I wasn’t upset upon discovering that our car had been sabotaged overnight. I was fascinated. Having determined that the saboteur’s placement of a rotting trout in the Bentley’s air dam had loosened several screws vital to its stability at high speed, Ross immediately fashioned new locking brackets out of three wire hangers and a handful of cable ties. I didn’t care about having to forfeit that day’s leg through Serbia to Belgrade. We already had a commanding lead in the overall stage rankings. All I could think about was what might have happened had Ross been in the M5, stopped in Oklahoma just one month earlier.
SUNDAY, MAY 7, 2006
HARD ROCK CAFE HOTEL AND CASINO
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
FINAL MORNING OF GUMBALL
“Sabotage again?” said Ross, putting a good face on his worsening flu as he knelt beside me behind the GT. “Who was it this time, Mr. Roy?”
I snipped off the last long strip of cellophane that had only five minutes earlier wrapped the entire car. “Well, since the key to sabotage is for the maximum possible inconvenience to be wrought upon the target by a proportionally lesser act, I’d say this was the work of—”
“A lesser intellect?”
“Yes, I’d attribute this, the London salmon, the London license plate theft, the Budapest trout, the Salt Lake stink bomb, and the Budapest dog shit on the door handles…all of it to Ed Leigh.” Leigh, perennial host of the Gumball TV show, had been tasked with annoying us—for the viewers’ entertainment, theoretically—which, given our resilience and his failure to impede our progress, had led to increasingly juvenile and dangerous pranks.
“Mr. Ross, we need to make a strong showing.”
“A statement.”
“We need to be first, and not by a little bit. It can’t be close.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m talking about a huge margin, Master Pilot Ross.”
“But of course, Mr. Roy.”
“No mercy.”
One critical problem remained. I’d failed to repair or replace the external Garmin antennas essential to navigating the 381 miles of the final stage through Death Valley to the finish line in Beverly Hills. The Bentley’s insulated glass blocked the built-in antennas’ reception, and the factory system—like the ALK CoPilot—wasn’t designed to replot routes or render and update maps at speeds in excess of 100 mph.
We needed help.
ROUTE 190 WEST
DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK
235 MILES FROM RODEO DRIVE FINISH LINE
“It means they’re tracking us!” I yelled over the 120 mph wind roaring in through Ross’s open window. “Some of them! Maybe all of them!”
“How do you mean?” he yelled back.
“Look at the CoPilot! It’s suggesting taking this to U.S. 395, then following that all the way to L.A. Just keep holding the Garmin out the window until it gets the plot—”
“How much longer do you suppose? It’s getting rather sandy in here—ah! There it is!” He raised his window before placing the sandblasted Garmin back in its dash-top mount. “I hope this was worth it. I also hope your unit wasn’t destroyed.”
I wiped the display with my thumb. “Yes! You see? The Gumball-recommended CoPilot route is 250 miles, but my gut tells me that one of these tiny roads off to our left can shave at least 20 or 30 off that.”
“If we don’t get lost or run out of gas.”
“Better yet, Mr. Ross, if one or more of our pursuers really is tracking us, I mean calling their girlfriends back home to check the ALK site to find out where we’re going, that is precisely what I hope will happen, but not to us!”
“Mr. Roy…you truly are a bad man.”
“That’s not all. Our little Porsche friends are somewhere in that row of red cars following us. I have something very special in mind.” I grabbed the CB handset to address the car directly behind us, a black Ford GT with white stripes, the only Gumball car ever equipped as well as the Polizei M5, a car copiloted by one Dr. Gruene (aka Eric Ward), a first-timer whose psychotic professionalism matched my own, and the driver, a former enemy whom we alone—despite his history—had chosen not to underestimate. Gumball had forbidden him from participating as aggressively as in the past, but nothing prevented him from convoying in relative and cooperative safety with Team Polizei, even if we were in the lead.
“Dr. Greune, this is the Polizei, do you copy?”
“Gruene’s busy on the Garmin, Polizei, this is Jerry, over.”
“Our Garmins are out. Can you take the lead and plot a shortcut off one of these side roads?”
“Copy that, Polizei…Dr. Gruene projects…next left in two miles…Wildrose Road. Will save at least 25 miles. Aren’t you worried about all these guys following us?”
“Let’s make the turn. I’ve got an idea. Stand by.”
We made the turn. A line of red and black dots followed in the mirror.
“What next, Mr. Roy?”
“We turn off the CoPilot so no one can track us or follow us. This route is definitely not in their CoPilots.”
“Mr. Roy, you really are far worse than I thought.”
“Oh, there’s more. We refueled in Las Vegas and our fuel is already low, which means every car following us that didn’t fill up is even lower. And if any of them can hear their radar detectors, when they light up they’re gonna brake hard. And we can assume that if they see us accelerating, they’re going to think it’s safe, and punch it to catch up, and if that happens a couple of times, they’re going to run out of gas on this road, and—”
“Mr. Roy”—Ross smiled, taking the CB from my hand—“you drive. Please allow me…Hello? This is Mr. Ross from Team Polizei, do you copy?”
“Ten-four, Mr. Ross, this is Jerry.”
“Why, hello there. Mr. Roy has two requests…first is that you turn off your ALK unit, over.”
“That’s a Ten-four.”
“Mr. Roy would also like permission to pass. I do believe you know why.”
“Dr. Gruene is already laughing, over.”
“Thank you so very much. Now, if you would be so kind…Torquenstein, please deploy the radar drone.”
Torquenstein’s Ford GT was equipped with the one item I’d long considered unethical, yet now essential given our foes’ lack of spirit—a rearward-facing police radar gun. As expected, multiple blasts emitted minutes apart elicited enormous clouds of sand and dust to our rear, our pursuers responding as I predicted.
I hoped no one we liked was back there. I rationalized this as a civic duty ensuring everyone—except us and our coconspirators, of course—a slower, safer drive. By the third blast, our pursuers were but red and black dots in the mirror. Through his tears Ross handed me a second handkerchief. I made a mental note to procure—if I ever rallied again—a boxful. Laughing blindness was extraordinarily dangerous at any speed, but more so at 140 mph.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Ross as I turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, 250 miles and two and a half hours later. “Torquenstein and Gruene…”
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. It’s the right thing to do.”
“How far are we from Rodeo Drive?”
“With lights and sirens, less than five minutes.”
With legitimate first-place finishes into four out of nine checkpoints so far, we already had an insurmountable lead. There was only one thing left to do for our friends in the black Ford GT in our mirror.
“Torquenstein, this is Mr. Ross, do you copy?”
“Ten-four, this is Torquenstein.”
“Mr. Roy and I propose we pull into the finish line side by side.”
“Copy that, Polizei. FYI, people tracking us are saying we’ve been fighting it out all afternoon.”
“Now, that is a good one.”
Ross and I were minutes away from our first unequivocal Gumball victory—for time—verified and validated by our on-board cameras, fans, witnesses, and the ALK CoPilot tracks.
But the celebration wasn’t ours alone.<
br />
“Mr. Ross, please tell them drinks are on me until midnight.”
We made the final turn. The LAPD moved the barriers and waved us through. Rodeo Drive was devoid of cars except for those that had skipped the Death Valley checkpoint. They beckoned us forward, toward the end of the street, where Grimaldi had held them open—just for us.
Of the thousand-odd people watching as we shook hands with Team Torquenstein, there was but one I noticed as she approached from across the street—a slim young woman with short platinum hair, dressed all in white, pulling a wheeled suitcase. She’d come to surprise me. We both smiled, and for a moment I saw another, happier life in which the only wheeled transportation I used was a bicycle. It might not have been too late, but then Maggie saw beside me the Englishman she’d heard so much about, and I saw in her eyes recognition of terrible plans still in motion.
“The bunnies are waiting for you,” said the Gumball TV show’s producer. “Michael, Alex…what are you doing? We’ve got to get a shot of the winners with the bunnies!”
“Just one moment,” said Ross, the two of us standing at the edge of the Playboy Mansion’s outdoor pool, just a few feet away from a pair of rouge-cheeked, fuchsia-clad, round-bottomed, fishnet-legged, high-heeled, bunny-eared cougars seated upon a large rock, their mottled skin aglow under the TV lights. Dozens of Gumballers lurked around them in a tightening semicircle, pondering when and how best to proceed. “Alex and I need just one moment of privacy.”
“Good thinking,” I said semisarcastically, “a thousand people crowded around us, and not one of them will pay attention to us as long as those bunnies are sitting there.”
“An incredible run, Alex, the most exhausting Gumball yet. We should be proud of ourselves. Really, first has a quality all its own.”
“Just tell me.”
“The truth is, if you and I, who have nothing in common besides Gumball, who travel in vastly disparate social circles, are now among the two most veteran drivers in our little circle, and if neither of us has found the slightest shred of evidence of any such secret races among like-minded gentlemen, then—”
“You’ll do it?”
“If no one else is taking the leap, it would seem all the more reason.”
“Mr. Ross, is that a commitment?”
Ross, the only five-time veteran I know of—who, despite his flu, had ridden 3,000 and flown 14,000 miles in eight days, driven up to six hours per day, slept no more than five each night, fixed the car twice, and retained his composure and humor throughout—looked tired. If he had twenty-four hours to recover, I knew he’d get back in the GT and drive me the 2,794 miles home to New York. If he had five months to prepare, I knew he could—and would—take Nine’s place.
But, for the first time since we met, Ross didn’t have a ready answer.
“Michael, I’m serious. I need to know. If you need more time, or if you want to see all my research—”
“Alex, does anyone other than yourself think 32:07 can be broken?”
“Only Rawlings.”
“Perhaps someone who’s done some research? To the degree you have?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“And your driving protocols…you know we only used them perhaps fifty percent of the time, and only on the American leg. On my behalf, I wouldn’t quite call that an audition, or even slightly adequate practice. I want you to be perfectly honest. How much more difficult is the full cross-country? Surely—”
“Bad.” I paused to avoid giving the impression I was joking, or exaggerating.
“I’m sure.” He nodded. “I see it in your face. You never laugh when discussing it.”
“One Express driver said it made anything on a track look pathetic. Anything.”
“Is that all?”
“Another guy said Paris-Dakar was the only thing worse.”
“On that basis alone”—Ross chuckled—“I’ll do it. But there is another matter. Jon has a lot invested in this, and in you. I can’t go until he’s fully withdrawn, out of respect for him and, I think, sensitivity to your friendship. I think Mr. Goodrich will need a little more time than you’ve given him. A lot, perhaps.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I told him I’d ask you. He said you were the only one he felt comfortable with taking his seat.”
“Too kind, but I say you give him until July or August. But, Alex…you have a decision to make. I want to do it, but you need to do it. The logistics, the film crew, the spotter plane, it doesn’t seem likely you’ll pull them together again. This Cory woman, and Weismann and Baskett…you have to make it this time. You need her, and no pilot-for-hire can be trusted, or remotely as committed as your current air support. So, the odds of success decrease with every naked run thereafter. The question for this next one is…if you’re stopped by the police even once, what would be the effect, positive or negative, of a foreign national at the helm?”
I wanted to lie, to him and myself, but it was too late for such machinations.
“I don’t know, Ross.”
“Then you best find out, and since this is so important, please allow me to take care of the bunnies while you call your attorney. And I’ll find out whether any possible criminal charges may hinder future visits to your fine country. It would be highly unfortunate were I unable to visit my American girlfriend.”
“Ross…you have an American girlfriend?”
“By then, I may. Now go pay attention to your little Maggie before she gets upset. She’s more popular here than the bunnies, and she came a long way to surprise you. Wait…you have told her you’re going again, haven’t you?”
“We haven’t discussed it since—”
“Alex, you must tell her immediately. You musn’t drag it out even for a second. To lose her slowly, to hurt her slowly, it’s far worse than any crime you may commit come October. She’s quite lovely, by the way. If I didn’t know what you had in mind, I’d say you were a fool.”
“Are you in jail?” said Seth, the waves crashing against the sand in front of his New Jersey beach house. This was always his first question when I called on weekend nights. “Because if you’re not, I’m hanging up right now. It’s Sunday.”
“I’m free, I’m in L.A., and I’m safe.”
“What’s all that noise in the background?”
“I’m standing in front of the Playboy Mansion.”
“(A) The last good party there was when I was your age. (B) You’re a jerk. (C) You have 30 seconds.”
He cut me off at precisely 30. “Check your e-mail, smart-ass. You and your buddies aren’t going to like the spreadsheet of applicable laws I sent you.”
“But what if I bring a foreigner?”
“(A) Don’t do this. (B) How the hell should I know? There’s probably fifty thousand cops employed by all the departments in all the jurisdictions you’re going through. One guy may hate Italians, another guy Germans. Where’s your friend from?”
“England.”
“At least he speaks English. That might help if you’re stopped. My advice is to take a long hard look at the spreadsheet. Even if you make it safely, there are places you may never be able to go again. Think about whether you want to risk everything your parents gave you. Think about the fantastic girlfriends you turned your back on for this. Think about the business.”
“Look, if you’re not going to turn me in, do you have any useful advice?”
“Go fall in love. Be happy, have kids…and don’t call me again until you’ve changed your mind, or it’s over.”
“I’m sorry, Seth.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be safe. I care about you. I’m going back to my kids now. Good-bye.”
I went back inside and found Maggie talking to Seamus and Muss, who had flown in from Budapest for Gumball’s finale party. Other than Ross, they were the only two I trusted to keep her—the only female present not employed by Playboy—unmolested while I was gone. I apologized to her for running off.
“Must hav
e been really important!” Seamus bellowed. “Good God, man! First you bring a fine young lady to this den of filth, then you leave her to make a phone call?”
“Wasn’t she safe with you?”
“I,” he said, beating his chest, “would never leave my date with any ex–British army officer who wears a kilt to the Playboy Mansion!”
“Sorry, guys, I had to call my attorney.”
Maggie took both my hands in hers and looked into my eyes. “Did you really just call him?”
We returned home the next day. The countdown continued, but for us, it was too late.
Cory and I spoke for an hour virtually every morning and night. She, too, existed in a tunnel whose only exit was some four-odd months away. We discussed Ross’s keen remark. Cory and I would go as often as necessary, but the next run was likely the last time PolizeiAir would deploy with The Weis and the Captain at the controls. It was our last chance to deploy multiple film crews within the film’s budget and timetable. If another assault was required in early 2007, the cost of hiring private pilots and camera crews—essential for documenting our effort for posterity—would force a decision. If I truly believed what I’d told myself for nearly six years, personal bankruptcy would be a small price to pay compared to the alternative. If I had to raise money, that would betray everything I held dear. The canon of modern automotive entertainment—the street-racing videos on YouTube, and films like The Fast and the Furious—made that clear; 32 Hours, 7 Minutes would probably be the first and last effort to respectfully document an epic, untold chapter in American history.
The Driver. Secret races. The Wall. Perhaps those days were over.
I no longer cared. One thing remained.
I was going to drive coast-to-coast as fast as possible—over and over, crushing the beehive, if necessary—until I got there. Fast. Just once.
I had to do it this time.
“Wasssuuuup? Miss me, Mr. Pol-eez-eye?”
“Rowwwww-lingsz!” I yelled back across the Soho House’s sixth-floor lounge. I hadn’t been there in months, but the 2006 Bullrun’s impending departure from New York demanded that I leave the house. I took malicious glee in booking their most prominent table for dinner with five of the world’s most infamous road-going outlaws. The 9:30 crowd still contained the more conservative post-work drink holdovers, but somehow I knew Rawlings and his entourage wouldn’t need cars to scatter these pigeons. “Wilkommen!” I called out. “Wilkommen im der Soho Haus!”
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