From: cs161sap@sdcc8.ucsd.edu (Bryce Koike)
Subject: Drivers
Date: 8 Oct 93 05:02:50 GMT

===============
Drive Me Gentle
===============

[Apologies for bad grammar and spelling.  My proofreading skills
are abysmal]

There is no time left for thinking.  No time left for hesitation.
All they know is the throb of raw reflexes on late-night freeway
runs, madness against the traffic, driving wrong-way.

Teeth slam and grit as feet crush gas pedals to the floor, steering
wheels rocking only a handful of inches to swerve violently around
incoming obstacles.  A crash and burn twists behind them, flaring
into an orange puff of gasoline explosion.  No time to think, no
time for thought, only time to move.

Fifteen cars cruise the freeway this night, each one running their
own personal soundtrack for the drivers inside, each driver
gripping the steering wheel with frenetic fascination, revelling in
the race, the lust.  One car swerves too hard and worn tires lose
grip on the concrete.  It lurches left, then spins right, losing
all control to slam against the center divider, flipping.  For a
moment it seems to fill their rear view mirrors and then it's gone.
Vanished.  Another phantom vehicle lost in the race.

Angelo grits his teeth so hard that he bites through the cigarette.
With a muffled curse he smashes it with a gloved hand and hurles it
out the window.  The freeway, which makes up a run sometimes called
the Pipe by those who drive it, is over three hundred miles of
winding concrete and steel, bordered by a constant pulse of amber
street lights.

The drivers breed uncounted -- no statistics for the censors to
collect or follow.  They leap into pirated cars, souped up over
years of passion.  Their bodies and minds merge with the vehicles,
becoming one, feeling nothing but the rough vibration of oversized
engines and the raw smell of burning oil and gasoline as the cars
push the envelope.

They talk of the illusion of cruising inches over the pavement,
every reflex a lethargic swerve just before the imminent crash,
over a hundred miles of speed turning into a vortex of confusion
and then the blind slam into concrete.  The others continue on,
following some unseen specter into the night.

Some nights they choose the wrong side of the freeway and the
control blocks must close down miles of runline to protect law
abiding citizens from clashing with the madmen and women.  More men
than women, there being only one female to run the Pipe in over
twenty years.

Angelo releases a pent up howl of bitter anger as he pumps the gas
pedal which refuses to depress any further.  He is not the lead and
something bestial within him screams for satisfaction.  Was he the
first to begin the next round of madness?  At the incredible
velocities they drive, the cars seem very steady in relation to one
another.  He reaches down and finds his hand clutching a polished
revolver.  Without thinking he thrusts it out the window and begins
to pull the trigger.

The rear window of his target shatters.  It is cheap, not like the
newer protective windows.  Shards burst outward.  The car following
the leader loses its front window and in an instant it's gone, lost
around a long bend in the freeway.  No brilliant flash marks its
loss.

The leader loses it, feeling blood dripping from his shoulder.
Uncertain whether to accelerate or to brake, his mind suddenly
coming out of the man-machine struggle, he loses it.

There are unspoken rules between those who run the Pipe.  The first
is to never think.  The second is that the car is not a friend but
an enemy; the car is the limit.  The car is slow and only with a
driver can the car be beaten.  But if the driver loses
concentration for a second the car can take over and enact its
revenge.

The lead driver doesn't have time to scream as his vehicle plows
into a mother and three children in a Buick who are violating
curfew law to see her ailing mother.  The mangle of metal and
bodies is almost out of sight before flames lick the shattered
frames of the cars, igniting gasoline into a slow, gentle burn.  No
explosion, not like the movies.  The sound of colliding cars is not
unlike aluminum cans being crushed with baseball bats.  And all of
it is lost in the howling wind which deafen the drivers.

Angelo throws the gun beside him and relishes being a leader.  He
is out front and everything behind him is a minor distraction.  To
his tunnel vision, he is everything.  The freeway, the Pipe, is
his.  Nothing is left but speed and the maddening beat of wind on
his face.  His face is pale and numb from the wind slamming against
it and he notices it in the back of his mind as he grins.

Behind him, two cars attempt to merge into the same lane.  In
excess of a hundred and fifty miles an hour, they both lose
control, taking two other cars with them.  In under half an hour
they are down from fifteen to nine with Angelo in the lead.

The sharp curve ahead has no name to the drivers, but all remember
it with an animal instinct.  Nine feet let up on the gas and gently
press brakes down in a wave, down-shifting, and barely avoiding the
point where their cars lose traction.  All make it, all are in that
invisible, elusive groove.  Angelo slams his car back up into gear
and pushes the gas down again, blind to everything except the
strobe of streetlights which turn everything sickly and insane.

The music punches up a notch with a practiced twist of the knob.
The radio, the pedals, the steering wheel, all become extensions of
the body.  The music is their heartbeat with the scream of the
engine the sound of a lover in the night.  In every move the
drivers can feel the limits of their cars and they know precisely
how far they can push their vehicles.  The knowledge is not
scientific, but psychic.  As they whip around a corner, each can
feel the car struggling to retain traction and know that it only
requires the tiniest push to put everything over the edge.

The drivers enter the most dangerous stretch as they cruise atop
vicious cliffs overlooking the ocean.  The freeway shrinks to two
lanes on each side with only the tiniest of lumps to divide the
sides.  Even that lump can hurl a car into a cliff or off the edge
into the cold waters below at the speeds they travel.

The worst areas are the rockslides and areas recently or currently
under construction.  The gravel and sand which covers the road is
dangerous at fifty miles an hour.  At over three times that speed,
they are deadly, requiring perfect timing and skill.  And all the
time there is the deadly contest between speed, keeping the lead,
and preserving one's own life.  In death, the only winner is the
car and the car is the only true enemy on the roads.

Angelo eases up on the gas for a half second, then taps the brakes
as he takes a particularly tight turn.  One might have barely
noticed it normally, but at night, with half the street lights
burnt out, it is treacherous.  He has no time to think and doesn't
want to.  He feels the car slip and for a second he cannot not
master the instinct to tense and freeze.

He feels as if he is wrenching the steering wheel and crushing the
brakes, but it is the most gentle of touches.  He has two seconds
before he knows whether it is enough.  The right side screames as
it connectes with the guard rail and then he is free, the tires
chewing up the road, putting him well in front.  The others, the
cowards who doubt their mastery over their cars, are at least a
hundred meters behind by now, struggling to make up the difference
at every corner.

No visions of his life flashes before him as he scrapes near death.
Angelo has learned to control himself and his mental reflexes.  To
him, there is only the car and the desperate contest between it and
him.  Beyond the car there is only the chill winter night.

He breathes in something -- a raw smell of dirt and concrete, and
then he realizes that it is raining.  Rain is the car's ally and
the Pipe is now far more dangerous.  Angelo keeps the gas down and
his grin vanishes.  Now there is only time for skill.  He no longer
competes for leadership -- he must fight the car and himself.

The tape is on auto-reverse, auto-repeat.  The music has two edges.
Its pulse tunes him and keeps his concentration centered.  It also
drives up his passions, his squirming discontent.  The music brings
back images of the other life he lives when the sun beats down on
his soul.  Without the music he is only half a driver and so Angelo
raises the volume and presses the lyrics to a backbeat rhythm in
his skull.

His vision narrows and he feels as if has has left the car behind
him.  It is one of those rare moments which drivers speak of, a
moment of immense freedom and grave danger.  The feeling of flight
reaches toward him and he can imagine the air sweeping around his
arms and bearing him as close to the road as possible, almost
feeling the turbulence from each blemish in it ripple across his
stomach and groin.

Then he slams his hands down on the steering wheel and brings
himself back to the reality of the car.  They have entered one of
the rare lengthy stretches where no amount of skill can change the
positions of the cars.  Only on the curves, by cutting the corners
as tightly as possible can those behind him make up for lost
distance.  The drivers behind him are trading glances, trying to
distract the others, trying to size up their competition, both the
cars and their human opponents.

The rain drives down hard on Angelo's face, stinging him hard and
cold.  It is the rain from the ocean and it bears with it a scent
of brine.  The rain's water seeps into the cracks in his chapped
lips and there they stab at him through the exposed nerves.  Angelo
grinds a fist down on those lips to numb them, only serving to open
up old wounds.  They ooze with thick blood and mix with the rain.

Each car has enough gasoline to keep them going for at least twelve
hours.  The drivers need it for they won't break their
concentration to stop for gas.  They will drive until the false sun
rises to their left.

This is no contest, this is no spectator sport.  Only those who can
compete are allowed into the race.  Those who cannot will be
removed by their own incompetance.  No stands line the freeways, no
one holds out bottles of water and sponges.  No athletic companies
ask for them to endorse goods.

The straight way ends abruptly and Angelo puts himself into a tight
turn, but not tight enough.  The others see it and take advantage
of it to decrease his lead.  At night, with the wind and rain in
the eyes, distances are misleading.  One must measure the safety
measure and then ride the edge, flirting with hazard.

How long has Angelo been driving?  Time does not matter -- he
drives for the speed, he drives to leave time behind him.  He knows
that soon he will have travelled much of the open coast and will
soon have to deal with traffic lights.  The freeway itself has long
since disappeared, although it will begin again after a stretch.

Oil mixes with the rain, turning the streets slippery.  The edge
beckons with sweet plunging death.  And the intersections demand
luck and split-second timing or lives will be consumed.  The car
has all the odds stacked in its favor.  It is not designed for this
work and it complains every second, but the drivers are in command
now, their reflexes at the limit as the risks increase.

An incoming car swerves to avoid him and Angelo fights the reflex
to turn his wheel as well.  He holds the wheel steady and the other
vehicle is a dull blur that snaps past him.  He is so intent on the
road that he does not check his rearview mirrors to see what might
have become of the others.

His talent slips for a second, but that's all it takes to break
both his concentration and most of his lead.  Angelo screams his
curses and stomps down on the gas pedal after barely recovering
control of the vehicle.  His hands tremble in embarassment and
rage.  A true driver would never make mistakes like that.  Though
they cannot talk to each other, Angelo knows that the others
watched him fail.  He warns himself not to overcompensate -- to
control his emotions.  Other drivers in similar situations had
pulled a turn too tight or overlooked an obstacle in rage and had
flipped over the cliff's edge.

He would not make the same mistake.  At over one hundred fifty
miles and hour, patience seems like a contradiction, but Angelo
focuses his emotions and controls his trembling.

One driver, too eager to close the gap, pulls a turn too tight and
must swerve to avoid another car doing the same.  The driver makes
a split-second decision between running the other driver off the
road or swerving and he decides.  He skids off onto the shallow
shoulder and might make it, but he misjudges the distance to an
outcrop of rock and it shreds the front corner of his car, sending
him into an uncontrollable spin.  He is one of the few lucky ones.
The car flips on the center divider and tears down the road,
sending sparks up in all directions.  The car caroms off the guard
rail and mountainside several times before coming to rest.  The
driver, suffering only a broken arm and three shattered ribs,
manages to climb out and waits by the side of the road for the
inevitable ambulance team which will arrive by morning.  Miracles
like these are common enough that no driver ever feels surprise.
None expect to live if they make a mistake, though -- fate and the
car want to see them dead and only extraordinary luck returns their
lives to them after such a mistake.

A driver, once injured, never returns to the street.  A reporter,
before the Pipe had its name, once asked an injured driver what
made him participate in the night races.  At the time they had not
idea that the race was to become a hobby to some or an addiction to
others.  The race was never a sport -- it was a response to a
desperate need.  The driver looked at the reporter, at his
expensive suit and leather shoes.  The man's car had flipped over
twenty times on national television -- back before the American
government outlawed the televising of the races.  His eyes were
bruised and they seemed hollow.  If you watch the footage, you can
see the resignation in the man's face.

"I had to do it," the driver said in a weary voice.

"Why?  So many die or end up killing others.  What do you see in
it?"

"It's not what I see.  It's where I'm trying to go."

The interview offers no insights into the minds of the drivers or
how the government can stop them.  What they do out there on the
lonely American freeways and streets is something private to them.
It's karma, some spiritual thing, some suggest.  Others think that
it's a death wish or a power trip.  Perhaps it is simply rage.  The
stupid ones caught by the police are eager to talk for they are not
drivers.  They're the groupies which follows any movement.  The
Pipe is exclusive, though.  The only survivors are those who can
thread the delicate edge.  All others are weeded out in one way or
another.

Angelo lets up on the gas to maneuver a curve and then slams the
pedal down again.  The engine seems to skip a beat and then it
catches the rhythm again.  A single glance shows that none of the
other drivers are close enough to challenge his lead yet.  He
drives carefully, taking no foolish chances.

The government once tried to erect barricades to stop the drivers,
but the drivers had received news of it days earlier and most had
outfitted their vehicles to circumvent the situation.  Now, the ram
plates are standard as is the kevlar and thin metal plate which
lines the sides of the cars.  Originally they were scoffed at, but
when the first unarmored cars crashed into the barriers and burned,
the lessons were quickly learned.  The police also learned -- the
barricades came down and the entrances to the streets and freeways
were blocked when news of a "run" reached their radios.  Still,
there were those who were foolish enough to violate the barricade.
Some were lucky.  Others died.

Burning cars flipping through the night, just a blink, and then
they are engulfed by the darkness as the racers continue onward.

A car creeps up behind him.  Someone has engaged a booster system.
They used nitrous oxide in the past, perhaps this is something
similar.  Angelo lets the driver catch up, but never gives up his
precious position in the far left lane.  They're side-to-side,
exchanging glances, hoping to distract the other at the perfect
moment.

The road arcs left and Angelo is tight against it, feeling the
tires barely clinging to the blacktop.  He gains a slight lead and
immediately holds onto the right lane, anticipating the upcoming
turn.  The car behind him has exhausted its boost supply and is
only half a length behind.

The cliffs draw away suddenly, flattening down into beaches that
curve into the distance as the highway turns inland.  The
intersections will be coming.  The red lights were installed to
save lives -- to stop speeding drivers.  Lights are only
distractions to Angelo and his fellow drivers.

He is now in the advantageous position and he gives the car all the
gas he has.  He hugs the right lane and refuses to give up his
lead.  The first intersection is safe -- their light is green.  The
next six are the same.  What had once been national parks and
beaches has become posh middle and upper-class apartments and homes
with business offices inhabiting the places where cows once grazed.

The darkness hides it all save for the flickering streetlights and
the narrowing lanes.  They're down to four slender lanes, then two.
The next light is red, but no cars pass along the perpendicular.

Angelo drops his brights and resorts to normal headlights.  The
shadows seem to grow, the highway becomes smaller and shorter.  An
incoming car forces Angelo's closest follower back and behind him
and Angelo sneers.  He streaks through the next intersection
against the red, timing his run perfectly to pass behind a car
crossing it.  He punches the gas.  The other driver is smart and
follows behind him.  A more impulsive driver would have thought
that Angelo was afraid and would have attempted to pass him.  A
driver like that would have died.

This one wants to live.  This one knows that the competition is
between the drivers and their cars.  The other driver drops his
brights as well.  The highway begins to look like a tunnel,
shrinking in on them, their mad velocity becoming faster through
illusion.

They streak past bums and derelicts, looking more like ghosts than
cars as they pass.  Angelo loses count of the intersections they
cross before the highway turns right once more to join with the
cliffs against the ocean.  He switches his brights back on and
looks as far as he can into the distance, seeing little.  The other
cars, having taken greater risks, are closing the gap.  One appears
to be missing or straggling behind.  That leaves seven.

Angelo must brake hard for the next curve for it is far too tight
to take at the desperate speeds they have been travelling at.  His
follower takes advantage of his deceleration to swerve around him
and Angelo curses silently.  Angelo takes the turn at fifty miles
an hour and loses traction near the end, fishtailing before he can
regain control.  When he rounds the turn, the other is nowhere to
be seen.  Angelo glimpses what he thinks might have been skid marks
leading off the cliff, but he can't be certain.  Drivers live by
risks, but the smart ones know the limits of themselves and their
cars.

Angelo checks the systems on his car.  It is an old design, but it
is still one of the best, produced by both American and Japanese
companies, using both composite and ceramic materials.  The tires
are slanted outward, their surfaces similarly sloped.  They are
slower, more vulnerable, and wear out faster, but they give
unbelievable traction and control.  The drivers know that with a
powerful enough engine, it does not matter which tires are used so
far as speed is concerned.  New seats and safety belts are needed
to handle the high-g turns.  Existing ones are taken from the
racing circuit.  Unnecessary seats and luxury items are tossed out
in order to decrease mass.  They spend countless hours in auto body
shops on rent time to produce the aerodynamic shapes the cars
follow.

They are a new style -- raw, sleek, and violent.  They use
expensive gasoline instead of cheaper hydrogen, natural gas, and
electrical engines, and burn it four times faster than any other
car on the streets.  The gas tanks have to be installed in tandem,
each car carrying at least four large tanks or six of the smaller
types.

None of the drivers touched the steering columns or wheels.  None
attempted to remove the hood ornaments or the logos on the trunks.
The reporters give them names, but none of the names hold.  There
isn't enough known about the drivers for the media to
sensationalize them.  Drivers are not searching for fame and
fortune and the groupies are quickly weeded out by their own
incompetance.  Too little is known about the Pipe and those who
race it for it to become a fad and it is too mysterious and bizarre
to be forgotten.

Angelo threads the curves with practiced ease.  These are the
shallow turns and are a sign that the highway will soon widen and
merge into the much larger Freeway Five.  The rain is still pouring
down hard, although by now much of the road's oils have washed
away.  Even alone the water is dangerous, of course, and Angelo's
hands and feet do not forget that.

He hydroplanes around the next corner and curses himself for not
braking hard enough.  He knows that he is thinking too much,
brooding over the night.  A good driver does not struggle with the
car, but uses it like an extension of his own body.  Angelo
struggles to regain lost momentum and watches the speedometer crawl
toward the 100mph marker.  The other drivers have caught up with
him and they have become a pack once again, driving tight together,
becoming an unstoppable force.

It is more dangerous this way, of course.  If one car crashes, it
is far more likely to take others with it, but that is also part of
the risk.  Angelo glances at the pack behind him.  Only six of them
now.  Then his gaze turns toward upward and he gapes.  Is the sky
lightening?  He wants to slap himself as he brings himself back to
reality and takes the next curves hard and fast, channeling his
energies into the car.

Angelo drives faster, more recklessly now, for he is racing against
the sun.  When the night ends, so will the race.  He will become
impotent once more.  He takes the turns tightly, just barely
keeping the tires on the street, and the other drivers follow, all
of them feeling the same lethargy taking over their cars.

The sun rises in the east slowly, but as it brightens, Angelo's
headlights no longer illuminate the road.  Instead, the road and
the surrounding area seems to expand outward until finally the sun
is strong enough to turn the sky a pale blue.

His foot eases up on the gas pedal.  No longer is the highway a
tunnel.  No longer does he course mere inches above its rugged
surface at incomprehensible speeds.  Instead the horizon stretches
before him into infinity.  The road becomes flat and dimensionless.
The horizon refuses to come closer.

He stares into the distance in disbelief.  Loose hands falter and
drop from the steering wheel.  Incongrously, the music continues to
beat and hammer.

Angelo's car sputters, coughs, and then the engine dies.  He begins
to feel the first twitches all too soon -- tell-tale signs of
adrenaline finally wearing off.  He lets the car coast, feeling the
speed bleed off with a mixed sinse of dismay and peace.  He stays
there for a time and then looks into his rear view mirror to see
those who remained.

None move their cars to the side of the road and the morning
drivers carefully edge between their stalled vehicles.  Whether it
is because of fear or respect, none shout or throw curses.  Angelo
stares at them blankly, feeling the energy drain from his body,
feeling the elation burning off to make way for the sun, the hot
sun.

---

Tabitha opens her eyes to the morning and feels for her husband who
is not there.  She turns over and stares at the empty spot where he
did not sleep.  The covers are untouched, the pillow still
perfectly fluffed.  She strains her ears for the sound of his car
returning home, but all she can hear are the roosters crowing to
bring in the morning sun.

Her husband is errant once more, as if he can outrun his troubles
with a fast enough car, or a powerful enough engine.  She clenches
her teeth and sobs, the pungent smell of car grease and gasoline
from the rags in the corner filling her nostrils.  Somewhere to the
south there is a car with a man slumped over the wheel, his body
taut and wired, salt caking his joints where sweat had pooled and
evaporated.

Somewhere the sun beats down on the brows of the drivers who know
that the end of their race has come and that they have never
reached the finish line.  They do not know the names of the other
drivers.  Names are meaningless.  What joins them is the struggle,
the race, the adrenaline flow.  The mastery of their cars pushes
them through the night until the sun rises and they have exhausted
their gasoline supply.

Angelo lurches from the driver's seat and reaches behind him for
his wallet and gas can.  It shouldn't be too far to the next gas
station.  And with a full tank of gas he can begin the drive home.

He wants something to bring back the sweet night and its chill
winds, but it will be another twelve hours before then and his
energies are spent.  He puts one clumsy foot in front of the other
and looks toward the horizon which seems to draw no nearer.