The Driver (24 page)

“The only problem”—Muss looked at Ross—“is that you don't have the highway toll stickers to stay with us. The cops are pretty strict about having them.”

“Actually, I was lucky enough to procure several sets from my local sources, just in case a friend was in need.”

“Fucking James Bond,” said Nine. “
All
you guys are out of your minds.”

“Thank you so much,” said Muss, “and cheers to you, Michael.”

“Mapping the shortcuts was a real military op,” said Seamus. “No one using GPS stands a chance. These CoPilots are crap except for the tracking function.”

“It's too bad,” I said, “the CoPilots would rock if set to Gumball speeds.”

“Gentlemen,” said Seamus, “just make sure to turn yours off when we approach Vienna and Budapest. We don't want anyone following us in via our shortcut.”

This
very
strategy had lurked in my mind since the prior night. I couldn't wait to put it to use. If only the Bentley was repaired in time. If only Loretta didn't break down again. If only I didn't make any navigational mistakes. If only everyone stuck to the plan.

 

Gumballers were still arriving—more than 24 hours after departing London—as I awaited U.S. Army captain Jacob Wallace, an Apache helicopter pilot two weeks back from Iraq who was certainly braver than all of the Gumballers put together. Wallace greeted me as if I, too, had survived a hail of ground fire, and over my first alcoholic drink—a single beer—since my going-away party in New York, I outlined my highly unusual request. He thanked me for the honor and immediately set off to get some sleep.

Ross returned from the Bentley dealer, optimistic all would be ready by dawn, to join Nine and me for dinner. Muss and Seamus had had to bribe the nearest garage owner to open (and stay open overnight) for their clutch replacement. Having been awake for nearly 37 hours, we all agreed to skip the official Gumball party and retire early. Half-drunk Gumballers orbited the bar island, stopping to lean on our table for support—some more than once—in the belief
we
knew where the unofficial party was later that night.

Ross knew, of course, but he wasn't telling anyone, not even me.

MONDAY, MAY
16, 2005
ROUTE E
461
SOUTHBOUND
APPROACHING AUSTRIAN BORDER
51
MILES FROM VIENNA CHECKPOINT
LATE MORNING

“Aliray, I
can't
believe those army guys got up at four
A.M
. to block anyone from parking in front of us.”

“Nine, I can't believe we left midpack and are now in the lead. God bless Muss.”

“I can't believe we passed five Czech police cars at 120 mph with our lights and sirens blaring and not one of them stopped us. And that cop actually standing in the highway? Did he really think we were gonna stop for a guy on foot?”

“My BlackBerry's vibrating Nine, see who it is.”

“It's another one of your exes with updates from CoPilot's site. She says three cars approaching the Austrian border, in the lead. Gotta be us.”

“Better be, here's outbound passport control. If the Czechs are gonna arrest us, this is their last chance.
Don't
say a word.” I slowed down to the speed limit for the first time since leaving London. We were 50 feet from safety, then 20, then two officers stepped out and blocked our path with hands raised. One approached my window, pausing when he saw our black Policia uniforms, our bright badges glinting in the sun.

“Your license plate…you are from New York?”

“Yessir!” I offered him our passports, which he ignored.

“This is…police car from New York or…
Španělsko
?” “From…er…
Spa-nels-ko
. For a movie.”

“Very cool, man! You may go!”

I slowly pulled out. “That was…surreal, even by my standards.”

“That
was
the strangest thing I've ever seen,” said Reynolds.

Nine giggled. “
Spanelsko
…nice one. So I guess we
are
first.”

“You never know. Let's not get cocky.” A few hundred feet away a crowd of uniformed officials stood at the Austrian passport control. My mother's online scan of that day's Austrian papers suggested they would be tougher than the Belgians. There was nothing to do but proceed at 20 mph. Several officers raised what appeared to be guns. “Holy shit,” said Nine, “are they pointing…wait…are they pointing—” All but the officer approaching my door were…taking pictures. I stopped as they clustered in front of the car, camera-toting fans running from beyond the booths to join them. I handed over our documents and with my first-ever I-know-we're-gonna-make-it grin said,
“Guten Abend, Herr Offizier!”

He chuckled and handed them to his mustached commander, who pocketed his camera and waved me out of the car.

“
You
are Alex Roy? From der Team Polizei!”

“Ja?”

“Bring your copilot friend! Ve must haf a picture altogether!”

Fifty miles and sixteen successfully jammed police laser guns later, we arrived in Vienna. Thousands of cheering Viennese lined the streets leading toward the Hofburg Imperial Palace, where thousands more were held back by the local Polizei—they, too, waving approvingly—as we squeezed through the arch into Josefplatz Square. I reached for the PA handset and greeted them in the only Spanish I knew.

“Hola de la Policía de Barcelona!”

Then my heart stopped. Beyond the edge of the crowd swarming our car, alone on the far side of the square, sat a gleaming red Ferrari 360 Spyder I hadn't seen since London. Nine and I ignored the microphones and cameras pointing at us and stared at each other. A Gumball checkpoint staffer emerged from the crowd.

“Who the hell,” Nine asked him, “are
those
guys?”

“They skipped Prague,” said the staffer, “which makes you first!”

First. It was the proudest moment of my Gumball career, and yet gloating over what only a mere handful might recognize for its actual significance would have been in bad taste. “No one cares about first, though, right Aliray? Because it's not a race—”

“It's a rally,” I said, “and now we get a twenty-minute break, but we leave immediately if and when the tenth car arrives.”

While Nine, Ross, Emma, Muss, and Seamus enjoyed the hot buffet and cash bar in the Hofburg's colossal, high-ceilinged, quadruple-glass-chandeliered dining hall ringed with white columns and gold inlays, I stood by the windows—and listened for engines.

“That's ten!” I yelled. “Saddle up!”

“Remember,” Muss said over predeparture handshakes, “the Hungarians won't give a piss about us speeding, but no matter how fast you
want
to go, no one can navigate there faster than Seamus and I. Don't lose us, you'll regret it!”

 

“Alex, listen, you wanna be first,
be
first, but if you wanna be a man, let Muss and Seamus take this one. It's their town.” Nine was right.

I let off the gas. Ross took our hint. We entered the track grounds, the din of thousands clapping upon hearing our engines rising even louder upon sighting the black Lotus in the lead. “Lo-ret-ta!” they cheered. “Lo-ret-ta!” more cheered as we arrived in central Budapest an hour later, parking in second place beside the Lotus from which Muss and Seamus emerged beaming.

Team Polizei's Gumball 2005 standings were now eleventh, eighth, first, second, and second. Three top-five finishes meant a strong but not insurmountable position. The Hungaroring-to-Budapest leg was only 12 miles—no veteran would consider that a major stage—but six major ones still remained. Everything was going according to plan.

But it was not to be, for Ross broke down twice more in Croatia on the way to Dubrovnik, and wouldn't be able to resolve his recurring rim and tire issues until after that night's ferry delivered us to Bari the next morning.

 

Late that night Ross and I stood freezing on the ferry's bottle-strewn deck, the horde of Gumballers still awake having migrated to the shabby interior lounge behind us, their laughter audible even through the hatches sealed against the wind whipping through my Polizei traffic coat. Among the hundred-odd cars aboard—their sum total value probably greater than the vessel pitching in the Adriatic beneath us—Ross's was one of at least a dozen with a major problem, but we were the only ones not passed out or too drunk to have borrowed every available cell phone in a last-ditch effort to reach a suitable Bentley mechanic in or near the port of Bari. One of the few operable slot machines inside began playing an annoying electronic melody. Cheers ensued. “Bar's fucking closed?” someone yelled. “Bribe the captain!”

Ross turned to me, yet another generous Gumballer's phone against his ear, and I saw sadness in his eyes for the first time. “Mr. Roy, I think it's time we have a serious chat.”

“I've still got two more phones to try.”

He shook his head and led me to the railing farthest from the noise. “Alex, I appreciate all you and Jonathan have done to help, far more than I could have expected from nearly anyone. I shall never forget it, but I also know how much it means to you to place well this year. I've done the calculations on the remaining stages. It's too late for the run to Taormina, but
from
Taormina you may still fulfill your desire. I want you to proceed without me.”

He raised a hand to stop me from expressing my gratitude.

“Alex, there are several very serious drivers here…drivers we've ignored in all our excitement, drivers intent on this illusory ‘victory' you so cherish. You must totally commit to finishing first or second no less than twice…or you might as well slow down and enjoy this costly little vacation with our friends inside.”

“I understand.”

“Then understand that this racing nonsense exists only in our minds, and that one must never let one's ego override a safety decision. Today, Wednesday, doesn't matter. Tomorrow, the Thursday run from Taormina to Rome, I shall not ask. I'm telling you. Be safe.”

The 2005 Gumball had a clear winner, at least according to my totally unofficial calculations of what veterans and fans would consider legitimate. My determination was quite a surprise to all but the winners and the second-place team,
so
close was the margin. After hours of battle over hundreds of miles, the struggle over the final minutes—and the respect concurrently built upon it—can bind temporary enemies more closely than longtime friends.

The 2005 Gumball was the last on which the core group of veterans faced off before retirement, marriage, children, and/or dispersal among other, more secretive events. Were their feats known beyond fragments shared among Gumball fans, they might rightfully take their place among racing's greatest legends. Every Gumball is filled with intraconvoy skirmishes and interconvoy sprints, but an all-out assault on a daily stage, let alone a serious commitment to winning a majority of stages—as I made in 2005—is extraordinarily rare. For two or more such Gumballers to race head-to-head, as Kenworthy and Schmitz did in 2004, is even more so.

One of the greatest such battles in Gumball history has so far remained virtually unknown beyond me, Nine, and the crews of the two other cars.

This is the true story of the Battle of Rome.

THURSDAY, MAY
19, 2005
HOTEL SAN DOMENICO PALACE
TAORMINA, SICILY
305
MILES TO NAPLES LUNCH CHECKPOINT
0815
HOURS (APPROX)

“Dammit!” I yelled, sitting up in the long, wide bed I shared with—one standard male Gumballer's arm length away—Nine, in a pointlessly romantic cliff-side suite overlooking the Mediterranean, typical of those given the other 113 Gumball teams, 97 percent of them male. My bucolic slumber had been interrupted by the most fearsome, terrifying sound in the catalog of race-intentioned Gumballers.

“Mother of God,” he groaned, facedown into his pillow. “What time is it?”

“Engines in the parking lot! Move! Move! Move!”

“Holy shit!” Nine jumped up and ran around the bed—having forgotten he was still wearing his prior night's outfit—and stopped as he rounded the corner to the bathroom. “Aliray, you actually slept in your bishop's outfit?”

“No time for jokes! Meet me at the car! People are leaving!” I stripped off the black floor-length frock in which I successfully asked dozens of people to kiss my hand before the hotel manager suggested I go to my room before the townspeople
“cumma to get you Gumballa peoples!”
I'd had no alternative since the hotels in Prague and Budapest shipped my dirty clothes ahead and my clean clothes home.

I now put on my thrice-worn, oil-soaked, uncomfortably hot, yellow-striped, black polyester police pants, then my black driving boots and last clean shirt—a bright yellow Policia Bicicletta Polo. I sprinted downstairs to the tree-lined parking lot, one of two in which cars had dispersed due to the impossibility of placing three-hundred-odd Gumballers in any one of Taormina's old, convention-unfriendly hotels. I didn't know what time we were to convene in Taormina's main square to receive route cards, but the absence of the two cars Ross had warned me about—and the metallic chorus echoing down Taormina's narrow streets—signaled catastrophe.

I started the engine, booted up the electronics, and waited—sweaty, panicked chills running down my damp seat back. Nine burst out of the hotel and threw his bags into the trunk. The lot had but one apparent exit, a one-way cliff-side road leading not
up
toward the town square but—according to the Garmin—nearly two miles
down
toward Messina before the turn—via a small, winding road—back to Taormina, undoubtedly putting us at the rear of the grid. I circled the lot, but the only other road, taken the prior day from the square to the hotel and
into
the lot—its international “Do Not Enter/One Way” sign no deterrent to someone like myself—was blocked by an enormous tree-trimming truck.

My mind raced, then I read his. “We can't leave until eight-thirty, it's cheating. Muss said the next checkpoint's Naples, then Rome. We'll wait, listen for cars taking off,
we
leave, then you call everyone we know until you've got the exact checkpoint addresses. All the fans watching the online tracking…they'll know we didn't cheat.”

We synchronized our watches to the Garmin,
its
clock synchronized to the seven orbiting GPS satellite signals it was receiving at 100 percent power.

Nine spun his head around to scan the lot. “Where's that black CLK? And the blue Porsche turbo?”

“The guys Ross warned us about? Gone. The black SLR guy's at another hotel.”

“Aliray, the next two minutes are gonna be the worst of our lives. I don't know how you can stay calm, I mean, it would be so easy to cheat…just turn off the CoPilot transponder, sneak out, then turn it on later.”

“Yeah, but Team Polizei stands for the rule of law.”

“One minute,” said Nine, eyes following the nameless crew of a silver Porsche convertible—wisely parked in the shade 50 feet away—lower the top, apply suntan lotion to their pale arms, then inspect the car. “Check it out…we're about to race outta here, and they're checking for bird shit.”

Engines began wailing in the square, the two men's heads turned up to listen, then, as my M5's engine flared, in my rearview mirror I glimpsed both spin toward us with shocked expressions, a flurry of leaves and dust in our wake.

VIA GIUSEPPE LA FARINA—NORTHBOUND
CENTRAL MESSINA, SICILY
APPROACHING CARONTE FERRY LOADING ZONE
0925
HOURS (APPROX)

“Ferry in sight! Text Schtaven for our position! How many cars did we pass on the way here?”

Nine spoke as he typed. “I saw…that silver Porsche with the solar-powered thingie on the roof…a gray Aston…and a black 911. Wow, already? Schtaven reports…we are in the lead!”

“Copy that. Sirens and lights, please. We're still in Italy…so blue-red.” Messina's morning commuters were conveniently law-abiding, obviating the need for the right-wheels-on-the-sidewalk passes necessary during our brief passage through Bosnia two days prior. An inconvenient red light I chose to obey—
one
block shy of the ferry office—inspired Nine to get out and sprint ahead to buy a ticket. I changed my mind regarding the sidewalk, called out over the PA for him to clear it, and made one final loading-position improvement pass. I stopped in front of the thirty-odd civilian cars just as the ferry personnel began beckoning us up the ramp. I handed Nine one of our two rolls of police crime-scene tape, nodded at his disbelieving stare, and got out. Together we sealed off the loading area laterally across the middle of the growing mass of waiting cars, drivers behind the tape watching in bewilderment as those in front followed our Policia M5 up the ramp. Arriving Gumballers, stuck behind the frozen civilians, cursed and yelled at us (and them) as the ramp was raised—the ferry only three-quarters full—and we headed for the mainland.

“Nine, at times like this someone really should call the police.”

Nine reached for the vibrating BlackBerry. “Hang on…Muss reports Naples checkpoint canceled due to crowds. We're going straight to Rome.”

I reprogrammed the Garmin. “That's 434 miles. The ferries leave every fifteen to twenty minutes…so that's our lead over everyone waiting back there.”

“What was that line from the old
Le Mans
movie? What the team captain says to McQueen at the end?”

I knew this by heart.
I want you to drive all-out, I want Porsche to win Le Mans.

“Aliray,
I
want
you
to drive all-out, I want
BMW
to win Gumball.”

“All-out, with a strong lead from the get-go, it's gonna be impossible to beat us.”

“Bad karma, man.”

“All right. Impossible…unless we break down.”

AUTOSTRADA A
3—
NORTHBOUND
UPPER ARCH OF THE ITALIAN FOOT, VICINITY OF CASTROVILLARI
286
MILES TO ROME CHECKPOINT
1230
HOURS (APPROX)

“Thank God that's over.” The first 50 rain-drenched, construction-mired, single-laned miles after the ferry might have been disastrous, but with both shoulders closed no one would be able to pass the numerous trucks. The roadwork ended in the vicinity of Vibo Valentia. We made several 130 mph sprints, interrupted only by sparse traffic through which we cut with feisty use of our lights and sirens.

“It's not over,” said Nine. “Slow down before pieces start falling off the car. You wanna duct-tape the Valentine to the visor before the suction cups pop off the windshield?” The phone rang between his thighs. “Schatven's actually calling? He knows we can barely hear him.”

“Either our lead is incredible, or—”

“Steve J!” Nine yelled. “How you doin', man?” Schtaven's distant, metallic voice droned uninterrupted for nearly 60 seconds, during which I accelerated to 125, we covered two miles, and I took several unusually risky peeks at the Garmin's screen. The most likely news was that Naples had been canceled due to public outcry over Gumball's historic run from Bari to Taormina, which meant
we
were to be the first car hitting the inevitable roadblocks on the way to Rome. There were three methods of escape: (1) take a parallel route, (2) slow down and wait for a large convoy to pass and saturate the authorities' limited resources, or (3) accelerate to maximum speed and try to pass ambush points
before
they were set up.

No parallel Autostrada was in range.

We were at least 45 minutes ahead of the second car.

Gumball's projected arrival in Rome was 6 to 10
P.M
. Our ETA was 3:35
P.M
.—an extraordinary lead even by Gumball standards, which left me no choice.

Full attack. No mercy.

The speedometer passed 130, our speed actually lessening the bumps, however dangerous it was to risk a tire blowout over one we'd approach too quickly for me to react. Jerking the steering wheel would kill us. I passed 135 in the psychotic belief it would bring me closer to hearing Schtaven's report.

Nine spoke for the first time in nearly two minutes and four and a half miles. “Yes, Steve! I got it, but are you sure? Okay…text from now on, just keep those updates coming! Bye!”

“What is it?”

“Only 135? We need to pick up the pace
now
!”

“I knew it! Where's the first roadblock?”

“Roadblock??? Somebody's closing on us!!!”

“What? That's impossible!”

“Aliray,
go
! Pick it up!”

“But the roadwork…the rain…it's…impossible. Who is it?”

“He doesn't know, he's refreshing the Web page every thirty seconds. He's sure
we're
in the lead,
one
car's closing on us, and everyone else is in or just getting out of the construction.”

“Jesus, we've averaged almost a hundred for the last hour! How fast is he going?”

“Schtaven's gonna calculate it and text ASAP.”

“How far behind are they?”

“Halfway between the construction and us.”

Fifty miles. I knew basic math from school, but I was not skilled in the more obscure and now essential discipline of Rally Math. Four and a half rallies into my career, I still had to mumble through the calculations. We were now under 280 miles and three hours from Rome, almost two and a half hours ahead of police expectations. With luck, any roadblocks would be set up
right
after our passing any given ambush point. I might even be able to accelerate their deployment and set a trap for my pursuer. Just one extraordinarily (even by Gumball standards) audacious pass near a busload of nuns or soldiers on leave would encourage calls to the police. Their Alfa Romeos—unable to catch us—would then snare our pursuer.

“Aliray, you're talking to yourself. Just
drive
. Updates are coming.”

“Copy that, sorry…140 it is. Can't do more until the road gets better.”

Nine then said something totally unexpected, a sentiment spoken for the first time in 2,338 miles. “Yes, Alex, you can. Do it. Push.”

AUTOSTRADA A
3—
NORTHBOUND
ANKLE OF THE ITALIAN BOOT, VICINITY OF CASALBUNO
235
MILES TO ROME CHECKPOINT
1300
HOURS (APPROX)

“He's still closing…holy shit! Schtaven says he's halved the distance!”

He'd halved it in 130 miles. I wasn't angry. I wasn't scared. I was amazed. In the 50 miles since learning of our anonymous foe, I had repeatedly sprinted as high as 150. My determination—my obsession—with winning my first-ever head-to-head duel was far greater than the fear that had so dominated my decisions in the past. I was a different man. I was a better driver, with greater limits, and I was now up against the threshold at which the slightest mistake would instantaneously kill us both. And Nine wasn't trying to stop me. But
that
wasn't what amazed me. It wasn't that anyone was better than I was—I could name ten Gumballers with greater raw skill. It wasn't even that the mystery driver was sufficiently better to close the gap between us at
some
point prior to Rome. I was amazed at the
rate
at which he was closing. To have narrowed the gap, after the roadwork, on the 100 miles prior to Castrovillari (now 53 miles behind us), he had to have averaged at least 120 miles an hour.
In the rain.
It could only be a high-performance sports car with all-wheel drive, either a Lamborghini Murcielago or Porsche 996 turbo, driven by a skilled driver of aggression and purpose matching or surpassing my own. Among the three cars Ross warned of, there was only one it could possibly be, driven by a man about whom I knew nothing other than a name.