Read Online The Driver by Alexander Roy - Free Book Online

enforcement.”
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    There was a limited selection of foreign police uniforms available on eBay, none of which were suitable. They were mostly wool, came in limited sizes (I had no idea who my copilot would be), and looked too much like American police uniforms. The most aesthetic uniforms—the French Cycle Gendarmes and English Riot Police—had the word police spelled P-O-L-I-C-E across both sleeves.
    I might as well race myself to jail.
    I looked at the 2003 Gumball route: San Francisco to Las Vegas, Tucson, San Antonio, New Orleans, and Miami. Much as I felt bad even thinking it, most of the police departments along this route would likely employ officers lacking in, shall we say, a cultured sense of humor. Such gentlemen would have no sympathy for a bald New Yorker in a black turtleneck speeding in a foreign car, but something told me they were just going to love (if not, at worst, be utterly confused by) a serious-looking man in a strange uniform and foreign police car.
    It made no sense.
    It made perfect sense.
    There was really only one country whose police force would garner the appropriate respect. The country that invented the highway, the only country in the world without speed limits, a country whose cars were respected (and bought) even by their most fearsome enemies.
    I’d create a fake German Police Car. I’d become one of the Polizei.
    At worst I might offend my Jewish cousins in Los Angeles, but there was little chance they’d find out—they didn’t follow car racing, let alone Gumball. There was the slight chance I might run across the South’s lone Jewish police officer in what would be the most hilariously tragic traffic stop of all time. I decided to bring a pocket Torah just in case. I guessed this would hardly be the strangest item I’d end up bringing.
    There was one other thing about the Polizei—something that added an extra dose of irony which would come to protect me over many traffic stops.
    Germany has no highway patrol, at least not a dedicated force as we do in the United States, but I’d seen pictures online of a Polizei Porsche 911, and I recalled seeing pictures of various Mercedes and VWs—
    I’d call myself Team Polizei. It was in bad taste. Illegal. Insane. Perfect.
    I sprinted home and filled out the online Gumball application.
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    â€œThis is Julie Brangstrup,” came the voice over the crackling overseas connection.
    A young, female, English voice. I was momentarily optimistic that some friend had given my number to his good friend, or cousin, or neighbor visiting New York, and my weekend plans were about to improve dramatically.
    â€œWho?” I said.
    â€œI’m calling from Gumball 3000.”
    â€œHold 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.
    â€œYou’ve been accepted for the 2003 Rally.”
    â€œThat is good news,” I said calmly.
    â€œWe really enjoyed your application. Are you absolutely serious about this Poliz…how do you pronounce it?”
    â€œPolizei.”
    â€œAh, German,” she said. “Of course. And you’re absolutely serious about this…Team Polizei?”
    â€œAbsolutely serious.”
    â€œThat’s a new one.”
    â€œThank you,” I said with genuine pride.
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œAnd your copilot will be?”
    I was in trouble. “That’s”—I lamely pretended to cough—“also a secret.”
    â€œThat just