come France, the drinking begins…
As the roads got twistier, Cindy joyfully rowed through the gears as she sped through the turns, even sliding through a few of them.
Whe throws in the next tape.
“Quite the step up from the golf karts,” she thought. She struggled not to completely give into the urge to slide through everything. She gets distracted from this when she notices that the police presence behind them dwindles, and she hears several loud bangs followed by sirens shutting off. Sure enough, the scanner reports multiple accidents by officers, and one arrest where the fugitive ended up escaping. “Although that’s good, they’re gonna drag the other EU nations into this by labeling us all as fugitives, aren’t they?”
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Pasquale and Christoforo flew down on-ramp on the Autovia, the 330’s V12 screaming at full song as Pasquale expertly rows the gears, each upshift spitting little fireballs out of the quad exhausts. The speed built as Pasquale and the other competitors avoided the early morning traffic, mostly HGVs lumbering along in the right lane - 250…260…270 kilometres per hour, blasting past the big trucks as though they sitting on the hard shoulder! At these speeds, and with the convertible roof down, comfort and communication was going to be a problem, what with the engine noise and the buffeting, but the lads had a plan - a series of hand signals from the co-driver would mitigate the need for verbal communication, and the earplugs and vintage racing googles would at least keep the worst of the wind and noise at bay.
A short way down the highway, Christoforo saw blue lights flickering in the distance - “Madonna! road block!” he thought. Tapping Pasquale on the shoulder and pointing ahead at the rapidly approaching blockade, Pasquale nodded as Christoforo scrolled through the route maps they had prepared beforehand, looking for an alternate route from Casamerbeja; “A-356 is the only option over the mountains…slow-going, but better than cooling our heels in the back of a police car,” he thought to himself. Getting Pasquale’s attention, he pointed to the exit sign, garnering a nod as the car sped past one last truck and into the lane exiting the Autovia; the black streaks of rubber in the lead up to the off-ramp a clue that more than one competitor went this way before. As the Scagliati slowed for the off-ramp, Pasquale pointed and laughed at the roadblock, blowing the triple-tone air horn a couple of times with glee as the car zoomed off the highway and up into the hills, seeing a couple of cars caught up in the roadblock…
The 330 was immediately at home on this twisting, mountain road, just like the kind of roads where Scagliati honed the 330 some forty years ago. It was truly a sight to behold; the sky getting lighter to the east as the sun starts to rise, painting the sky all manner of dramatic colours as the red convertible flew from corner to corner, V12 singing, the car agile and light on its feet as Pasquale started to pick off other racers one by one. taking a further detour, Pasquale and Christoforo blasted past picturesque olive groves in the hills, climbing ever higher in their quest to make as much time as possible, running down competitors and passing them, greeting each one with a wave and a blast from the horn as they disappear into the distance.
After an incredible blast up and down the mountain pass, Pasquale brought the 330 to a halt at t-junction, the brakes groaning as the car comes to a halt, waiting for some traffic to pass. “How many do you figure we passed back there?” Pasquale shouted over the din of the engine as he blipped the engine impatiently.
“Ten, maybe twelve…who knows, I lost count after the first major junction up the pass!” he replied, anxiously watching the dawdling SEAT clear the intersection. “Avanti, amico!” he shouted as the crossing traffic was halfway though, Pasquale dropping the clutch and launching the 330 down the next bit of road in their relentless pursuit of yet more racers…
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(An abridged depiction as Luigi Fillipelli looks nothing like Sally Field, also I’m pretty sure Spain looks nothing like Mississippi. Same goes for the police)
Blake: Whoo!
Luigi: Watch this hairpin, hit your E-brake!
Blake: Hell no! This is a real car!
(Blake slams on the brakes into the turn, then floors it dumping the clutch swinging the ass end of the Montauk around the bend. His countersteering left a little to be desired and the car wobbled a bit before going straight again.)
Luigi: Jesus! You’re going to get us killed!
Blake: What’s the matter? You’re not scared are you?
Luigi: Yes I am! I had no idea it was going to be like this!
Blake: Hang on!
(The Montauk weaves through a couple twisty bends)
Blake: Any smokeys on our back?
Luigi: Doesn’t look like it, they seem to be preoccupied with the others.
Blake: I bet they never had to chase anything like the cars in this race! WHOA!!! (Slams on the brakes)
Luigi: Holy shit that was close!
Blake: (beeps horn) Get out of the way you cheap piece of Spanish shit! (to Luigi) Tell him off!
Luigi: I don’t speak Spanish.
(The Montauk weaves around the ambling SEAT and roars on ahead)
Blake: Christ! I was hoping you’d serve as a translator, what languages can you speak?
Luigi: Well, English and Italian obviously, some Portugese, a little Russian, oh and Swahili.
Blake: Swahili?
Luigi: Certainly.
Blake: So you know the languages indigenous to the countries we will not be visiting?
Luigi: You never asked.
Blake: Whatever.
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Marcus slammed down the last of his can of Red Bull, then hurled the empty can out the window, before ripping through the gears, the big triple roaring as he weaved up the twisty, winding road. A light bump to his quarter panel scuffed the paint and sent the little green shit-bucket into a wild skid.
Used to a lot of oversteer, Marcus didn’t worry as he powered out of the slide, the tires burning and making quite the smoke-screen behind the XR-3. With the car no longer threatening to spin out, he put his foot to the floor.
He swerved wildly, sending the XR-3 fishtailing into a series of mild tank-slappers as he avoided a slow moving SEAT, catching grip again as he recovered.
“Fuckin’ hell! Get your shit-pile off the fuckin’ raceway!” Marcus cursed, flipping the bird as he roared off into the distance. Up ahead, he could see the Erin Scarlet, too far away to catch in the twisties with this car, but maybe just close enough that he could blind the driver with his high-beams. Marcus flipped the switch, turning on his high-beams, low-beams, and the neon-green fog-lamps.
“Party time!” he yelled, stomping on the gas, the big three cylinder engine roaring as the road started to straighten out, the XR-3 starting to pick up speed after being forced to weave through slow corners. With the road evening out and being easier to drive on, Marcus opened the glovebox, checking on his small batch of basic escape tools. In the tool kit, he had a set of lockpicks, some screwdrivers of various sizes, a socket wrench kit, a little Makarov pistol, and a small set of bolt cutters. With his supplies checked, he then reached for the package of cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth, and lit it.
“This shit is gonna be crazy. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, and maybe I’ll be rich at the end. Either way, it’s the ultimate bragging rights for a street racer to even show up at one of these races.” he mumbled to himself, taking a long drag of the cigarette, then blowing the smoke around the interior of the car. After a couple minutes, he rolled the window down and flicked the still-glowing butt out of the car, blew his last big puff of smoke, and rolled the window up as they rejoined the A-341.
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Team Angus - Chapter Two
Having just barely held onto the emergency turn into the sidestreet, Ben and I found ourselves living the old adage, “Out of the frying pan, into the fire”. The side street was narrow and the locals were just getting up and heading off to work. This meant that at any time we could find ourselves dodging clapped out SEAT’s, tractors or even a schoolbus or two! Although the big Bushranger slid about due to it’s huge tyres and poor grip roads, Ben was able to keep us out of trouble, catching slides like a champ and expertly holding out the menacing Chevalier Interceptor. It was really close racing, with lots of great footage shot of the Chev’s menacing front end and driving skill of it’s driver, but the Bushranger was just too damn wide for the big sedan to pass!
The race continued onto the highway again so we were able to open up and really move along, the Bushranger never missing a beat and the Chevalier menace at bay, however all too soon the police were planning another sting, so we took the alternate choice: the mountain pass.
Never in all creation has there ever been a road more unsuitable to the Bushranger’s skill-set. The rise in altitude meant that the NA V8 was losing power and response, the hairpin turns required use of the handbrake to negotiate fast and the police were still with us! Throughout this stage Ben drove like a champion, shutting out the Chevalier, sliding the turns like Takumi and avoiding the knocked out cop like a decent citizen!
After what felt like an eternity we were able to rejoin the highway clear of the police interference and with a nice downhill stretch ahead of us. I looked back, yup, the Chev’s still there, I glanced at Ben, he was a portrait of cool concentration, then I glanced at the fuel gauge, two hundred kilometres and we needed to get petrol! Hopefully we’ll lose the heat and find somewhere quiet to refill our fuel tank…
TO BE CONTINUED
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Kenji’s POV part 2
As the race had continued through the highway and Kenji noticing more and more police Moias, he had decided to pick the mountain road nearby like the others. On the exit he had accidentally crashed a Seat Marbella, which was on it’s way. Luckily, Marbella wasn’t totaled and it’s driver was intact.
Fucking Marbellas. That’s a 16th one this hour. - He thought. - Executor, don’t fail me here, this is your first proper handling test.
As he thought a bit, he was starting an uphill course. Kenji was in a position that noone would want to be in; as he was called from his teenager years “The Troublemaker”, he had indeed made some trouble for himself: At the entry of uphill he had four interceptors on his back and a chaotic pile of various racing cars in front of him.
Seems like I have to pass them, but also beat the shit out of these interceptors… - he thought, then he had slammed the gas and began to four-wheel-drift nearly all turns on the car’s sight. - I have one advantage. My NRZ has no problems with changing land height due to turbocharging, and combined with large displacement and all-wheel-drive by Germans will make those guys cry… - Then Kenji slammed gas even harder on upcoming long straight.
In meanwhile, one of police Moias had pulled Shingo tactics PIT maneuver on Kenji just in turns causing him to lose control for a moment, but regained it shortly after and sidepushed the brave Moia in the guardrail, leaving him in the dust - Kenji had also noticed that the crashed Moia had stopped the other three, so he had peacefully continued and gained six positions in the run - while he was the 18th racer at the entrance of mountain pass, he was 12th at the end of it.
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While other racers were struggling to avoid the local cops and get to the next section of road safely at the same time, Walter looked relatively untroubled in the midfield. As he reached the rough, twisting roads high up in the mountains, he pondered the best way to take the challenging sequence of corners that followed. After a brief hesitation, he decided to drift through the various bends with some help from his handbrake. Much to his surprise and relief, he didn’t crash the car at all, and lost little, if any, time on this technical section of the route.
On the faster road leading back to the A-341 the Guardsman felt outgunned by the more powerful cars, but Walter was confident that he could make up time when the field reached another tricky section, where his car’s drivability could prove vital. He’d heard through the grapevine that most of the drivers, including himself, had escaped from the cops, but two crews were not so lucky and came close to being busted. And he awaited the next few hundred miles with anticipation, knowing that the race, still in its early stages, was far from over.
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“Finally, the fun part begins,” Teuvo said ominously when he got to the mountain road. “I didn’t like your tone when you said thaaAA-!” Jorma didn’t have time to finish his sentence when Teuvo had already floored the gas pedal. “BRAKE!” Jorma shouted when they approached the first corner at high speed. Teuvo tapped the brake, turned first to the opposite way and then to the direction of the corner and held a drift all the way though the corner - a perfectly executed Scandinavian flick. “I learned a trick or two when blasting though the gravel roads of our hometown,” Teuvo explained when preparing to do the same in the second corner.
Tires screaming, they blasted through the mountain road. Teuvo watched his rear view mirror closely, as he saw a car just seconds behind them. “Someone’s following us - and they’re quick,” he said. “Something with pop-up headlights. Can’t quite tell.” Jorma asked: “Are you sure about your driving style right now? I mean-” SCREEEEEEEECH “We’re quick right now, but if we keep this up, we’ll blast through our tires extremely fast.” “Don’t worry about it,” Teuvo said, “I turned tire wear off but kept the fuel consumption on. We can drift all we want.” “What the hell are you talking about? Have you taken something you shouldn’t have?” Teuvo didn’t answer. He was in the zone. Jorma saw this and decided to keep quiet for the rest of the road.
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Murcia, 9:00
As Arthur sat down to have a cup of coffee, during yet another pitstop, after a noisy, bumpy and uncomfortable cruise from Malaga, he was imagining several possible ways to kill Hanz Borch, heir of the Borch tuning company. Why the hell had the crazy german decided to fit seats lifted straight out of a 1984 Baltazar Planck? Hanz could hardly argue they were meant to save weight, since he had decided to install a 5.5 turbo and an AWD system with massive diffs to what wasn’t a light car to begin with.
Just as he finished his meal, and having come up with the 12th different murder option, the phone rang again. “How’s sie doing?” said the voice with the weird accent. “Hanz, nice to hear from you”, Arthur lied, “I was thinking about you just now. The car has been working well so far, but I’m not”. Hanz understood the gripe,“Arthur, wir couldn’t put a radio or better seats for leichtness, you know that”. “Yeah, yeah, well, it’s all running smoothly. Cheers, Hanz”.
As the call ended, the middle-aged German in Stuttgart said out loud “I hope it doesn’t break”. This was a car made by two companies that knew what they were doing, but one offs are one offs, and this one wasn’t the most bombproof of them. The conception of failure was beyond what Hanz could put up with and he knew he’d be in trouble with the Bonham bosses if the car went wrong.
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“Mountain Pass… Great.” Nighthawk was worried. Techno was even more worried. Their RR monster was not the best through the turns. They struggled to keep control of Shadow Visions as they ran through the pass. There were some close calls, and lots of lost rear end. Maybe we should fix some of these issues, Nighthawk thought.
“Shit, Hawk, watch out!” Techno yelled over the engine, but she wasn’t fast enough. They clipped the barrier, scuffing up the front a tad. NH was able to keep control, but they had lost some time. They exited the pass barely ahead of the Conquista. Techno was less than happy.
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1 & 2: Prologue
3: Prologue
4: Prologue
5: Malaga - Granada
Chapter 5(b)- Malaga - Granada
The Evo was not in its finest element on the rolling curves of the A-45. They demanded a steady, smooth rhythm more suited to a finely crafted work of art, not the Frankenmonster sledgehammer she was driving. Keep the throttle pinned, the automatic locker powered all the wheels, and the car understeered. Lift off on the throttle and locker disengaged and the car pitched its nose in. Still, Anna was glad for the extra power, though, for with such gentle curves the top speed was king, and with this new engine, the maximum potential of the Evo was certainly being tapped. Heart in her mouth, Anna still had a glow of satisfaction seeing the speedometer top a hundred and seventy.
Just then, her CB radio crackled and threw out some garbled chatter. She could almost make out words suspiciously resembling “Road block.” Seems the other drivers came better equipped on that front. She frowned to herself and stole a glance at the map. The original route was Casabermeja, then Villaneuva de Cauche, then the A-92M to Loja, all highways. But come to think of it, she didn’t expect the police to be alerted to their race right from the start.
Her high-speed rumination was interrupted by flashing lights on the horizon. What, already? A row of police cars was streaming out of the Casabermeja exit in an attempt to block off all routes of escape. It was just as well that she was zooming in faster than they could get organised. Still, it was going to get very crowded very quickly. Heart in her mouth, she jinked right, towards the offramp, and stood on the brakes. The Evo immediately loosened up, wobbling left and right as she dove into the scrum of police cars madly scrambling both to herd her off and not get decimated by twenty-five hundred pound of ballistic rally car. Everywhere was an assault on the senses, guardrails looming, tyres screeching, sirens wailing, all the stuff in the back rattling. Anna grit her teeth and sawed at the wheel trying to get the nose in as the road dipped and the right-hander tightened and the hastily installed ABS struggled to keep up, and by some miracle she slipped past the rail, then her mind hit a blank. She was off the route now, should she try to re-enter the highway but there would be cop cars all over the rest of the highway by now and she would be a sitting duck when there were no exits but-
A cop car pounced at the Evo’s left side. By reflex, Anna swerved right again, but she was still travelling too fast for the car to turn. With a squealing of tyres, the Evo skittered over a traffic island, between a cluster of signs, and shot off the road into a grassy plain. Well this was a rally car I suppose, Anna thought in the surreal airborne moment before she slammed into the ground, then rattled around before a particularly large embankment launched her back into the air and deeper into the field. Rattling and bumping all the while, Anna tried to cut a course through grass taller than the bonnet, around the shed on her right, keeping the throttle pinned and praying she didn’t hit a ditch or a culvert or a rock and end her quest for glory in a shieking wreck of torn wheel mounts and shredded springs. She had to find a proper surface, and soon.
There it was! A little gravel road, next to the B-road. She made a beeline for it, kicking up dirt and gravel, scanning the main road for a break in the guard rail. Momentarily it disappeared over a crest with tufts of golden grass. Praying it wasn’t just a blind spot, Anna swung the wheel and once again the Evo took flight, bouncing off the rev limiter until it bounced off the road with a clatter and a crash as all the tied down cargo in the rear came loose and started flying around. Fishtailing wildly, Anna struggled with the brakes, then the throttle, finally straightening it out just in time to see the turnoff and the sign for the A-356. The dawn sun was in her face. She was heading East. Good enough.
Heel-toe downshifting, Anna wrested the Evo onto the turnoff, completely disregarding the universally red stop signs and the passing lorry that almost obliterated her, pinning the throttle and streaking off into the sunrise. No rivals or cops in sight, but surely they would come at her again soon. Fortified by the adrenaline, Anna tightened her grip on the wheel. With this Evo, she could take them all.
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Francesca stepped on the gas coming out of a tight bend and the engine screamed. Four taillights appeared in the distance and Francesca drew near, she saw the Thunderbolt.
An incredibly narrow hairpin neared with both cars neck and neck, Kyle screamed “SLOW DOWN”. Francesca braked last minute, downshifting caused the car to release an immense back fire and a guttural gurgle as unburnt fuel passed through the exhaust. Struggling for grip both cars slid out of the corner but the Friala kept a tighter line and sped off.
Leaving the Thunderbolt for dead as Francesca flicked the hazard lights on and off.
“Fuckin’ 'ell” Kyle squeaked as the Friala bounced round a uneven corner. A massive pothole was just around the bend and Francesca slammed on the brakes sending Kyles open packet of Wine Gums everywhere.
“Can you smell fuel Kyle, something running rich?”
“Yeah it’s not us”
“Well it might be that”
The Holyzon came into view. Francesca flashes her yellow high beams and gassed it
“Oh it’s on”
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Casarbermeja behind us, the cops started to get close. The blue lights clearly visible in the rearview mirror and the sirens wailing.
The tight roads in Casabermeja has slowed me down, but given me some room as the Cannonnero backed off and stayed behind. Coming out of the city, the boys in blue came at us without abandon, and i had to use every last inch of the road to evade, but seeing as most of us had more power on tap we soon left them hanging and cut onto a mountain road to shake them off. That was, in hindsight maybe not the best decision.
Slowing the pack to a more sane pace, i tried to grip my way through the corners and hairpins but fighting the power of the Comet made it into a fruitless endeavour and i gave in and started to drift my way up the hills instead.
Unfortunately, that made me go wide a couple of times and scraping my bumper on some occasions but no real harm was done to the car. Though, i wasn’t the only one struggling, and managed to pass both the Kanata, the Chupacabra and the PoolTruck (T25). I didn’t see the Dolphine around so it either shot out in front or had the bad luck of being stuck in traffic further back.
Some way infront of me i could see the rather wide stance of the Dingo Z. I was catching up.
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The joy of hammering down an open road was brought to an end by the road block way too soon, and the Dingo’s tall 1st gear and stiff suspension weren’t ideal for some of the tight bends of the mountain road, let alone its profile. “Darn it! I set this up for long, sweeping bends, not for this twisty mess we’re in here”, McCrackwick complained. “You mean the ones where you don’t have to turn the wheel? Those are known as straights, son”, muttered a somewhat pale Toughtower while nervously fumbling for the nonexistent Jesus handle, “And are you really so sure the car’s the problem? Because I don’t know what you hit back there, but it sure as hell wasn’t an apex.”
McCrackwick needed too much of his focus for the driving at hand to come up with a smart retort, and he had to reluctantly admit that indeed, he wasn’t quite in the swing of things yet. At least they were fast enough for the police not to be too much of an issue.
He shut his passenger out of his attention and started to find his rhythm. No drifting with this beast - this was a sticks-till-it-snaps race car, so he had to figure out how to cleanly fit all of the Dingo’s width through the narrow bends. He soon adopted a technique of late and slow, trailbraking turn-ins and late apexes, powering out into the track-outs with moderate rear end smear, always ready to use the wide tail of his car as a means of defending his position against those two nimble coupes close behind - a Comet and a Kanata apparently - while setting his sights on that Peregrine that had him slightly stumped already on the way to the show.
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FTFY 
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The Lone Wolf: GAR Part 2
James Carhard, 26. Modified '68 AEA Barracuda GT
“Fuck! This is fun!” James shouted aloud after bypassing the initial road block. Now the race got more technical.
James pushed the Barracuda into the increasingly twisty corners, the car… not exactly happy about it. The Barracuda groaned at the bends, under-steering immensely til James popped the clutch in the downshifts. Then it just cried for freedom, the large rear tires spinning furiously on the twisting bends til they simmered down to squeaking just after the apex. Pushing the Barracuda through the corners was like trying to pilot a drunken fist in a brawl, once momentum is started it doesn’t change direction very fast.
Adrenaline
“Ha, Ha, you fucking pricks! Eat Shit!” James exclaimed to the morning commuters and occasional tractor or lorry. Rounding a blind bend, he almost rear-ended a small car. A slam on the brakes with a quick yank of the steering wheel sent the rear end of the Barracuda to where the front end should have been.
“Woo, Shit just got real!” James yelled, throwing the car into reverse to correct himself with a Rockford Spin.
The car started to hesitate slightly, as the air thinned out. James had some thoughts about re-jetting the carbs, but only momentarily, as he narrowly dodged another commuter.
Throughout this leg of the race, James had minimal contact with any serious police, as he was racing just behind the middle of the pack. As the road widened out, he did catch up to a red sports car of sorts, though James never got a good look at the driver, as he had to dodge a lorry to get around it.
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By the way, in the off sections, will there be opportunity to cross paths? Can we keen an eye on who might be in range to see if any encounters should crop up?
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I know I am hoping to catch you before my first fuel stop. Its possible with a nice long straight stretch (185mph top speed). After re-fueling it wont have much chance.
1 Like
Good thing the Dingo isn’t FWD 