The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  THURSDAY, MARCH 30, 2006

  POLIZEI EXPRESS JOINT OPERATIONS CENTER

  2030 HOURS

  49 HOURS TO DEPARTURE

  “If you think you can do 31,” said The Weis, “why are you projecting 31:48?”

  “Why not 31:30?” someone called out.

  “Let’s not get cocky,” I said, looking at my copy of Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault-2), which I had just distributed to everyone in the room. “Recalculating the projections because we’re feeling good is—”

  “Why not 30?” came another voice.

  “Aliray,” said The Weis, “why don’t you just duplicate the 3207 guys’ plans?”

  “I’d rather have goals we can surpass than miss targets and make decisions, in a moving car, based on desperation.”

  “Look, Aliray, we want you to go fast. We’re not flying the plane so you can sit on the cruise control at 105. The only way to break this record is to go irresponsibly fast.”

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and The Weis,” I said, “let’s be serious. This is not a laughing matter.”

  “Then stop smiling,” Nine called out. This was the first and last time PolizeiAir and PolizeiGround would meet before departure, assuming weather didn’t push us to the April 8 rain date. Although we could drive through weather, all of us wanted to see the first illegal cross-country racing spotter plane in twenty-three years deployed to maximum effect. Diem/Turner’s interviews suggested the plane hadn’t been the decisive factor in setting 32:07, but their aircrew had been hired guns.

  We had The Weis and the Captain.

  “Aliray,” The Weis said, “we were laughing because you were laughing. Now we can’t laugh? Some of us have families, you know, wives and children waiting for us, and we’re here listening to some bald guy who tricked us into flying a Cessna cross-country? Don’t tell me to stop laughing, tough guy, because this isn’t funny, it’s sad.”

  “Actually,” said Nine, “now that you mentioned Aliray being in charge of you guys with the wives and kids, it is pretty funny. You guys, man, you’re crazy.”

  “No,” said the Captain, “you guys stuck in that car are crazy.”

  Graeber sat and took notes. Lelaine, to whom I’d long bragged about my oldest friends’ intellect and charisma, smoked a cigarette by the window. Cory’s bespectacled business partner and cameraman, Robin Acutt—a six-five, thirty-four-year-old South African whose gentle demeanor belied strict adherence to protocol and procedure, and who, despite his height, was assigned to the plane—loomed over me, camera in hand.

  “Guys, please,” I said, “the cameras are rolling. Think of your children who may see this someday. If any of you have objections to the plan, please say your—”

  “What?” said Nine. “Is someone getting married?”

  “Some of us may be getting divorced,” the Captain said with his usual calm.

  “Let’s proceed,” I said. “Bad news first. Weather. The Weis, the Captain?”

  The Captain unfolded an enormous aviation chart on the table. “It’s going to rain,” he said. “There’s a storm likely in the St. Louis area, right around our intercept point. Could be heavy cloud cover, so we may have to fly over it while you drive under, both heading southwest until we can descend and locate you. Some rough patches for us, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “But we do have a problem,” said The Weis. “Weight. We’ve got two guys over six-five coming in the Cessna, both weighing at least 220 each, plus myself and the Captain and all of Robin’s camera gear. Depending on conditions, we might have a problem. Even in good conditions, all that weight’s going to mean landing for another fuel stop.”

  I’d thought of everything—pertaining to ground operations. I hadn’t considered the catastrophic ripple effect of adding Graeber, the only third-party journalist/witness on the actual journey, to the plane’s manifest. An additional landing—and the subsequent delay in their catching up, slower once again because of the additional weight—would dramatically decrease our aerial recon time.

  The Weis read my concern immediately. “Aliray, I promise you we’ll catch up. We’ll find you. The road curves, we fly straight. As long as you give us consistent location updates, we’ll get there.”

  I trusted him. It was The Weis. Even if he was wrong—which he never was—the Captain would be with him, and the Captain really was never, ever wrong. If anything did go wrong, I’d have grist on The Weis forever, and I’d never fly the Captain’s employer again.

  Spirits were high when we adjourned. Only a freak line of tornadoes, or a sick child, or an Outside Context Problem could stop us.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 31, 2006

  AI DESIGN

  0830 HOURS

  37 HOURS TO DEPARTURE

  “Well…you’ve got two problems,” said Matt, rotating in his wheeled Recaro office chair, surrounded by half the AI staff, even those absent taking personal pride in the happiness of their most infamous customer. “One ehhhhh, and one bleeccchh.”

  “Bleeccchh news first.”

  “All right,” said Kenny, whose clipped, lawyerly explanations would have made for movie dialogue, “you requested we install the thermal night vision out of sight in the front air dam. We concurred. You said your car’s temperature gauge ran high last night. We think you’re getting airflow reduction.”

  “How much airflow reduction?”

  Matt rubbed his head. “I’d guess 25 percent.”

  “Solutions?”

  “Number one,” Kenny paused, “you…could take out the night vision.”

  “Let’s be serious.”

  Kenny and Matt burst out laughing. Mark Palines, in charge of all things Polizei not within Kenny’s realm, chimed in from his nearby desk.

  “Just keep that car moving,” he said with knowing grin. “Fast. If you need to average at least 89.4 mph to beat 32:07—”

  “Just keep that car moving,” said Matt. “Do not stop.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Now,” said Matt, “for the bad news.”

  This was Mark’s realm. “You described some throttle hesitation around 4,000 rpm. It’s most likely the mass air filters—”

  “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know what those do.”

  “You want me to explain?”

  “I’m out of time. How long to replace them?”

  They offered to do it for free. A nearby BMW dealer had the parts. I napped until they were done just after lunch, called Cory to explain, then got in the car for a leisurely drive through Westchester. I pulled out of AI’s driveway.

  Then the engine died.

  1930 HOURS (APPROX)

  26 HOURS TO DEPARTURE

  I feared lava would pour out of the phone when I told Cory. The plane was ready. The camera crews and witnesses were on one hour’s notice. Only the car—my leg of the tripod—remained. AI and I had one hour to salvage three months of exhortations, labors, and pleas, because after this weekend we might never be able to reconstitute PolizeiAir again. The wives wouldn’t have it.

  I wasn’t angry or disappointed, at least not yet, and I wouldn’t feel shame until I knew whether it had been my negligence or Murphy’s Law, although the latter would still be my fault. The greater the task, the greater the foresight necessary to anticipate and mitigate. I had a problem, and I was responsible for solving it.

  Whatever it took.

  “Just order the parts,” she said with unexpected calm, “and come home. Then I’m ordering you to get some rest. You’ll get the parts, but we’ll all do better if we wait this out together. Now keep making those calls.”

  Matt was on the phone with an executive from BMW North America; Mark with a midlevel manager at BMW’s East Coast parts depot; Chris Van Steen, AI’s second in command, was on the phone with the manager of the West Coast depot; and Kenny was talking to the service manager of a New Jersey BMW dealership who’d been dining with his family when the phone rang.

  I watched their body language, a
nd saw our chances grow slim.

  Which was why I was on the phone with a used BMW dealer in Northern California, negotiating for the purchase of the two parts that seven different BMW Master Service Technicians, including three M-Division specialists, had agreed were the problem. My friends on M5Board.com had also concurred, which was how I found the one dealer who was willing to strip the parts off of a used M5 sitting in his lot. With enormous shame yet no reluctance, I agreed to pay double the new retail price for both a used Camshaft Position Sensor and a Throttle Pedal Actuator and Potentiometer, on the condition that the seller get them to Federal Express no later than 5:45 P.M. (PST) and ship them overnight for Saturday delivery.

  It was time go face Cory, and wait. I’d been waiting most of my life, and on September 20, 2005, when Rawlings showed up at my house, had vowed never to do so again. But now I had no choice. I was the prisoner of events I had set in motion.

  Just under 26 hours remained.

  The Saturday FedEx delivery window closed at noon.

  Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault Final) demanded a 9:30 P.M. departure.

  No more than nine and a half hours for repairs, road testing, and final prep.

  I knew the value of time. It was the only currency I counted anymore.

  Then I saw the weather report.

  CHAPTER 29

  Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault Final)

  SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 2006

  CLASSIC CAR CLUB—NEW YORK

  ASSAULT RUN START LINE

  2116 HR (EST)

  One-hundred-and-fifty mile road test completed, I texted The Weis. We are a go.

  The Weis, the Captain, Graeber, and Robin were already on a commercial flight to St. Louis, where they would spend the night with our old friend George (“The Bulgarian”) Kruntschev—his wife displeased even by indirect involvement in our “totally irresponsible, dangerous, and possibly criminal” adventure—before rising at 0400 Sunday to confirm our ETA, proceed to the private airfield and Cessna awaiting them, and take off on standby orbit over the city.

  But once again PolizeiGround was running late.

  I stood beside Cory as she knelt to remount the front bumper camera, half our run’s uninterrupted forward-facing video record now in jeopardy. I’d failed to warn Cory and Robin of the laser jammers now hidden in the grille, and allowed that morning’s camera installation to proceed. We were all now paying the price.

  I’d bought at least two of everything, but I couldn’t buy time.

  “I want a mountain of evidence,” I’d said to Cory a month earlier, and thus our Time Validation Plan was born. The M5 would carry six video cameras, the plane two, the three chase cars one each, with two camera crews at both the start and finish lines. Both Garmins’ CF cards would record latitude, longitude, bearing, speed, time, and elapsed distance, up to a limit of between six and eight hours, I estimated. Gas, toll receipts would be archived in the armrest. E-ZPass records were available online. Cell-phone providers stored data on handset locations. We would punch a time clock at the start, and the same time clock would be flown to the finish for punch-out.

  We needed multiple third-party witnesses at both ends, but my efforts to convince ABC, CBS, CNN, FOX, NY1, the Wall Street Journal, or Slate.com to cover our journey had failed. None agreed to withhold the story for the 366 days until the applicable criminal statutes of limitations expired in half the states we’d cross. The Big Five accounting firms, the Guinness Book of World Records, and Seth all refused to cooperate in any potentially criminal venture.

  Those more understanding, now present and nondisclosed, included Noah Robischon and Joel Johnson (editors of technology site Gizmodo.com), Mike Spinelli (editor of automotive site Jalopnik.com), our mutual friend Noah Shachtman (contributor to the New York Times, Wired, and Popular Mechanics), photographer Jeff Forney, and Erik Lopez—the backup pilot who had suggested carrying a spare tire in the plane, and dropping it beside the car if necessary—who was good friends with my platinum-haired pixiecut, angelic good-luck charm Maggie Kaiser, whom I’d begun dating without truly conveying the danger of what might happen, and who had agreed to fly the time clock to the finish line. There we would meet automotive writer Gary Jarlson—friend of Diem and Turner, and witness to the 1982 and ’83 U.S. Express finishes, the entire PolizeiAir crew, and possibly David Diem (who I thought might object to our effort to break his record) among others.

  But this would all pale compared to 32 hours (or less) of nonstop front-bumper video. I asked Cory the dreaded question.

  “To fix this…5 minutes,” she said, “then 10 more for final checks.”

  I rounded it up to 20. We’d depart at 9:36 P.M.

  Six minutes behind Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault Final).

  I wasn’t going to worry. Everything else was going according to plan.

  I couldn’t buy six minutes, but I could make them up.

  All but two of the witnesses kept their distance, as if the car were a shrine or a holy artifact upon which even a hand might diminish its power. I was relieved for not having to ask, because I was most interested in the two who didn’t.

  I had contempt for most celebrities. I’d met some on Gumball, others merely by living in New York. Few had done anything of intellectual, cultural, or athletic significance. Idolatry sickened me, but when I recognized the two leaning in through the M5’s windows, both looking exactly as I imagined, legends known only from pictures, transcripts, and video, I instantly snapped out of my robotic, preparatory daze. I was speechless. So was Nine.

  “Now, you two,” said the paternal Mike Digonis, 1982 U.S. Express winner and driver of the infamous 212 mph DeTomaso Pantera, with all the charisma of the handsome, mustached young tough who’d beaten Diem/Turner one year before they broke the record, “are some crazy sons of bitches.”

  “I wish I was going with you,” said the gray-haired yet energetic Steve Stander, 1981 and ’82 U.S. Express veteran, whose Auto Trix garage had been the official start line. “Good thing you’re out of space, because I don’t think my wife would approve. First guys giving it a go in twenty-three years, good stuff, really, good for you.”

  “Mr. Digonis,” I said, “Mr. Stander…it’s…it’s really an honor to meet you—”

  “Forget being nice,” said Digonis, “you have no time.” He and Stander hadn’t seen each other since 1982, but they understood each other, and us, well enough to complete each other’s thoughts. “Run us through your gear and plan,” said Stander.

  Nine laid Driveplan 1 Alpha (Assault Final) on the trunk. I unfolded our atlas beside it and began. No more than a dozen people in the entire world would have understood our exchange.

  2124 hours

  “Your equipment and prep work looks good,” said Digonis.

  “Good work, really good work,” said Stander. “You’ve got a shot.”

  “The car sounds good. You’re running for fuel economy, which is the right one for today. In ’82 we ran for speed, you know, and I only got six miles per gallon in the Pantera, but of course we were cruising in the 170s. Even with extra gas stops, the fuel-economy guys couldn’t catch up. But those days are over now. It’s a real shame.”

  “Stealth,” said Stander, “is your only shot. If anything happens, call me or Mike. I’ll stay up. If nothing happens, just call me when you get there.” He unfolded a wallet full of his grandchildren’s pictures and pulled out a Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association card—the first ever given me I knew would work.

  “Listen, young man,” said Digonis, “what you’re doing is a beautiful thing. You’ll be fine, your spirits are good. To spend this kind of time and money to go out and do this…it’s crazy. We can never know why we do it, but any man willing to break his neck is all right, as long as he doesn’t take anyone with him. It’d also be good to stay out of jail.”

  “Mike,” said Stander, “how the hell did we stay out of jail?”

  “That’s hard to say. I got stopped seven times.”

  “And these
two”—Stander flicked his thumb at us—“are hoping to get there without being stopped even once! I love it! And going out alone…I’m not sure if that makes it easier or harder. Maybe we should just get in the Caddy right now and show them.”

  “Steve,” I said, “if you want to go, there have to be other guys who want to. How come no one’s gone out in all this time? I mean, has anyone made a run?”

  “Oh, that’s a good one! If anyone had, I’d be the first out there!”

  “I think,” said Digonis, “this is the kind of thing we would have heard about. You can’t organize something like this without word getting out to certain people.”

  “But someone’s got to organize it,” said Stander.

  “One last question,” I said, “is it true? What Yates said about 30 hours?”

  “Absolutely,” said Stander, “but everything has to go perfectly. Everything.”

  “I would so say so”—Digonis paused—“back then. Now? Well…someone has to try it to find out.”

  “Like you two.” Stander laughed. “Nobody knows. It’s been twenty years.”

  “Hang on,” said Nine. “So you guys think 32:07 can be broken no problem?”

  “No, no no,” said Stander, “32:07 is if everything goes perfectly, except maybe a little bit of weather, and you guys don’t mess up. It’s one or the other. Better than that, I’m talking about perfect. No weather, driving all out.”

  “You guys,” said Digonis, “I really do admire you for doing this. Most men want to, and only a rare few get the chance.”

  “Just don’t do anything crazy”—Stander grinned—“and I mean by our standards. Now go say good-bye to your friends and get in the car before we take your place.”

  Nine ran to the bathroom. I hoped one last splash of icy water on my face might exorcise the obsessive, unfunny stranger behind my eyes long enough to say good-bye to Maggie, Lelaine, and my mother, smoking in silence from the exit gate. Something had happened to the man they knew. I opened my vanity mirror and recognized the face, but not the cold, blank eyes and pursed lips. Nine was back before I realized I’d spent a full minute staring at my reflection.