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The Great Automation Run | Chapter 16 and final results!


Marx: Well that was a lot more interesting than the previous round

Lenin: yeah, the Civil guard got involved in trying to stop us now.

Marx: damn, we definitely do not want them catching us.

Lenin: that’s for sure.

Marx: Anyway, at least going through that chocolate factory smelled good

Lenin: indeed, even snatched a few pieces for us.

Marx: nice


Cindy’s little gamble appears to have paid off. And other racers started taking notice, scrambling in all directions except towards the main road.

“Now they brought out the big guns,” she noted as she overheard their broadcast. “Too bad they’re too late.” She sped towards more side streets, avoiding almost all the roadblocks altogether. “This is turning from a battle of wits into a war of attrition. I got way too hyped for this.”

She speeds off to hear reports of racers busting through a factory. “Some of these people really are desperate to win. And the cops are only making it worse. But I can’t deny that they have guts. I just need to keep up my A-game, hopefully without breaking this thing,” she remarked as she casually munched on part of her food cache.


It was a good thing they got gas… even painted flat black the big truck stuck out like a sore thumb, and could be heard over a mile away. There were cops everywhere, and their version of the National Guard.
Otis thought to himself, “This was supposed to be a long distance run with long highways, not tearing through every road of every city! And these darn narrow European streets”

Jake thought this was great fun, kind of like playing with other dogs and chasing each other back and forth in the field. Every time a cop came close he would bark at them “Woof Woof Woof Woof” Dad doesn’t look like he is having as much fun… “oh look another one Woof Woof Woof Woof”

At least the N-332 was semi straight and with the speed they were able to get there kept them ahead of most of the cops, most of them. The few remaining cops managed a road block forcing Otis and Jake to detour through a chocolate factory… and that’s where things got messy. Unable to take the turn sharp enough Otis plowed through a palate of boxes full of chocolate. Hopefully they didn’t mess up anything important up front.

After the chocolate factory the police gave up for now. Which was a good sign because the engine temperature was climbing on the truck. After pulling over Otis found the grill was full of now melted chocolate. Otis frantically pulled pieces of box, wrappers and hot molten chocolate out of the radiator… just in time to see the Comunistista fly by and throw the last wad of chocolate mess in their direction.

Not quite country but


Marcus floored it and the engine bellowed, roaring as he weaved the XR-3 through streets, around cop cars, and between the traffic. Every gear change was punctuated by a backfire, the unrestricted exhaust letting the inline three’s note tear the air as Marcus weaved around more slow moving traffic.

The radio squawked about roadblocks and closing the city, and Marcus gave the gas a bit more shove in the corners, bringing the back end around to help with cornering.

“Trapped. Fuckin’ hell.” Marcus spat, spinning the car back into the city outskirts. However, with a stroke of luck, someone had seen the cargo entrance for a chocolate factory was open, up near the front of the group.

Despite being quite a way back, Marcus planned a course through the factory with the rest of them, the big triple roaring as he headed for the factory.

The XR-3 hit the rev limiter hard going through the factory, banging and clapping and popping as Marcus struggled to maintain speed on the floor covered in skid-marks and mangled chocolates, making a great show of fire behind the obnoxious green car with the horrid green lights. However, grip was soon found, and so was an exit. Marcus belted the XR-3 toward the other cargo door, and out onto a northbound road. He hit the windshield wipers to remove a chocolate chunk the size of a small turd from the window, as well as the washer fluid system to clear the streaks.

“Gonna need gas soon. That triple may not have many cylinders to chug with, but it’s thirsty.”


Team Angus - Chapter Four

Team Angus - Chapter Three

GAR - Chapter 4

Upon entering the city of Alicante the local law enforcement closed the jaws of their trap. Out of every side-street and on-ramp swarmed a fleet of police cars of various makes and models. It was clear that the Police had pulled out every stop to ensure the race would be shut down in the rats nest that was the streets of Alicante. Despite the lack of fuel, Ben kept right into the accelerator, rightly guessing that only high speed and good fortune was the only way out of this mess.

I filmed as much as I was able to, but the tight streets and constant police interference meant there was no good way of getting much in the way of decent footage. At least the Chevallier would prove useful once again. Ben ducked and weaved and feinted for all he was worth which provided for the majority of what footage I could get . But it wasn’t enough to out-smart the Chevallier driver and ultimately the Chev pulled ahead, undefeated and taunting us with their frustrating ability to stay out in front!

As we headed northward out of the city I asked Ben why he’d backed off. Surely we could at least taken him at the on-ramp? Ben just looked at me, gave me a condescending look then pointed to the garish orange glow on the dash; we were driving literally on empty!!! I grabbed the map and frantically searched for somewhere the big thirsty Bushranger could stop for fuel. Hopefully we were clear of the cops but we, quite frankly, had no choice. We needed to stop for a full tank of gas, STAT!!!



Maybe I’m over-nerding here, but I’m running my own spreadsheet so I can see who I’m passing/being passed by, and the “Blood Eagle” seems to have scored a free minute. My calcs show it to be 2:50:39.01, if I’m wrong, that’s fine, but If I’m right…:thinking:


Cath and Julia’s Slightly Illegal Grand Tour of Europe - Part 3!

Two middle aged women, a boot full of booze and an Erin Scarlet!

Original Post - Previous Post

The approach into Alicante was messy. The chaos caused by the drivers further up ahead was evident everywhere - police cars were circling constantly, a helicopter whirred overhead. It was less Costa Del Sol and more ‘the shootout scene from Heat’.

“Hold tight Julia, it’s about to get a little frisky” said Cath, switching from her Dolce and Gabana sunglasses to a slick pair of fully-relfective Aviators. The Scarlet shot its way through the streets, while Cath nimbly thread it through the morning traffic.

“Who is that on our tail? Looks like some bloody muscle car or something” remarked Julia - she’d spotted the Baracuda GT of James Carhard.

James beared down on the the ladies. It couldn’t quite match the Scarlet in the corners, but on the straights, it was a monster.
“What an utter yob” remakred Julia.

The two cars burst out onto the beach road, just about managing slide across the junction. “Where in god’s name did you learn to do that?” questioned Julia.
“The test drivers” replied Cath, with a proud tone. “Obviously it doesn’t quite count as work for them, but none of the bosses need to know, right?”. She smirked.
Julia smirked back. “Good on ya girl”.

The Barracuda was suddenly by their side. “Right that’s it” said Julia, a burst of anger suddenly coming over her. She rolled down the window.
“Listen here you pompous yank, I will climb into that car and drive it into a tree myself if you don’t get off our arse!” - James heard none of it. His engine was too loud.

Julia was now leaning out of the window. “Julia” said Cath, sternly - a roundabout was coming up - “JULIA” she shouted, but nothing.

Too late - she yanked the wheel to the left. Julia came flying back in, while James slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting them. Cath swung it back round, hit the brakes hard and nailed the roundabout swiftly, clipping the curb perfectly. The Barracuda fell behind.

Julia looked round to Cath. Cath kept her eyes on the road. Julia fell back in her seat and smiled. “How many more miles to Athens?” asked Cath, with a smile on her face, and they blasted up the coast.


You were right! I just corrected the post with the correct time. Thank you for pointing the mistake out!


God damnit, that’s what I get for plowing into the factory in the lead huh :joy:

curse you RNG gods!

If I get time I must write a response. In the meanwhile, time to break out the hammer and the tape!


A racer darted past the Friala which was stopped in side turning as Kyle was relieving himself. “Come on” shouted Francesca as Kyle leapt into the car, she turned on the engine and hurtled the car backwards swinging the front around out of the backstreet, performing a perfect J-turn and flooring it down the road. “Head for the N-332 we need to shake these bastards”. “Roundabouts up ahead Fran” the car flew around the first leaving the police for dead but the Friala squirmed under braking coming up to the second, a Cavallera Moias approached surprisingly quickly in the rear view mirror.

On the onramp the wheel arches rubbed on the sidewall of the tires creating the smell of burning rubber, coming onto the N-332 the Moias came up the inside of the Kyle and Francesca pushing the Friala further into the outside line of the corner she held the car into a well executed slide and the smell of burning rubber filled the air again. Kyle threw his can of Pepsi out of the window straight into the front of the police car, Francesca stuck her middle finger out of the window and accelerated down the road.
F: “Dickheads whats their issue. They nearly made me spin out”
K: “We are racing through their cities … illegally”
F: “Don’t bring up technicalities!”

The Friala snarled down the CV-770 driving around crawling cars swerving sharply around SEAT Toledo.
K: “Fancy some lunch eh Fran?”
F: “What are you on about?”
K: “Head into the Valor factory the cargo entrance is open”
F: “You bloody genious Kyle”
Francesca slid around the roundabout and shot into the cargo entrance she avoided the equipment and ran over a box of chocolate. The wheels span over the mashed chocolate and cardboard.

To be continued…


The Lone Wolf: Gar Part 4

James Carhard, 26. Midified '68 AEA Barracuda GT

Peculiar Package

Without having the luxury of being able to even take a look at the map he lifted from the gas station, James took a detour from the pack and headed towards the beach-side of the Santa Barbara castle. Apparently there was a train station over there where he would meet up with “Jet”. He was flying down the main road, barely dodging the traffic. James took a left onto the N-332, flying past a marina.

Just then, an explosion rocketed the ground ahead. James could just make it out ahead of him in some parking lot.

“Shit! That’s gotta be my cue.”

As he got closer he could see a car had exploded in the parking lot. With this new turn of events, he raced over, jumping the median to get over to the parking lot. A young woman with long dark hair started running to his car, carrying what appeared to be two briefcases, one in each hand.

“Shit, get going!” The woman yelled, tossing the briefcases behind the seats while frantically trying to get into the Barracuda and close the door as fast as she could.
“Jet?” James asked, hesitating to pop the clutch and get going.
“Jet is dead! I’m her… assistant- Get us the Fuck out of here!” frantically yelled the Woman.

James roared out of the parking lot and onto the N-332 once again.
“And, who are you?” James asked.
The woman replied, “Jess. Name’s Jess Torres. ‘Jet’ was my mother, or at least one name she went by…” Tears started rolling down here eyes as Jess choked up. Her accent got stronger the more her emotions leaked out.

“Shit,” said James, still trying to understand what just happened. “What happened?”
“I… I don’t know!” Stammered Jess, “I… It was the first time I… I got to work with her, …with my mum.” Jess started sobbing.
“Shit. Here, roll up you window,” James replied, pointing at the window crank.

They both rolled up their windows, the darker-than-legal window tint concealing their faces.

“This is not your typical pickup-job, Jack!” James muttered to himself as he came upon a blue sports coupe. James had it on the straights, but in the corners the blue car eagerly had him, especially in the roundabouts.

That’s a Scarlet, he thought to himself as he kept inching up to its bumper.
“So, this is a race across Europe?” asked Jess, timidly.
“Hold on,” James muttered as he took a fast turn onto the beach road. “Yes, you happened to join me with over 5,000 Kilometers to go.”

James got the Barracuda side-by-side with the Scarlet. Jess kept timid, still in shock at what had happened. Some middle-aged lady in the Scarlet was leaned out of the window, wait, was she yelling at him? James let off the gas briefly, surprised at the middle-aged lady screaming at him. It was just enough to let the Scarlet get ahead, as they both braked hard to get around another stupid roundabout. Gritting his teeth, James backed off slightly, not wanting to make a dumb high-speed mistake, as now this race wasn’t only about him.

In fact, he was beginning to care less about the race, a race that his Uncle Jack stole from him.

The pack ahead had taken a detour through a factory, and the police were retreating. This mess James was now in was starting to get crazy… and that only kept boosting his adrenaline.


Our intrepid racers in the Montauk are locked in a duel with two vans for position.

Luigi: God damn, look at those things weave about!

Blake: Never saw anything like it, we’re never gonna pass em like this.

Luigi: What the hell are you doing?

Blake: Trust me.

Luigi: Slowing down isn’t gonna get us ahead.

Blake: Just watch.

(Blake eyes the two vans fighting for position while he pulls back.)

Luigi: Great, they’re pulling away.

Blake: The hell they are! There’s my opening!

(Blake slams down on the gas pedal and the Montauk lurches forward in a bellowing roar!)

Luigi: Whoo!

Blake: Bye bye baby!

Luigi: Okay, now what?

Blake: We move on and hope to catch the next guy.

(Time passes)

Blake: Shit!

Luigi: Oh no!

(Blake slams on the brakes, then weaves the Montauk over to the side to duck through an alley. The two police cars that appeared following.)

*Actual Simulation

Blake: Those smokies looked different.

Luigi: They’re not local cops, they’re the Civil Guard.

Blake: So you do know something about other European countries.

Luigi: My friends and I spent a summer in Spain back in '87. We may have partied a little too hard.

Blake: For them to send the Civil Guard after you?

Luigi: No, they were locals, but we did learn a bit about the different levels of law enforcement.

(The Montauk jinked and weaved through traffic. The two police cars behind them were out of sight.)

Luigi: I can’t see them, maybe we lost em.

Blake: This is damn peculiar. I was expecting a roadblock or something. Shouldn’t they be coordinating by radio trapping us in?

Luigi: Maybe they went after one of the others.

Blake: Perhaps, whatever it is I don’t like it.

Luigi: Look at that!

Blake: That’s some kind of factory, with tire marks and debris scattered about.

Luigi: Some maniac drove through a chocolate factory. Think it was one of the other racers?

Blake: Seems like too much of a coincidence for a crazy Spaniard to go on a joy ride through a factory the same time as an illegal street race plows through.

Luigi: Let’s get out of here, someone’s likely to respond.

Blake: Yeah.


“…Well, they’re not going to catch us that easily!” Christoforo shouted, dropping the 330 a gear and flooring it, a puff of black smoke out the 330’s quad exhausts as the six carburetors dump raw super unleaded down the throat of the V12, all three-hundred eighty-six horsepower launching the roadster down the off-ramp with reckless abandon. Christoforo flicked the car around the corner and held a lurid drift, the big, blue Roadcat not able to match the agility of the svelte Scagliati as the first of probably many poliziotti tried and failed to keep up with the 330.

Pasquale turned to Christoforo, astonished as the quiet, unassuming young man handled the car as well as any driver he’d ever seen; where did he learn to drive like this?! Surely old man Beppe didn’t teach him that, he thought to himself, suddenly very concerned for his well-being, the V12 howling as the side mirrors filled with an angry, pink spaceship of a car; the F219+35 was on their tail and hounding the lads as they sped up the coastal highway, dodging traffic and the chaos perpetrated by the competitors far up the road. Pasquale craned his head around, spotting an overturned Cavallera squad car on the side of the road, steam pouring out from the front end as it lay against a barrier wall, a man in a green uniform and a funny hat gesticulating wildly at the 330 as they sped past. Pasquale leaned in to Christoforo’s ear and shouted, trying to compete with the engine and the wind noise, “Christopez, those aren’t poliziotti, they’re Guardia Civil! This is really serious!”

“I know, I saw another one a ways back!” Christoforo shouted back. “What do you think we should do?”

“Well there’s no backing out now…might as well make the best of it!” Pasquale shouted in reply. He opened the glove compartment and fumbled around for the Spain road atlas, trying to find a side route that might get them away from all the cops. The scanner crackled to life in his ear…talk of a Guardia roadblock up ahead. Pasquale motioned for Christoforo to take the next exit, heading back into town, where hopefully they could lose the cops in the busy streets, and hopefully the blasted F219+35 right on their tail as well. The 330 sped around the exit, floating a bit as the road curved and descended into town, when they were confronted with yet another roadblock. “Santa Maria!!!” Pasquale shouted as Christoforo locked up the brakes, skidding sideways as he desperately tried to stop the car before the line of Guardia officers and their cars. Suddenly, he saw the solution, as he dodged into the parking lot of a chocolate factory, also full of police cars and employees milling about.

Pasquale couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and cry out as the 330 plowed headlong into the lot, seemingly heading for disaster…


“WE ARE IN THE LEAD!” was the text Arthur sent to his boss and to the BDSM-lover German Hanz.

As you may recall, Hanz, by means of the Borch tuning firm, had transformed the perfectly comfortable Chaucer Brooklands into a lime-green 950 hp torture chamber. The car was clearly the fastest of the field, catching up nicely to the Armada in the twisties and keeping it in check on the motorways, however that came at the expense of fuel economy. The 5.5 twin-turbo V8 loved using fuel, barely achieving 11 mpg (imperial) when settled down for cruising.

However, not being first came in handy when the road was blocked ahead and the two leaders had to swerve into a chocolate factory. Arthur followed suit, and with all the fences and possible blocks having been dealt with by the other cars, he found himself able to push through with the slightest of scratches to the front lip as it hit the road.

He knew the advantage he had wouldn’t last, though, after all, the fuel needle had just dropped below half a tank…again.


With Civil Guard cars screaming in from pretty much all directions, McCrackwick opted for the “offense is the best defense”-approach, charging at full throttle right towards two Ataques that were closing in from left and right to establish a roadblock. One hit the brakes, seeing that the Dingo Z had apparently no intention at all to slow down, the other processed the situation quicker, scandinavian-flicked his pursuit car into the Dingo’s bearings as it passed and proceeded doing what his car was designed to do.

That worked out nicely”, McCrackwick remarked with a content smirch on his face as he took a quick look behind to confirm that the Ataque wouldn’t be able to keep up.

“Would have!”, Toughtower corrected, pointing forward, where three Interceptors approached them head-on.

McCrackwick panically flicked the car around, coming to a sharp stop, the last few meters of which the Dingo Z traversed tail-end first, then slammed in 1st, sent the tires squealing and the Dingo into the nearest side street. A game of about a dozen cats and one mouse ensued in a complex of convoluted side streets, which seemed to have come to an end when the Dingo entered an alley with an exit each to the left and right, both of which were blocked off by Veronas. A concrete wall of some 8 feet height seperated them from an industrial complex behind.

“Shit, we’re screwed!”, Toughtower cursed. “Not so fast”, McCrackwick replied, his sights set for a car carrier trailer standing at the side of the road. One of the Verona drivers sensed what was about to happen, jumped in his car and slammed the throttle to come in before the Dingo and block its path onto the trailer, but it was too late.

The Dingo thrashed up the trailer with an earsplitting clash, took into the air, bursting right through a huge billboard. As the shreds peeled off the windscreen and they could see where they would be going to land, McCrackwick and Toughtower were somewhat confused at the sight of a big factory gate with a hot mess of torn cardboard and an indistinct brownish mass covering the entire floor. Losing control over the car instantly after touchdown, McCrackwick directed the Dingos ensuing high-speed, tailgate-first skid around various obstacles before flicking the car around again, successfully regaining control after a while and continuing racing once out the other end as if nothing had ever happened.


Chapter 5: intermission 2 (Chocolate factory - Pyrenees)

8th of October 1995. 12:20 PM

The Google Maps route can be found here.

(Musical suggestion by the host!)

It wouldn’t take long before the Armada and the Guivre got going again. The day was gradually getting cloudy, with clouds swarming the skies from the coast; the police had apparently retreated, for whatever reason.

With the racers finally joining the highway again, the first drops of water started covering the road, creating a thin film over the road, reducing the grip the racers were able to get out of their cars. The Armada started overtaking the few cars that had overtaken it before, slowly recovering its place just before overtaking the Bonham again while it refueled. However, this attempt was futile, as the Bonham quickly caught up again on the long highway stretch ahead. The Evo was drafted and then overtaken, overwhelmed by the lime green wagon.

The Chupacabra had also been overtaking a few cars on its way to the north; it placed itself behind the Evo, followed by the Guivre and the Cannonero, engaged in a fight for the fourth place. Just behind, another fight broke out between the Dolphine and the Fatalita; the sports car keeping up with the italian supercar and threatening the latter with being overtaken.

Despite the multiple fuel stops, the Blood Eagle was surprisingly keeping up with the Hummingbird, the classic sports car drafting behind the muscle car, drafting each turn on the highway behind its rival. The racers avoided Valencia, expecting another police ambush to be prepared there; as the urban highway crossed the industrial areas, a few cars yelled at the racers, while others cheered at them sarcastically. The T-25 recovered some places, with a thunderstorm starting at the background, getting just in front of the Bohrs, which had also claimed a few places.

As the surroundings became more and more montanious, the highway became twistier and twistier. Taking advantage of this, the Dingo Z overtook the Thunderbolt, placing itself behind the yellow Conquista. Several metres back, the Interval was drafting and overtaking the 333 GT3, its driver celebrating the move.

The drivers would soon notice a “Catalonia” sign, meaning they were about to reach France! The Guardsman was approaching the Barracuda GT swiftly, while the driver of the latter, and the more observative racers, realized an helicopter heading towards the Pyrenees as well. Further back, the Chevallier and the Bushranger were back at it, draft battling each other to claim the place, both V8s roaring through the highway.

With the Pyrenees finally visible on the horizon, the drivers abandoned the highway to rejoin the b-roads, with the hope of being left unnoticed by the law forces. With the road quickly becoming twistier and twistier, the Bandito van passed the Scarlet. The drivers of the Montauk, just overtaken by the Canny R, realized that it had stopped raining…and a few white flakes had appeared on their windshield. The altitude gained by the group as they entered the Pyrenees had turned the rain into snow.

The racers noticed the same helicopter from earlier was back, but it wasn’t a police helicopter. The helicopter dissappeared into the peaks, as the drivers entered the first hairpins of the mountain pass.

To be continued.

Times spreadsheet:


Lol - I’m consistently maxing out on driving mistake penalties and refueling times. McCrackwick really doesn’t seem to be the most talented guy behind the wheel…


SOME!!! holy crap it passed nearly half of the field.


The wipers flicked quietly in the rain as Marcus drove out of the gas station, the little green sedan growling angrily down the highway. The green neon lights, combined with the XR-3’s bright green fog-lamps, cast an eerie glow down the road, but the lights Marcus had his eyes on were in the mirror. He roared past the little Communitasia, the big three-cylinder engine blaring out the ragged pounding beat of a tractor pushed beyond design limitations, disappearing down the highway with great haste.

In the twisties, Marcus decided to dispose of the piss-bottle he had in the car, rolling the window down and sending the half-filled Snapple bottle out to meet the road, barely missing the Invader as it screamed past. As the Invader cut him off, Marcus turned the high-beams on, trying to blind the driver as they fought through the twisty roads, trading places every other corner.

“Come on, shitbox! You’re a racing car.” Marcus said, before yet-another-gear-change, the rev-limiter getting a workout as they chased around the corners, before arriving in the mountain pass.


Otis wasn’t happy that the communists had passed him when he got back in from cleaning all of the chocolate out of the grill, and secured the now loose bits back on with bailing wire. He was right on their tail when they blew through the toll gate to get onto AP-7. Otis turned off the traction control, “I hope those commies like tire smoke” as he romped the gas to pass them lighting both massive rear tires leaving the comunista in a billowing wall of tire smoke squeeling tires, and a thunderous exaust note.

When Otis got back in the truck Jake was spinning circles in anticipation of getting going again. As they passed the comunista Jake barked and growled, “those guys don’t smell right… like something thats been dead for a real long time”.

Over the next couple of hours Otis passed several other competitors, Jake barking at each one as they passed. Thunder began rumbling behind them, not like they could hear it over the engine and wind noise, hitting the wipers Otis commented, “Hopefully the rain will clean out the rest of the chocolate mess in the radiator.”

About the time they left the highway for the B roads Otis plugged in a cassette labeled French. Which contained a recording of his wife reciting several french words that he might hear from the police on the scanner about the race.

Race… Course
Truck… un camion
Black… Noir