The Driver: My Dangerous Pursuit of Speed and Truth in the Outlaw Racing World
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The riveting memoir of a life lived at the right-hand edge of the speedometer.
Alex Roy's father, while on his deathbed, hints about the notorious, utterly illegal cross-country drive from Los Angeles to New York of the 1970s, which then inspired his young son to enter the mysterious world of underground road rallies. Tantalized by the legend of the Driver—the anonymous, possibly nonexistent organizer of the world's ultimate secret race—Roy set out to become a force to be reckoned with. At speeds approaching 200 mph, he sped from London to Morocco, from Budapest to Rome, from San Francisco to Miami, in his highly modified BMW M5, culminating in a new record for the infamous Los Angeles to New York run: 32:07.
Sexy, funny, and shocking, The Driver is a never-before-told insider's look at an unbelievably fast and dangerous society that has long been off-limits to ordinary mortals.
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
it yet again. I left for London a few days later. On the afternoon of May 2, on a small, tree-lined road southwest of Struga, Macedonia, just a few kilometers from the Albanian border where UN escorts were waiting to accompany us to Tirana for dinner with the prime minister, a red VW Golf emerged from a side road—just as the lead Gumballers approached. And then it finally happened. The accident of my worst nightmares. The Golf ’s passengers, Vladimir and Martina Cepuljoski, died of their
percent pay cut and one day off a week. We’ll cut my salary to zero. You take a cut which we’ll figure out when we get back to the office next week. We sit tight for a month and see what happens. If we go under, I give you my word that we’ll start over and I’ll take you with me.” The blood rushed back into Alfred’s cheeks. “I think that’s what your father would have wanted.” “I’m just glad he didn’t live to see this.” “Me, too.” Thirteen months later, Alfred and I were proven right. It was
replaced them with an as-yet-untested Escort ZR3 system. I’d decided to ignore the M5’s GPS and install a Garmin 2650, the best mobile unit available. I’d spent $1,000 on European and African DVD map sets, and an external backup windshield antenna. Contrary to popular belief, European highways—however more suitable for speeding than those in the United States—did have speed limits, and although speed limits were often 90 mph or higher and police cars were rare, radar speed-trap cameras were
concealed from prying eyes—and what couldn’t be. “We wanted to bring him,” I whispered, looking down at Graeber, “but he wouldn’t fit in the back that long without crying for mercy. We’re doing witnesses at the start and finish, all the video, E-ZPass, gas and toll receipts.” “Why bother if you’re not trying to break it?” “Maybe something good will happen,” Cory piped in, poking me in the arm. “If Aliray had any balls,” said The Weis, “he’d give it a shot.” I gave him a nasty glare. “You’d