The Driver (3 page)

There was no point trying to explain the
why
. The Weis was a rational person who did a cost/benefit analysis on everything. Whenever I knew I'd lose a debate with him, it was time to invent a seemingly good
new
reason that might get him to go along, which, even after twenty years of friendship, seldom worked.

“First of all,” I said, “it's good practice for Paris, and secondly…the whole point of redoing
Rendezvous
in Paris is to get The Driver's attention so he'll contact me. But buying the appropriate car, shipping it to Paris, shooting it, publicizing it…it seems like an expensive long shot. Doing this in New York will be a lot cheaper, and if I post the video on the Internet, it'll get to him eventually.”

The Weis shook his head. “I'm afraid I think you just made that all up, but I'll give you credit—it'll be a lot cheaper. But a bad idea at a lower price is still a bad idea. Let's think about this. Your dad said the only way to find The Driver is by having a ‘Rendezvous,' which you think means a
Rendezvous
in Paris, which means a Paris run is some kind of road test for entry into this ridiculous club he's running.”

“But
Rendezvous
in New York will be a lot more dramatic.”

“
If
The Driver is watching street racing videos on the Internet.”

“Wouldn't he?”

“Somehow, a secretive guy who's been organizing illegal cross-country races for the last twenty years doesn't seem like the kind of guy who's sifting through crappy street-racing Websites hoping to find you.”

“But it'll make good practice.”

“For something you may have to do anyway, if you're going to be stubborn about this bullshit.”

“But I
want
to do this in New York. It's my city.”

“Now you're getting into other issues.” The Weis shook his head. “Promise me one thing. You've got your brother and mother to look after. Just write up a will before you try.”

“Done, but will you help?”

“Who loves
this
guy?” The Weis smiled.

“
That
guy.”

“Let's be practical…you really think you can lap Manhattan in twenty minutes or less?”

“Actually, The Weis, I was thinking of a Ford Crown Victoria, painted like a taxi, or a police car.”

“Those might work if you ditched the paint job idea, but there's really only one choice.”

“What's left?”

“A Subaru WRX.”

 

Rendezvous
remained shrouded in mythology greater than the Gumball 3000, Cannonball Run, and all the illegal underground races ever, combined.

The facts were these: In 1976, the highly respected French director Claude Lelouch mounted a 16mm color camera to the front bumper of a Mercedes 450 SEL 6.9. Departing the west side of Paris just after dawn, Lelouch drove across the city in less than nine minutes, finishing in front of the Sacré-Coeur cathedral in Montmartre, where the stunning Gunilla Friden (his then girlfriend, who had been Miss Sweden, 1968) ran up the cathedral steps to embrace the black-turtle-necked driver.

Lelouch allegedly screened the film in Paris in 1978, was arrested, the film permanently banned in France and Lelouch forbidden ever to speak of it. This seemed to explain why the film was almost impossible to obtain for nearly twenty-five years, restricted to $50 VHS copies traded over the Internet and shown among car fanatics.

Rendezvous
in New York wouldn't be easy. The Paris
Rendezvous
route was just over seven miles. Manhattan Island was 13.4 miles long, a circumferential route twice that, and the island wasn't ringed by a single road, which would force me to run multiple red lights on city streets. The most obvious problems were that even the world's best driver probably couldn't cover a 26-mile course in under twenty minutes, I wasn't nearly
that
good, and even the world's biggest car fan would have to be strapped down to sit through anything that long.

I had to shorten the route, skipping Manhattan's northernmost quarter around Inwood and Washington Heights. Given the reputation of those neighborhoods' police precincts, this would have obvious additional benefits.

The start line was obvious—the World Trade Center. The WTC was the most dramatic location in lower Manhattan, and it was only two blocks from Manhattan's southern tip and the beginning of the FDR Drive.

The final time target was twenty minutes or less.

On the final run there'd be no stopping for anything, except a jaywalker.

Maybe.

 

“A Subaru,” said The Weis.

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“It's on every reviewer's top-ten list.”

“I know, I know—”

“There's really no other car,” The Weis explained. “Think about it. If you were on a track, a Porsche or Ferrari would be the obvious choice, but New York streets suck. The closest thing would be dirt roads, like on Paris-Dakar or the Baja 1000. You need a car with big fat tires, lots of suspension travel, four-wheel drive, and tons of acceleration.”

“If I ditch the four-wheel drive,” I said, “it sounds like a cab
would
work, like a Ford Crown Vic.”

“That's why cabbies use them, but they still won't have the handling you want.”

I owned an Audi S4, a fantastic four-wheel-drive turbocharged sedan that fit 90 percent of the bill. The primary problem was that it sat low to the ground.

“You can't use the Audi,” said The Weis, reading my mind. “That was the last car you and your dad ever sat in together. Show some respect.”

 

Lelouch had a single spotter at the north end of the Louvre tunnel—I'd need a lot more help than that, and a lot more redundancy.

With a stack of nondisclosure agreements and a crate of two-way radios, I intended to ask at least a dozen trusted friends/accomplices to stand guard at the traffic lights and block westbound traffic. This would be yet another problem, as there was absolutely no upside for my blockers other than bragging rights, something that would put me in jail for multiple crimes long before the statute of limitations ran out.

And there was yet
another
problem, which was that my girlfriend at the time refused to cooperate in the final touch which might elevate my effort into distant orbit around Lelouch's achievement.

She refused to meet me at the finish line.

My heart fractured hourly over this refusal. Her reasons made perfect sense, but I'd hoped that beyond her accusations of irresponsibility she might grasp the leap I was attempting to make between this admittedly absurd plan and the kernel of purpose my father had bestowed upon me. I'd long believed that for every thousand acts of pointlessness, there was one that justified the vain hopes of those who'd failed, that I, in this instance, would not become a statistic, and that she might surprise me.

Famous last words.

 

Other than The Weis, there was really only one other friend I trusted in this endeavor. Jon Goodrich, who shall hereafter be referred to as Nine, had been the coolest nonsnob at my high school's rival school.

Nine was one of the only private school kids I knew who dropped out of college, but, to his credit, he did it out of loyalty, choosing to go into the family business, which, like mine, involved cars. In the summer of 1990, Nine was rumored to have set the fastest-ever time from Manhattan's Upper East Side to Riverdale in the Bronx, the suburb where our schools lay. This seemed a good opening upon which to build a friendship, and it was around that time Nine became close friends with The Weis. Given the latter's lack of patience for bullshit, social climbers, liars, and trust-fund kids, I knew Nine was one of us.

This was the other thing that bound us. Pater Goodrich had passed away not long before my own, and my father had immediately given Nine a job at Europe By Car. When my father passed away, I quickly learned not only who my real friends were, but how grateful and loyal Nine was, and would prove to be.

One more thing.

Nine's first answer was always yes.

 

“This is one of the worst ideas you've ever had,” said Nine. “What does The Weis think?”

“He's already agreed to help.”

“Don't lie to
this
guy.” Nine shook his head.

“Seriously.”

“That's bullshit.” He leaned back on my sofa. “So what's the plan?”

My plan was to have Nine organize the traffic-intersection blocking teams, one at the Harlem entrance of the West Side Highway, and one each at every westbound traffic intersection on the West Side Highway between Fifty-ninth Street and the World Trade Center. Radio interference prevented use of the RadioShack walkie-talkies I'd already tested, so we'd default to a sequential cell-phone tree that would alert the blockers to don their reflective-orange traffic officer vests, step out into each intersection, and hold up a bright red police baton. Each would prevent westbound traffic from turning south onto the West Side Highway, hopefully just long enough for me to run every red light between Fifty-ninth Street and the finish line. I hoped that would be fifteen seconds or less per blocker, or whatever it took to avoid my having an accident, and them getting arrested for police impersonation.

“Dude,” said Nine, “I knew this was a bad idea, but that's the worst fucking plan ever.”

“You have a better plan?”

“You have a better idea?”

“No.”

Nine scratched his stubble. “And The Weis signed off on this?”

“Yup.”

“Do I have to call him to see if you're lying?”

“C'mon,” I said.

“Then I'm in.”

“Who loves
this
guy?”

“This guy!”

“Nine, you know I'm putting you in charge of recruiting the traffic blockers.”

“I figured. Who do you trust?”

“You.”

“Does anyone owe you money?”

“Not that I know of.” I squinted. “Why do you ask?”

“Because they would be the first people to ask.”

“Hadn't thought of that.” I nodded. “Any other suggestions?”

“No ex-girlfriends.”

I loved Nine.

 

“We're almost ready,” I told Nine.

It had taken a year to complete dozens of reconnaissance runs. I knew every pothole, every bump, every radar trap, and the general location of every NYPD patrol car on Manhattan's perimeter. I'd waited for winter's end so as to remap the route, knowing that however well the Department of Transportation refilled the potholes, new ones would emerge through spring and summer. I knew that Monday morning between 3:30 and 4:00 would be safest, since most nightclubs and bars closed early Sundays and there would be fewer drunk drivers, let alone innocent bystanders, than any other night of the week. I knew that late summer was best, as temperatures were dropping (reducing pedestrian traffic) and rain would be infrequent. I knew the garage guy near my Wall Street office would stash the car undercover for at least a week, long enough for any potential police investigation to die down so I could move the car to The Weis's Long Island country house for a few months.

Each morning I awoke with my sheets churned and twisted, the elasticized corners of the mattress cover pulled loose. My pillow was often so damp that the first time I noticed it I ran to the bathroom to find a thermometer. It read 98.6 degrees.

My greatest fear had begun to manifest itself.

I could never live with the thought that anyone else had been harmed by my actions.

Despite the confidence I projected to my accomplices, I knew I'd rather fail than risk another's life.

“When's the first practice?” said Nine.

“I'll tell you once I've talked to The Weis.”

That night in bed, I watched the headlights of passing cars break upon the window blinds, splitting into dozens of parallel beams cast upon the ceiling. They moved from one end of my bedroom, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the car approached, to the other before disappearing as instantly as if the car had fallen off a cliff.

The first practice run was scheduled for the following Sunday. I wouldn't use the traffic-intersection blockers this time—I'd save them for the final run, just in case one of them leaked to the authorities.

I'd taken girls I wanted to impress on my reconnaissance runs, but for moral reasons I'd have to practice alone—it was far too dangerous. I'd never driven alone in any competitive or semiprofessional manner, and I was unexpectedly terrified at not having a rational voice in the seat beside me.

Although it would provide damning evidence in the event of an accident, I Velcro-mounted a camcorder to the dashtop. In the event of my death I wanted to at least
prove
there'd been a reason, however impenetrable.

I'd already driven the S4 down to a quarter tank of fuel so as to mitigate the chance of fire, and I removed all loose items from the car's interior—an accident would turn pens, lighters, and loose change into shrapnel.

I napped in my clothes from 8
P.M
. Sunday until jolted awake by my alarm at 1:30 the next morning. I scanned the notes I'd made during my reconnaissance drives, but left them behind so as to deprive the police of critical evidence.

The practice lap time target was 30 minutes.

My first and last pencil-written remarks were identical.

Breathe

My second (and second-to-last) remarks were also identical.

Do no harm

I laughed out loud at my citation of the Hippocratic Oath.

If I broke it,
I'd
be the one needing a doctor.

It was a short drive down Broadway, west across Canal Street, then south on the West Side Highway. I might have stopped myself at any moment if only a companion had suggested it, but the fear caused by the empty passenger seat was replaced by the rush I felt in knowing I
was
going to do it.

I tried to clear my thoughts as I approached the red light at the WTC start line—the southbound intersection just a few hundred feet north of the entrance to the tunnel looping counterclockwise underneath the Staten Island Ferry Terminal toward the FDR Drive.

I lowered the driver's side window. It was a clear, humid night.

I exhaled upon the suction cups of my Valentine 1 radar/laser detector, attaching it just below and to the left of the rearview mirror. The V1 had saved me many times. It would have been inconceivable to attempt this without it.

I placed the camcorder on the dash at the last possible moment. Its presence would immediately tip off any police officer who might pull up right before the start of the worst car-related crime ever committed in New York City.

I pressed record.

My finger slid off the button with the first hint of sweat. The red recording light below the lens began flashing, reflecting off the windshield glass to warn any car ahead of my arrival. I'd forgotten to put a piece of tape over the light, but it was too late.

I craned my head, scanning for police. All clear. The dash clock read 2:26.

The traffic light turned green.

I gently let out the clutch, depressed the gas, and headed into the tunnel.

The tunnel lights turned night to day, the Audi's interior flashing yellow and black as I passed under the sodium vapor bulbs. The exhaust roared off the white-tiled walls and ceiling, then the twin turbos spooled up, whining like an aircraft engine at takeoff.

I hope no one's on the emergency pedestrian walkway

67

I crossed the double white line, veering left from the outside lane toward the inside. Fourth crime of the run.

The black square night of the tunnel exit was in sight. I floored it and burst from the tunnel, the ancient rusting-brown old Staten Island Ferry Terminal to my right, Wall Street's high towers looming to my left, the night's hot air buffeting my shaved head—

81

I recalled my reconnaissance notes—the right-side concrete lane divider ended just before the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel ventilation building and Heliport Pier, allowing traffic to merge from the right.

NYPD Ambush Point 3—After Brooklyn Bridge/Center Median @ Merge

I coasted right, around the gentle turn underneath the bridge, the deep roar of dozens of cars overhead—the bridge, Manhattan itself, speaking to me with anger at my passing. The third ambush point was clear.

If clear, stay left and accelerate on Straightaway 2

The hot wind blasted against my ear.

86

It would be impossible to hear the V1. I'd have to—

92

—take my eyes off the road but—

102

—that would be too dangerous.

111

One hundred and eleven miles per hour.

In New York City.

114

On Manhattan Island.

116

I never thought it possible—

118

—to hold it this long.

119

The Manhattan Bridge lay approximately 1,000 feet away.

120

A siren wailed to my left, echoing somewhere within the residential projects. I wished the anonymous victim luck.

121

I raced under the Manhattan Bridge. At this speed even the roar of the cars running perpendicular overhead was a mere sideshow.

129

I love New York.

 

Breathe

90

I approached the complex Thirty-fourth Street exit—an idiotically designed simultaneous on/off merge running from Twenty-fifth to Twenty-eighth Street—an intersection so dangerous (even at legal speeds) I couldn't believe litigious Manhattanites hadn't forced the Department of Transportation to close it.

Thuthump

Keep left

Yes.

The road grew even worse on the leftward ramp up and over Thirty-second Street—the surface resembling the wreckage left by Vietnam-era cluster bombs meant to impede the passage of critical supplies along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

 

The first of the NYS DMV's terrific rules was that, for anyone who was a New York State driver's license holder, moving violations occurring
outside
New York State did not appear on one's driver history, and such points do not accrue against one's driver's license. Since virtually every rally and illegal race I'd enter in the future would occur outside New York, this was a great relief.

The countervailing bad rule was that violations within New York State
did
generate points on one's license, and an automatic suspension occured if one earned eleven points within a rolling eighteen-month period. Preparation demanded careful study of the DMV point system.

I knew before my first practice that my potential violation point total would be in the hundreds, but I was comforted by the second-best NYS DMV rule:

Points accrued for any given violation are subtracted from the running total every eighteen months.

This meant that no matter how many points I accrued, I'd have my license back eighteen months after the final run—unless a perceptive traffic court judge figured out exactly what I'd been trying to do, in which case I might never be able to drive again.

 

Once in court,
if
a judge converted one or more reckless driving violations into criminal felony charges, I'd be sentenced to between thirty days and six months in jail. A judge would have every right to call my actions reckless, just as I'd know in my heart that I'd taken every precaution, through reconnaissance and practice, to mitigate the possibility of endangering bystanders. If I hadn't thought it was safe (or even possible) to attempt the lap, I wouldn't have tried.

Since I
was
guilty, and since I couldn't possibly explain
why
without the court making an example of and/or institutionalizing me, I'd plead guilty, accept my civic responsibility, and do the time without complaint.

Six months in jail and the permanent loss of my license in New York State?

This would never deter people like me.

The likely punishment—an eighteen-month license suspension—might have seemed like a long time, but New York City had an excellent mass transit system, and most Americans, myself included, needed more exercise.

 

The Most Dangerous Turn in New York City occurred at the intersection of the Harlem River Drive North and the George Washington Bridge access road—a high-speed left exit ramp ascending several stories before banking ninety degrees left. A right-hand merge lay at the end of the turn—at the precise point at which one had to bear right for the Second Most Dangerous Turn in New York City—the upcoming right exit toward the Henry Hudson Parkway South.

If a cop merged right behind me…Police officers waited their whole careers for traffic stops like this.

144

I passed the 167th Street on-ramp, braked—
no cop.

136

Brake more.

—bore left toward—

Harder.

114

Harder!

81

—made the turn—

Yes

—and safely navigated the Most Dangerous Turn in New York City.

YES!

I accelerated West over 179th Street and bore right toward the Henry Hudson Parkway South exit. And made it. I passed the halfway mark.

I moved past fear, past philosophy, past the recognition of landmarks and their meaning, past internal debate, past rationalizations, and defaulted to something I'd never been very good at except when it mattered, and this was the first time it really mattered.

In theory, I had so far committed the following:

The final stretch ran four and a half miles from Fifty-ninth Street—where a series of red lights had to be run on the next and final attempt—to the finish line. I reasoned that stopping at the reds on the practice runs might in fact be a fantastic psychological exercise—on the final run my desperate urge to accelerate
through
the reds would probably be unstoppable.

 

I rolled past the World Trade Center at 2:54
A.M
. I'd left at 2:26. I lapped Manhattan in twenty-seven minutes. I beat my target by three minutes. I'd committed 109 moving violations. I'd spotted two police cars. I'd earned a theoretical 731 points against my license, sufficient for sixty-six license suspensions.

And I'd never felt better. Ever.

I felt something I hadn't felt since losing my virginity—a surreptitious, revelatory sense of awakening born of accomplishment—but this, unlike that, had been completed alone, and with skill.

I thought I might have grasped a piece of Lelouch's
why
.

I'd made vicious, violent, terrible, irresponsible love to this city—
my
city. And I'd done it alone.

And I was going to do it again.

Faster.

 

“So,” said Nine, “where's the car now?”

“Parked near my office, ready for one last practice run.”

“When?” said Nine.

“Sunday,” I said, “or the week after. Weather depending.”

“Sounds good.”

“The final run,” I said, “will be one week after that.”

Everything was a go—Jon, the car, the fake construction workers, everything.

It was Monday afternoon.

And tomorrow, well, tomorrow was Tuesday. Primary Day. September 11, 2001.