The Driver by Alexander Roy Page A

he’s watching. Maybe someone there will know him.”
    â€œAnd how do you intend to find him, or them?”
    â€œIf he’s there he’ll find me. If not, there’s only one way to get his attention.”
    â€œBe serious.”
    â€œI have to win the Gumball.” The Weis shook his head. “Okay, maybe not win, ” I said, “but I can come close…maybe.”
    â€œAnd this is a real race?”
    â€œNot officially, but a lot of people treat it like one.”
    â€œWhere was the last one?”
    â€œNew York to L.A.”
    â€œAnd the one before that?”
    â€œLondon to Russia and back, via Sweden.”
    â€œAnd this one?”
    â€œSan Fran to Miami.”
    â€œBut what are the rules?”
    â€œThe entry form says it’s not a race, but I think that’s so it doesn’t get shut down by the police.”
    â€œHas there ever been an accident? Anyone killed?”
    â€œI searched online for ‘Gumball death.’ Didn’t find anything.”
    â€œWhy’s the route always different?”
    â€œMaybe no one will have them back.”
    â€œAliray, there have to be rules.”
    â€œMaybe it’s like the real Cannonball back in the day. The only rule is—”
    â€œâ€”there are no rules.” We both paused.
    â€œSo”—I leaned forward—“will you come with me?”
    â€œThis sounds pretty dangerous.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo…but you’ll think about it?”
    â€œDude…no.”
    I couldn’t believe my closest friend—the only person I knew with actual racing experience, the person who’d taught me to drive, the one person I’d let drive my car although he terrified me every time he took the wheel—would let me risk my life without him there to mitigate my paying the final price.
    â€œAliray,” said The Weis, using the nickname given to me by his mother and now used by all my closest friends, “this sounds really, really dangerous.”
    I smiled faintly. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got eight lives left.”
    The Weis frowned quizzically. I tapped my chest in reference to the two lung tests I’d taken since 9/11. He nodded.
    â€œActually, The Weis, it might be seven.”
    â€œSeven?”
    â€œThe Manhattan lap leaves me seven, which means one dumb mistake for each of the five days of the rally, and two left over…just in case.”
    â€œI love you, Aliray, but you can’t guilt me into this—”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll find someone else.”
    â€œâ€”but I’ll help you prep the car…whatever it takes.”

CHAPTER 5
The World’s Best Bad Idea of All Time
    DECEMBER 2002
    We are all subject to nature’s forces, as are our creations. Thin air affects a mountain climber’s lungs, depriving him of oxygen and slowing his reactions—just as Colorado’s high altitude necessitates cars’ fuel systems to run different mixtures. Marathoners train and run differently in extreme heat and cold—just as the air temperature through an engine’s intake changes its performance. Beachgoers wear sandals, hikers boots, and were they to trade, passersby would laugh and point. Summer tires skid in snow, and winter tires are unsafe on hot days. People require food and water, cars fuel, water, lubricant, and brake fluid.
    All things must adapt to their conditions in order to thrive, function, and survive, and strict adherence to regimen is the difference between modesty and excellence. Only athletes trained from youth through physical maturity will be ready to perform best—and win—during their prime years. Only a car properly broken in, maintained, and driven will reach its optimal performance and remain reliable over the long term.
    My father’s 1987 Porsche 911, which in late 2000 I’d bought back virtually undriven from the film