The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  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.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Total War: The Battle of Rome

  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 A3—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 A3—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.

  “ETA!” I barked. “What’s the ETA to intercept?”

  “Schtaven’s working on it.”

  “Our average is moving up…101! If he’s still closing, with all the slow parts, he’s gotta be running that Porsche into the 170s!”

  “How do you know it’s a Porsche?”

  “It’s the blue Porsche with the white stripe! Spencer something with a B, semipro track guy, old-school Gumballer. Had a Ferrari in ’04, Ross said he’s one of the best!”

  “Like Kenworthy best?”

  “Maybe. I thought he was one of these mattress-testing playboys. Boy, was I wrong.”

  “You’ve never been more wrong in your life.”

  Schtaven’s calculations suggested that unless I dramatically increased our average—which would require consistent speeds above 160, nearly impossible given traffic and road conditions—we’d be intercepted in the vicinity of Battipaglia, approximately 50 miles ahead. Not intercepted. Passed. Even 140 was difficult to sustain, and yet Spencer was greatly surpassing my theoretical safe limit.

  “You wanna pick it up more, Aliray, be my guest.”

  “One forty-five it is. Ask Schtaven if he can speed up the reports. And ask him to look up Spencer on the Gumball site, and check to see if his
team number matches the CoPilot icon.”

  “Approaching Battaglia,” Nine said 20 minutes later. “Schtaven confirms it is Team 35, Bourne, S., UK, Porsche 996 TT, Race Spec, X50. Codriver unlisted. He reports car still closing, but at a slower rate, and congratulates you on finding your manhood.”

  “He said what?”

  “Team 35, Bourne, S.—”

  “Niiiine! The last part!”

  “Well, he actually wrote…‘it’s nice to see you stick your cock out.’”

  “Nine, write back that I expect to see him out here in his thousand-horsepower Supra lawn mower next year, or else.”

  “You’re doing this next year? Are you insane? Isn’t this enough?”

  “We’ll see. ETA to intercept?”

  “He says…our new higher speed has now slightly delayed the intercept, but that he’s no more than ten or fifteen minutes behind.”

  “Time for the police lights. Hit the front white strobes, that’ll clear traffic ahead, and the rear red-blue! Italian drivers are like New York cabbies, they always follow emergency vehicles. That’ll slow him down.”

  “You know this guy at all?”

  “Spencer? No, but it’s gonna drive him crazy. Get out the binoculars, eyes open to the rear. We have to keep talking to each other no matter what happens. Things are gonna get complicated real fast.”

  AUTOSTRADA A3—NORTHBOUND

  MIDSHIN OF THE ITALIAN BOOT, APPROACHING SALERNO

  170 MILES TO ROME CHECKPOINT

  1335 HOURS (APPROX)

  “Five minutes or less!” Nine yelled, turning again to sit on his knees facing rearward. “Can’t see shit with the binocs at these speeds!”

  “See anything blue??!?!?”

  “Not yet.” Nine flipped back into his seat. “Schtaven’s refreshing the Web page now…he says…the icon’s right on top of us!”