone, then furiously began typing.

  “Bad news first,” I said.

  “Spencer’s car disappeared from the tracking. I’m asking where. Maybe he had an accident. If anything happened, we have to stop.”

  “If anything happened to him, I’m never doing this again.”

  The sky ahead turned purple and gray. Spotting light beyond the murky deluge, I accelerated into it; pattering droplets became thudding sheets, the car cast in shadow before we could remove our sunglasses. The car fishtailed ever so slightly, Nine’s hand moved to the door handle, then suddenly we burst out into the sun blinded, vestigial water stretching against our windshield in luminous streaks.

  “Sorry, Nine, I—”

  “No prob—” Nine’s head snapped right. “There he is!!! At the gas station!”

  “What?!? At a pump? Or broken down?”

  “Gas!! They must have killed the CoPilot battery and plugged it in! So when they turned the car off, but…wait! We’re still 45 miles from Rome!”

  “So…he’s only getting a hundred twenty miles per tank! Six miles per gallon? I love it!”

  “There’s your three minutes! I don’t think they saw us! Cane it now!”

  “This is…insane.” Our forward police lights flickered against the rear plates of what few cars didn’t pull aside as we bore down at twice their speed. I was blind to everything except the next car ahead, then the next one, and the next one.

  “Don’t look back!” Nine giggled. I looked. Our rear flashers had attracted a delightfully slow tail of locals waving in encouragement. I couldn’t wait for Spencer to meet them.

  “Alex, eyes on the road.” Nine raised the phone to his ear. “No, Stevie, that’s our siren! What? Yes! Got it! Bye!” The sky darkened again. “Aliray, Schtaven reports Spencer’s icon active…he’s moving!”

  The Garmin spoke, inaudible beneath the rush of wind. “Nine! Max volume! Repeat instruction!”

  RAMP RIGHT 15 MILES.

  Nine reached for the CoPilot. “Already at max, but can’t hear it!”

  “If we can’t, he can’t. We need to make this turn before he catches up.”

  Water sprayed from cars’ tires ahead, making 120 our safe limit. We had eight minutes to turn, then seven, then Nine yelled, “Spencer closing!”

  “We have to make that turn without him seeing us.”

  RAMP RIGHT 12 MILES.

  Six minutes. Nine and I tightened our seat belts and peered into the mirrors. “I see him,” we said simultaneously and with unexpectedly calm resignation.

  “Once he passes,” said Nine, “he might still miss the ramp.”

  Spencer inched closer, blocked by traffic increasingly reluctant to recognize our sirens. Nine switched from Wail to Air Horn. “I guess Romans are smarter than other Italians?”

  “Or they don’t care.”

  Nine waved as Spencer passed. His codriver waved back. The traffic began to clear. Rome was 26 miles. Polizei territory. My territory. I’d driven these roads with my father. Muss had confirmed our Garmin plot. The three-lane-wide A1 gently banked right. Spencer, confident in his car’s superiority, broke the first rule of racing. He stayed in the outside lane. I moved inside and broke Team Polizei’s first rule of rallying. I pressed the M5’s Sport button, increasing power but annihilating fuel economy. Both of us would enter Rome on fumes.

  “Alex, if you’re gonna do this, now you have to follow my instructions.”

  “Tell me what to do.” Nine didn’t speak, he pointed. We passed 150. Spencer crawled away at 155. Rome was 21 miles. Spencer bore down on local cars, braking and passing at full throttle, breaking the second, third, and fourth rules of racing. Conserve energy. Minimize steering inputs. Conserve fuel. I read Nine’s outstretched arm. Use the whole road. Nineteen miles. The turbo wailed but pulled away in slow motion, unable to escape the tether of my tenacity.

  “Road closure!” Nine barked as a diagonal line of cones cut rightward across all three lanes. “Roadblock at the gas station?”

  “They’ll need guns to stop us.” Nine killed the lights and sirens just in case. Spencer disappeared beyond several trucks funneling into the service area. I accelerated too late, three trucks and two cars between us and our prey. We passed them on the ramp shoulder at 90. With no police in sight, Nine relit the lights and sirens. We barreled between the busy pumps at 60 before being blocked by yet another truck on the exit ramp and losing 30 precious seconds—an eterrrrrrrnity in race time—before getting back on the A1 and accelerating to 140.

  RAMP RIGHT 2 MILES.

  “Can’t see him,” said Nine, “and can’t hear the CoPilot. He’s gotta be doing one-eighty. Think he’ll miss it?”

  “At those speeds, maybe, but I’m pretty sure English people know Roma means Rome.”

  “Two-hundred-and-seventy-degree left coming up, Aliray, max speed one hundred. Watch for cars!” Thankfully, the exit turn for the A24—the final highway stretch before entering Rome—was totally devoid of civilian traffic. “Wow, he must have taken that at 120. Schtaven reports…he made the turn, and we’re losing ground.”

  “C’mon, c’mon,” I muttered, my skin pressed against the damp headrest as I accelerated to 145.

  “Tollbooth ahead! Blue Porsche two lanes left! He’s third in line! Right lane’s clear!”

  “They don’t teach Toll Strategy in Porsche driving school. I’ll bet you White Castle he doesn’t have change.” Nine reached into the armrest. We waved at Spencer, still two cars behind us at the booths when we pulled away in the lead.

  RAMP LEFT IN 9 MILES.

  This was Spencer’s last chance to exploit his speed advantage. All I could do was minimize it, but two lanes of moderate traffic held us below 120.

  “Schtaven reports…our icons are right on top of each other!”

  “There’s no way he could get through this traffic unless he took—”

  “A pro like that wouldn’t risk the shoulder. We might win this one.”

  RAMP LEFT 7 MILES.

  We heard the Porsche before we saw it, slowly advancing past us on the right shoulder at 125. “Sorry, Aliray, but it looks like we’re gonna lose this one after all.”

  Spencer moved off the shoulder into the right lane, accelerated, and disappeared.

  “Nine! More air horn, I gotta have more air horn. And I thought we were crazy. Romans have absolutely no respect for the law.”

  RAMP LEFT 2 MILES.

  “Right median!” Nine yelled. “He’s stopped!”

  “He’s confused! He can’t hear his CoPilot!” We
passed the stationary Porsche at 100, three civilians trailing us in tight formation as I weaved with increasing aggression. I slashed into the right lane and accelerated toward a tunnel where the shoulder on which Spencer now approached would disappear.

  “Jesus!” said Nine, staring into the right-side mirror. One second before striking the steel barrier narrowing on our right, Spencer slotted into the short gap between our bumper and the nearest trailing civilian. Our exhaust rumbled through the cavernous tunnel, the Porsche turbo’s wail searing even through our sealed windows.

  RAMP LEFT 500 FEET.

  Spencer tailgated us out of the tunnel, we crossed the Rome city limit and turned left onto the ramp for the Circonvallazione Tiburtina. Two lanes of thick traffic split as I forcibly created a third, intermittently lunging forward until an enormous bus in the right lane blocked our merge.

  “Nine! Distance to checkpoint?”

  “Two and a half miles. What’s your plan, smart guy? Now he’s gonna follow us in and pass us fifty feet from the goddamn hotel!”

  On the tree of possible outcomes I’d nurtured for almost three hours, this was the first unanticipated branch. In the split second during which I pondered a preemptive countermove, a gap opened left of the bus. Blue flashed in my peripheral vision. I was barely able to pull in behind Spencer without being hit by a tailing Alfa who’d switched loyalties.

  ONE-QUARTER MILE RAMP RIGHT.

  “So speaks the Garmin”—I giggled—“and no word from the CoPilot. Watch.”

  The Romans, utterly unimpressed with the bright blue, UK-plated Porsche now in the lead, failed to provide the narrow swath previously accorded our Policia M5. I tailgated as if being towed, our conjoined cars advancing in the left lane at no more than 10 mph until—

  FIVE HUNDRED FEET RAMP RIGHT.

  “Nine, watch.” The traffic lightened as we approached the exit. Spencer accelerated to 40. I waited for his car’s nose to pass the point of commitment—the shoulderless ring road depriving him of his usual strategy, albeit in reverse—then I made the sharp right no longer available to him. “Good-bye, Mr. Bourne.”