Alex Roy isn’t crazy. I just thought I’d throw that out there, because when most people meet him and find out what he’s done, that’s their first reaction. I mean, only an insane person would dress up like a foreign police officer and drive around really fast in a fake foreign police car in a rally where the prize is nothing. Most people would say that doing just that one time is a crazy thing to do. How about eight times? Have we reached crazy yet? What if he then decided to break the long-standing Cannonball record by driving from New York City to Los Angeles in less than 32 hours? Would that be crazy? According to most people, yes it would.
    As the driving director for the New York Motor Club, and as a former delivery driver for Gotham Dream Cars, an exotic car rental company, I’ve gotten to drive pretty much every rare exotic car in the book. I’ve driven Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s, Porsche’s, and Aston Martin’s, and I’ve even participated in the Bullrun, a cross-country rally that is only not a race because it has no prize. I’ve driven so many cars that it really takes a lot to impress me at this point. So when I got an 11pm phone call from Alex, I was pleasantly surprised when he asked me to drive his 2000 M5 with him down to Miami for the Miami International Auto Show. If this were some ordinary M5, or some ordinary driver, I’d have politely turned down the offer, because the truth is that I did have many more important things to do than drive 3,000 miles for apparently no reason. However this was Alex Roy, not some ordinary driver, and this was the Polizia Stradale Intercettore, not just any other Avus Blue 2000 M5.
    Alex told me that we would be departing his east village apartment at around 9 and we’d leave from there. Of course I didn’t want to be late, so I showed up at 8, figuring that he’d be up getting ready to go anyway. With dual quad-shot mocha’s in hand I rang the doorbell, and was answered by a sleepy bald man in a traffic-cone orange bathrobe, whom I had clearly woken up.
    “Hey man, you’re early.”
    “Obviously”I had read Alex’s book “The Driver” and learned much about his reputation for being extremely prepared when it comes to long trips, and here he was, not even awake, half an hour before departure.
    “Dude, I pulled a hardcore all nighter last night, you’re driving first shift.”
    This was unexpected. Alex and I had hung out on several occasions, but I would never have assumed that someone like him would give first driving shift to someone like me. “You sure?”
    “Of course,” he said, “You come highly recommended.”
    As it turned out, departure time was not likely any time before noon, because we were waiting for Fed Ex to deliver the four new GPS units and two Police scanners that we needed for our journey. Sure, we could have easily driven the whole time with just one GPS and no scanners, but where’s the fun in that? We used the time to fit me for my brand new Team Polizei leather jacket, a very good copy of the jacket worn by the Spanish Highway Patrol under Franco, and watch some of the more hardcore Gumball 3000 home movies ever made.
    Finally, at 12:30, we made our way out of the parking garage. I was driving, and immediately I noticed a few things about the Polizei M5. The shifter is a Kelleners short shifter, and it requires an absurd amount of muscle to row through the gears. Also, the light flywheel and clutch allow the engine to rev up and down much quicker than a stock M5. Oh yeah, and there are 8 LCD screens on the dash all constantly pumping information to you. In addition to those, the CB radio, radar detector, and Police Scanners make more noise than I ever could have imagined. Driving the M5 feels like piloting a jet or a submarine, and is truly a two-man job. “The only time I’ve ever been ticketed,” Alex says, “was when I tried to do everything myself on a rally. This car is designed to be operated by a driver and co-pilot. The co-pilot is in charge of all the electronics. The driver just drives.”
    If you look at the trends of cars used for rallies, the M5 is probably not your first choice. After all, most people drive exotic sports cars, not luxury sedans, so your first choice would probably be a Ferrari, and this is where you’d be wrong. The M5 is fast, has plenty of room for three adults with gear, spare tires, extra electronics, a 20 gallon secondary fuel tank, and backups for everything. Out on the highway is where it really shines, when the luxury factor kicks in and you can cruise at 90 or 100 mph without even pushing it too hard. All the instrumentation makes it extremely easy to drive fast and avoid the fear of getting caught, and as I drove, Alex was calling out military-style instructions about how to effectively drive fast without being caught or having the cops called on us. Try to avoid passing on the right or weaving, don’t tailgate people, and don’t flash the lights to get them to move out of the way. Slow down as you approach the crest of a hill, where your sight line is minimized, and book it down the hill to the next crest. Then repeat.
    At first, all the gadgetry and wiring throughout the car can be very intimidating, but as you drive you learn how to use everything, and by day two it becomes very second nature. Once I got over the intimidation factor the mood lightened, and the ride basically broke down to two bald idiots giggling like school girls over references to the “2 Girls 1 Cup” video, our new favorite piece of pornography.
    We hit traffic around Washington DC and basically sat for two hours while it cleared, and at that point we decided to abandon our plans in Charleston, South Carolina, that night, and instead to stop 100 miles closer in Columbia.
The whole drive, we had been sending text messages home to Polizei Headquarters on position, speed, and time to destination. In fact, several fans had been watching the updates and drove 5 hours from Atlanta to Charleston to meet us, checked into a hotel, and were waiting for the arrival call. When they learned that we changed our destination, he checked out, drove another hour and a half to Cloumbia, and met us there.
    But, 50 miles outside of Columbia, I almost wound up in jail. In The Driver, Alex makes several references to the fact that his right headlight occasionally goes out if he hit a pothole hard enough. This happened a couple of times to me on I-26, but since there were no cars anywhere to be seen, Alex told me not to worry and press on. 90mph, then 100, 110, and 120 flew by. At 130 mph the Valentine One radar detector went crazy, saying someone hit us with a direct blast from behind. We hadn’t seen a single car for miles, and I couldn’t see anything in the rearview mirror, but since the brake lights were disabled I slammed on the brakes and brought the car down to 60 mph anyway. After a minute or two we got another direct blast, but this time I could see faint headlights of a single car approaching us from behind. I could see on the navigation that there was an exit in less than a mile, so Alex instructs me to make a run for it. I floor it, cut the rear lights, and try to make a run for it at the exit. I run a stop sign at the end of the ramp and turn left to try to hide, but the road was in the middle of nowhere and didn’t offer me a good hiding spot. Once I saw the cop getting off the exit ramp as well I decided I was caught and should just pull over. Brake lights on.
    “License and registration please,” demanded the cop with an accent that implied he had never once in his life gone beyond the borders of South Carolina.
    “Sure thing, officer. Here you go.”
    “Exactly what are you boys doing here? Why did you get off the highway?”
    I responded, “Well, officer, this is a bit embarrassing, but I really have to pee. I may have been driving a little quickly, but it was kind of an emergency.” This was a lie.
    “What’s going on in this car here? What are all them screens for?”
    Alex chimed in, “It’s a replia of an Italian Highway Patrol car. We’re touring the country raising money for them.”
    Alex is good at this.
    “Sit tight, y’all. I’ll be right back”
    At this point, I should tell you that for the last several months I’ve had what we call in New York a Conditional License. That means that I’m only supposed to drive to and from work because I got arrested. I won’t go into the specifics here, but suffice to say my physical license says “CONDITIONAL DRIVER’S LICENSE” in big, bold letters on top. The cop returns:
    “Sir, are you aware your license is suspended in the state of New York?”
    “Yes sir, but I have a conditional, and this is work for me.”
    Alex leaned over, “Sir, I hired him to help me drive to Miami, it would have been unsafe to do this drive myself.”
    The cop thought for a minute, then walked back to his car. I really thought, that I was going to jail for sure. I mean, he had me on speeding, evasion, no brake lights, running a stop sign, and any other number of violations he could make up, not to mention driving on a conditional license for something that was clearly, at least to me, not work.
    The cop returned, my license in his hand. “Sir I’m writing you a written warning because your right side headlamp is out. Please have that checked out as soon as possible. I might also suggest letting your friend to drive tonight, because you don’t want to get pulled over with a suspended license”
    I did a double take, not knowing whether or not the cop was aware he already had me pulled over with a suspended license.
    “No problem officer, do you mind if I get out and pee now?” I continued my full bladder story for continuity’s sake, walked around to the front of the car, unzipped my pants, and pretended to pee. Alex got into the driver’s seat and laughed to himself as the cop pulled away.
    “Welcome to the team,” Alex said. I felt like Henry Hill leaving the courthouse after his first arrest and being congratulated by Big Paulie for not ratting on his friends.
    “You fucking asshole. Fix your fucking headlight before I punch you in the face. I can’t believe I just ran from a cop on a suspended license because your headlight is broken.”
    “Yeah, I guess that may have been a bad call.”
    “No shit.”
    Columbia was a well-deserved stop. 10 hours of driving had taken its toll and I needed a break, some booze, and maybe even some sleep.
    Once again, I woke up on time, and Alex was about an hour late getting ready to leave Columbia. I swear, for someone who’s supposed to be both fast and prepared, he is neither when it comes to getting to the car on time. I had about 7 cups of coffee and waited in the lobby with a couple of fans that wanted to know everything about our fake police car.
Back on the road, we realized that Florida’s highway system is really just a racetrack with obstacles. I mean, we were cruising at 90 in the middle lane and commuters are passing us. It’s really unbelievable. Finally, we make it to the outskirts of Miami, where I’ve never seen so much import street racing on the highway in my whole life. Some idiot in a riced out Celica cuts us off and Alex hits the Police lights. The kid promptly took a dump in his pants and slammed on the brakes. We giggled.
    Our arrival at the Shore Club in Miami Beach was festive to say the least. Alex’s friend Danieo showed up with 10 models, not one of which was there to see me. I understood, because I probably wouldn’t come out to see me either. But I’ll take leftovers, thank you very much.
    “Hey Farah!,” Alex called out from across the bar, glancing up from his gaggle of female adorers.
    “What’s up bro?”
    “I’m driving back on Sunday, you in?”
    I smiled. “Of course. Just make sure to bring extra cups.”