The Driver (6 page)

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.

“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 driving 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.”

“Maher,” I said, deadpan, “do you think you have a sense of humor?”

“None.”

Sarcasm cloaked in nonchalance, a clean criminal and driving record, ten days free—he'd be perfect, especially if we were pulled over by actual police. I didn't need to ask him if he could afford it—he wasn't the type of person who'd have shown up and wasted a stranger's time if he couldn't.

“Maher,” I said, leaning back with my undrunk glass of red wine in hand, as if asking Watson why he'd accompany Holmes on yet another outing he thought futile, “why exactly do you want to do this?”

“I've wanted to go since the moment I watched the cars leave New York last year.”

“But,” I said, “why are you
here
?”

“Everybody talks about Gumball, but no one really wants to go and put it on the line.”

He'd just given me the single most critical piece of information I required. There was more to the proud, distant, yet surprisingly modest Maher, but I could wait to learn the rest during the 200-odd hours we'd spend planning, preparing, and driving over the next six weeks.