It's 9 PM at one of the East Coast's top illegal
street-racing spots: a nondescript office park
in Washington, D.C. - the kind of place your dad
putts into every morning. A commuter train rumbles
by about every half hour; otherwise the streets
are dark and empty.
It isn't until 11:30 that you get the first
hint of the imminent mayhem, when the highpitched
squeals of import engines pierce the night air,
followed by the deep rumble of domestic beasts.
They're driven by, well, driven guys with day
jobs and converge at high speeds in short bursts
of amped-up acceleration, signaling the start
of automotive pose-downs. Soon they're lined up
bumper-to-bumper -nine or ten deep-on a strip
of road designated as tonight's track, waiting
to blow one another's doors off.
Finally, an urban redneck named Kelly -this
strip's self-appointed starter- struts out and
faces the cars. "I point at each driver to make
sure he's ready, then do a three-count with my
arms like an actual light," he says in a slightly
drunken drawl. When he gives the signal, they
rip out for the quarter-mile sprint to the stoplight.
It's the high point of his day, although that
may not be saying much.
Illegal street racing has quietly fueled car
fanatics in this part of the country since the
'50s. But according to Ali Farzad, a 24 year-old
veteran (see "Metal Heads"), the cars have a new
personality. "It used to be muscle cars like Mustangs,
and there was never a problem. But when 'rice
burners' [Asian cars] -as the heat calls 'em-
showed up, so did the cops. They think we're a
problem generation." In truth, these kids are
a more sophisticated generation, one that understands
that Japanese imports make amazing mods.
"Everyone's trading Camaros for Civics because
you get major horsepower with minor engine work,"
says 23-year-old Dustin Worles. Translation: It's
easier to hop up a Mazda than a Mustang-and you
get the extra juice of blowing away, say, a loaded
muscle mobile with a cheerleader's Civic. Ali's
four-cylinder VW has readily whupped ass on six-cylinder
turbos -and nearly taken out a supercharged Mustang
V-8. "[That guy] had to hit his nitrous to beat
me," Ali says.
Tonight, things aren't looking any better for
the Detroit heaps. A silver BMW M Roadster crushes
a Trans Am, and the car that the kids are buzzing
about is a turbo Supra that smoked a Firebird
-with an eight-car length handicap. That car burns
through 10-second quarter-miles, in a scene where
anything under 13 is considered lightning.
For something that's illegal, street racing
is easy to find. You may not get an invitation
in the mail, but it's hard to hide dozens of hopped-up
cars tearing up the pavement at obscene speeds.
And then there are the crowds: On a given night,
there are at least 100 teens and twentysomethings
sipping Coors, taking action and talking shit
as dozens of cars line up to race. But crowds
bring cops.
Busting races has gotten routine. Just a few
days before, cops shut down a race night in Canarsie
-a usually desolate, povertystricken Brooklyn
neighborhood- by using fire hydrants to flood
the streets. The theory? Wet pavement means roadkill.
In D.C., they also erected "Jersey waits" (concrete
barriers placed haphazardly on streets) to make
racing impossible -at least from the cops' perspective.
From another perspective, the waits just add excitement.
As Dustin's brother Daniel says, "Guys on bikes
love it."
The bikers are the real wild cards-the guys
who fill the lulls between races by ripping off
80-mph wheelies and endos that would soil Evel
Knievel's shorts. But they don't do well in accidents.
A couple of weeks before, a biker lost it on a
curve and plowed into a retaining wall. He lived,
but it won't be much fun for him from here on
out.
"For a few weeks after a crash," Dustin says,
"the cops'll be strong. Then they quiet down."
Unless you're in L.A., where police impound cars
on the spot. "The difference between L.A. and
D.C. is that they have helicopters. We get away
with more out here."
Famous last words. Soon enough, the orange fluorescence
of the streetlights is replaced by flashing blue
and red. Police cruisers have blocked both exits
to the office park, and instantly a few dozen
street racers-and about 100 spectators-are spreading
like cockroaches, creating a trickle out traffic
jam, in which cars skid from lot to lot in search
of sanctuary. Dustin and his crew lie low in a
back lot-his car safety stowed under cardboard
near a back-alley dumpster.
The drivers have raced down this road before.
They sip piss-warm Bud Ice until the heat coots
down. Kelly, by then highly intoxicated, offers
his take on racing 101 - saying that most do it
for the recognition, but that money does come
into play. When it does, he holds the bets. "I
once had $7,000 in each hand on a race when the
cops came. How many people do you know that wouldn't
run with that shit?" Soon word comes by radio
that the cops are still at it, handing out tickets
to every car and spectator they can find.
