The Driver Read online

  “Who?” I said.

  “I’m calling from Gumball 3000.”

  “Hold on a second, I’m driving. Let me just pull over. Okay, what did you say?” I didn’t want to appear the overexcited amateur, but it was too late.

  “You’ve been accepted for the 2003 Rally.”

  “That is good news,” I said calmly.

  “We really enjoyed your application. Are you absolutely serious about this Poliz…how do you pronounce it?”

  “Polizei.”

  “Ah, German,” she said. “Of course. And you’re absolutely serious about this…Team Polizei?”

  “Absolutely serious.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “Thank you,” I said with genuine pride.

  “And yet you haven’t decided on a car?”

  Dammit. I hadn’t expected this call so soon. Had it been two…three weeks? “I’m afraid”—I paused—“that’s a secret.”

  “And I’m afraid that won’t do. We like to have a unique mix of cars, you see. We can’t have a hundred fifty Porsches show up at the start.”

  “I see.”

  “And your copilot will be?”

  I was in trouble. “That’s”—I lamely pretended to cough—“also a secret.”

  “That just won’t do. I hope you don’t think us unreasonable, but for insurance purposes we simply must know these things in advance.”

  “Of course. I promise you this. We shall bring an actual German Police Car.”

  “And we”—she chuckled with her first hint of levity—“look forward to seeing it.”

  JANUARY 2000

  “I hate BMWs,” said my father.

  His Cadillac had broken down again; repairs would take weeks. My 1996 Audi A4 had just been struck, for the second time in three years, by a New York City taxi. I’d traded it in and bought the vaunted Audi S4, the twin-turbocharged version of their small sedan. My father hated it, but it was the only way—barring taxis—to get him to the hospital for his treatments.

  Car shopping was the only time we spent together outside the office and hospital. We had a ritual—I suggested cars, he rejected them. I took him to dealerships, he asked to leave. I took him home, he lectured on long-discontinued cars superior to everything we’d seen.

  “What about a nice 740?” I asked. “Paul’s parents have had one for six years. They love it.”

  “Too small. I can fit four people in the back of the Cadillac.”

  “Then get the iL model,” I said, “You know, the long-wheelbase version.”

  “But it’s rear-wheel drive. It’s got that big hump in the center of the backseat.”

  “I don’t think it has the hump anymore.”

  “They’re overpriced,” said my father. “And,” he said, “the ride is terrible.”

  “Car and Driver said it was very comfortable.”

  “They wouldn’t say that if they’d compared it to my Cadillac.”

  I didn’t even bother suggesting a new Cadillac. Everyone knew they were truly terrible at that time.

  “I guess,” I said, “you wouldn’t consider a big Audi.”

  “Overpriced. And the ride is terrible, like your S4.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I had to prop him up against the lobby wall as we waited for a taxi. The doormen who’d known us for two decades looked on quietly. They knew better than to offer him help.

  We rode in silence to the Mercedes dealer on Fifth Avenue, where, despite my support, he nearly fell onto the sidewalk.

  Together we inched through the revolving doors, then shuffled toward a gorgeous black S-class. I helped him into the driver’s seat.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “Terrible. Look at this interior,” he said. “I remember my 450 SEL 6.9. I think it was a ’79. You should have seen the interior. You could take a flamethrower to the dash, like we used in the war. Not a scratch. If Mercedes had been in charge of building those pillboxes—”

  “I remember,” I said, “you told me.”

  “Look!” he said, fingering the plastic buttons. “Terrible.”

  “Let’s head over to Audi. It’s only a block from Lexus, just off the West Side Highway.”

  “I hate the West Side Highway.”

  “Too hard to get a cab?” I said.

  “No, I just hate it.”

  A salesman helped us through the front door, and I hoped this would warm my father to the BMW 7-series on display right inside the entrance. I could see in the salesman’s eyes the struggle to overlook my father’s disheveled appearance. My father was way past caring about fashion. Today he wore his favorite pants, just as he had yesterday, still paint-splattered from the last remaining hobby he had patience or energy for.

  He sat in the driver’s seat. “It feels like a Messerschmitt.” Messerschmitt was one of the primary manufacturers of Luftwaffe fighters during the Second World War. “It’s too German.”

  “But built like a tank,” I said, regretting it immediately.

  “But not as good as my 6.9.”

  “C’mon,” I said. “That was thirty years ago.”

  “My Cadillac is a ’77. It’ll be fixed soon.”

  There was one car I wanted to see—an extraordinarily rare car I’d never seen in person—and I’d read on the BMW forum that one of them was actually here.

  “Do you have the M5?” I asked.

  “Right over here,” said the salesman, who led us toward a jet-black M5 in the far corner.

  The best of any given BMW wears the M badge. Except for the badges, such models are to the untrained eye almost indistinguishable from their lesser and far cheaper brethren.

  “I know you like this,” said my father.

  “I do.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Around $80,000,” said the salesmen with disdain, as if that might deter us from asking more questions.

  “C’est cher,” my father said in French. It’s expensive.

  “Je sais,” I said. I know.

  The salesman looked out the window. He’d seen this before.

  “When you’ve earned it,” my father said in English, “buy yourself a used one.”

  “Really?”

  “All young men need such a car once in their lives. Once you’ve outgrown the need for it, you’ll be a man.”

  “But,” I said, “you had that ’79 911, and the ’87.”

  “But I didn’t need them. And I sold them. This”—he placed one hand on the M5’s roof—“is such a car. When you’re ready, find a used one.”

  “I’m afraid,” the salesman chimed in, “they’re very rare.”

  “The German police use them,” said my father.

  “That was true,” said the salesman, “but now they use M3s.”

  “There was a secret unit,” said my father. “Always the best cars. Porsche, Mercedes. A few years ago they had M5s—” He paused, lost in thought. “Don’t speed in Germany,” he said quietly. “They will catch you, the Germans.”

  “There aren’t any speed limits in Germany,” said the salesman. “That’s why BMWs are engineered the way they are.”

  “But,” said my father without looking at him, “they will still come for you. If they want you. Let’s go.”

  DECEMBER 2002

  In a bizarre confluence of bad luck, timing, and opportunity, my beloved S4 disappeared from a West Village parking spot. I couldn’t believe a thief overcame both the Audi and aftermarket antitheft systems, and the impressive looking Club I’d placed on the steering wheel. I didn’t care about the car being stolen. All I cared about was that the S4 was the last car my father had ridden in beside me.

  I had to find it. I had to see it. In any condition.

  I spent that night in bed feeling my first-ever empathy with those who taped “Lost Pet” flyers to the neighborhood lampposts.

  My phone rang the next morning at 9:01. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” said the police officer.

&n
bsp; “Bad news first,” I said, my father’s son.

  “The car’s been stripped.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Somebody drove the crap out of it. Dumped it in the Jersey swamps. It’s in a lot in Newark.”

  This was like a Kentucky Derby–winning Thoroughbred being kidnapped, forced into pulling tourists around Central Park for one day, then shot and dumped in the East River. I’d have felt better if the thieves had shipped the car to Mexico and sold it to some car-loving mobster who won drag races against men he’d then tie to the bumper and drag through town.

  “Is it drivable?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Call Paul at Par Cars,” I said, writing down the number. “He’ll pick it up.” And sell it for me, as soon as possible, to someone who’d nurse it toward better days in a second life. I was willing to take a loss to see this happen.

  I wanted an M5.

  I scoured the Internet for used M5s in BMW’s green or blue—traditional Polizei colors. What the salesman had said in 2000 remained true—M5s were rare. Buying a new one at $90,000 + was inconceivable. I called dozens of BMW dealers, placed myself on their used M5 mailing lists, and prayed.

  FEBRUARY 2003

  “Who the—” sputtered Paul Reznick of Par Porsche, at whose dealership I’d arranged inspection of my new purchase, “—who…who the hell owned this? Who sold you this M5?”

  “Why do you ask?” I said.

  “It’s all wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably gray market. We’ll have to check the VIN numbers. Look at the air dam and mirrors—not U.S. spec. And look at the paint on the front right. All resprayed. Some kind of accident. And it looks like a European model that was only partially converted. The dash is wrong, too, and the radio is set to German.”

  “Should I give it back?”

  “And look at this,” Paul said, sitting in the driver’s seat. “Only 5,700 miles after three years. Barely driven. Strange.”

  “You think this thing’s gonna make it?”

  “The 5-series is built like brick shithouse,” Paul said.

  “How long for the modifications?”

  FEBRUARY 2003

  “Don’t ask,” said The Weis. “I’m still not coming.”

  “Guess what I’m calling my team.”

  “Try me.”

  “Team Polizei…awesome, right?”

  “Aliray, I’ve known you a long time…but this…this!”

  “I’ve got the uniforms and everything.”

  There was silence between us, the first such silence in as long as I could remember. Neither of us was ever at a loss, ever.

  “You,” he said, “really are crazy. I wish you the best of luck. Really.”

  “Is there any chance,” I said, “any chance at all, that you’ll reconsider?”

  “I told you…if you want help prepping the car, fine. But I’m not coming with you. Not for this. Not on Gumball.”

  I needed a copilot. Badly. The criteria were harsh, but if I could meet them, someone else had to be able to. I needed someone with:

  1. Experience driving stick, with club and/or actual racing experience.

  2. Ten days free. Two days’ preparation time and time zone adjustment, six days of Gumballing, and two days of drinking, bragging, and recovery. This one is a notorious job and marriage buster for many Gumballers. You’d be surprised how many wealthy people don’t have ten days to spare, at least not for something like this. Those with enough money to do Gumball are usually too busy with work (in banking, law, etc.), or married to spouses who’d prefer to be taken on a nice safe vacation during their limited joint free time.

  3. The willingness to drive aggressively, but not recklessly.

  4. A clean driving record.

  5. A clean criminal record.

  6. A full head of hair. Two bald men in German police uniforms? Too Teutonic.

  7. The ability to pass a drug test.

  8. $8,000, for half the entry fee.

  9. At least $10,000 more in disposable income.

  10. Shamelessness sufficient to wear a fake police uniform for a week.

  11. Fearlessness sufficient to wear a fake police uniform for a week.

  12. A really good sense of humor.

  13. Knowledge of foreign accents, preferably German.

  14. A serious girlfriend, wife, if not children. Any of these, especially children, would mitigate the likelihood of a gloriously suicidal pass killing us both.

  The Weis was theoretically perfect; he was getting married that August. I would have suggested he ask his fiancée Astrid’s approval, except that she was my ex-girlfriend.

  Nine was next, but I couldn’t possibly ask him to sacrifice the money he was saving for his engagement to Becky, his adorably fit twenty-six-year-old blond girlfriend. All his male friends strongly supported this union, but they’d probably also (if only out of jealousy) tell him he was crazy not to accompany me. I didn’t want Gumball to become a point of contention so early in their relationship.

  I’d have to go outside my immediate circle. Money would be key—I had tons of friends who met almost all the criteria, save the money. I couldn’t possibly afford to pay my copilot’s way, let alone front the $8,000 deposit without an ironclad commitment. I’d read posts on the Gumball forums about copilots who’d backed out at the last minute, forcing The Drivers to attempt to sell their slots. Gumball’s contract forbade this, and I couldn’t risk it. If someone had the money, I was reluctant but ready to compromise on the other criteria, as a last resort.

  The most obvious demographic were the very people I’d often mocked for their hubris and empty materialism—bankers between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty-five. They were the most likely to have $18,000 to blow, yet the least likely to approach Gumball as anything other than a series of parties punctuated by daily road trips. I couldn’t imagine spending a week in a car (and a hotel room) with someone I had nothing in common with, but I had no alternative.

  MARCH 2003

  “I’ve got the perfect person,” said my dear friend Alex Chantecaille.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “My boyfriend, Dave.”

  This sounded bad. When it came to cars, there were only three kinds of women: the rare few who actually knew how to drive, those who were terrified of their boyfriends’ driving, and those who thought their boyfriends were the best drivers ever, even if they sucked.

  “Why Dave?” I asked.

  “He’s the best driver. You have to meet him.” Oh boy. “Call him,” she said. “You’ll see.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Maher.”

  I was desperate. With only four weeks to departure, I’d sat through dozens of interviews, almost all of them beginning and ending with, as expected, a late-twentysomething banker explaining how he was going to “kick ass,” “kick some ass,” “kick ass and take names,” and/or “kick all their asses.”

  At least the latter was ambitious.

  I awaited Dave Maher at La Goulue, a highly rated French restaurant on Madison Avenue that I would never have gone to unless I was meeting my mother for lunch, or interviewing a Gumball driver who’d suggested it because he lived in the neighborhood.

  Although I liked Chantecaille—she was one of the few New York socialites who, like Melanie, was genuinely intelligent and lacking in pretension—I was ready to dislike Maher as soon as I saw him.

  A tall, classically handsome all-American banker type with tousled short black hair, he looked like a young Shakespearean actor who’d rejected the role of Superman because the film was beneath him.

  “You must be Alex,” he said stiffly.

  “Drink?”

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  Finally, someone without airs. “Chantecaille,” I said, “tells me you’re a great driver.”

  “Well, I like going to the track. Club events. You?”

  And finally, someone with real dr
iving experience—professional track experience superior to mine.

  “Not really,” I said. “Did some Audi Club events. Whaddya drive?”

  “A Porsche 930.”

  The lightweight, turbocharged, and exceedingly rare (in uncrashed condition) Porsche 930 was one of the most dangerous 911 variants ever made. Nine once said 930 owners who hadn’t met the nearest tree were damn good drivers, or liars.

  “Four-speed?” I asked, just to make sure he wasn’t lying.

  “Yup.”

  He owned one. “Maher, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven,” he said, followed by an instantly resentful, “Why?”

  “Because,” I said, “anyone who owns that car is lucky to be alive. Anyone who owns that car under forty must be fucking good.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’m pretty good. Getting better.”

  Proud, but modest. I didn’t think I’d ever heard a Porsche or Ferrari driver under forty admit to being anything less than “fucking great” behind the wheel.

  “Do you drink?” I asked.

  “As much as anyone else, I guess, but not on school nights.”

  I knew Chantecaille. He was telling the truth. “Drugs?” I asked.

  “C’mon.”

  I knew where he worked. Morgan Stanley tested regularly.

  “So Gumball,” he said, “what do you know about the rules. How does it work?”

  “No idea.”

  “I know it’s a rally…but it looks like some of these guys take it pretty seriously.”

  “So do I.”

  “What kind of car are you going to bring?”

  “A 2000 M5.”

  Our time together on this earth, and my premature assumption of a grossly inflated bill for two drinks, depended on the correct answer—followed by precisely the right question.

  “Good Gumball car,” he said with knowing sincerity. “Big V8. How’s the fuel economy?”

  In that instant Maher became the first interviewee in banking to demonstrate any knowledge of math, fuel economy, and/or Gumball car selection. Given how many I’d interviewed, I felt bad for their clients.

  “Twenty-two on the highway,” I said.

  “Bet that’s a lot worse at Gumball speeds.”