We watch three Civic hatchbacks, all SIs: a good race, evenly matched, won by a white-blue car Steven hasn't seen out here before. Every few minutes a new race starts, sometimes between two cars, usually three.
A guy driving an Avalon keeps losing, but keeps returning for more races. Sometimes a winner turns on his hazard lights, the equivalent of dancing at the goalpost. Steven thinks that's okay if you beat a car that's significantly better than yours -- say, if his Subaru beats a domestic -- but rude if you're in the same class, and completely obnoxious if your car is significantly better. The Lexus blowing nitrous against the pathetic Avalon? No way that guy should blink his hazards if he wins; he's got no right.
Deron Neblett
Steven Hofle: Women aren't impressed by his Impreza.
Deron Neblett
Amanda Lillard and Kevin Peters: An import girl swept away by domestic royalty.
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By now around 30 people are standing outside at the Shell. They're mostly in their teens and twenties, mostly white and Asian, mostly racers; three short-skirted women seem to have drifted here from the Richmond clubs. Back toward the gas pumps, a hood is propped open, and a cluster of white guys is admiring someone's modified engine.
A Buick Regal pulls into the Shell. It belongs to Trish, one of the rare female street racers -- in her forties, Steven says, married with kids. He limps over to talk. They're discussing pistons when the crowd scatters.
I can't tell where the signal came from. Maybe somebody heard something on a police scanner; maybe somebody yelled "Cops!" just for the hell of it, to watch us all run.
And run we do. I sprint back to the Subaru. Steven's close behind me, never mind his bad ankle. His Subaru is one of the first cars out of the lot, and we cruise east at the head of a huge pack of fleeing racers. Steven and I are both grinning like juvenile delinquents.
Close to James Coney Island he spots Kevin's car in the oncoming traffic. The 'Vette U-turns and catches up to us in seconds. "Where've you been?" Kevin yells out his window. We missed the serious action: A pack of 'Vettes commandeered I-10 -- that is, they formed a rolling blockade, one 'Vette in each lane of the highway, running at about 30 miles an hour so that civilian traffic backed up behind them. When enough freeway yawned open ahead, the 'Vettes took off. Twenty of them! Kevin exults. He hit 170!
From the passenger seat, Amanda waves: an import girl swept away by domestic royalty. But I don't feel bad about having missed the spectacle, the thundering herd of 'Vettes running full-throttle, blowing nitrous, in all their glory. Of course they're powerful; of course they're fast. I expect speed from a 'Vette.
I don't expect it from an import -- from an Impreza or a Del Sol or a Civic hatchback. The domestic drivers are right: Imports are relatively cheap, and relatively slow, and their tiny engines do whine. The most impressive thing about an import is its driver's willingness to race, even if he's not in the top rank, for the plain joy of racing.
At James Coney Island Steven lets me out at my car. It's around 3 a.m. We haven't won any races. And that's fine.
E-mail Lisa Gray at lisagray@alumni.rice.edu.
