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"ROAD TRIPS" by THE OLD SQUID |
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"Road Trips" by The Old Squid
Street Racing in Portland
posted 10/08/02
In a few minutes a pickup truck pulls in followed by a an older Chevy Camaro. In the distance, I hear a low rumble as another car with a non-stock engine slithers in. Soon, the lot is rapidly filling with a mix of old cars, new cars, imported cars and trucks. In this mix though, there is one thing they all seem to have in common- they don't sound stock. They lope, they rumble, and the imports snarl. Many are parked with their hoods up and have attracted a crowd. By 11:30 p.m. there are around 200 vehicles in the lot and one other motorcycle. The bike belongs to a 21-year-old machinist named Chris. He turned me on to this scene when I complimented him on his nicely done CB750 "street fighter" style custom bike at his place of employment earlier in the week. His CB is flat olive drab green with nicely made rearset pegs, clip- ons, and no license! Stripped of turn signals and any other "extras", it weighs considerably less than it did at the beginning of its life. Chris and I wander and look at the machinery and he explains how the night will go. "About midnight, a location to race will be decided and we'll all head out. Its usually at an industrial site or a road that's fairly deserted." As we walk and talk, one fellow drives in pulling a trailer with a real, serious, drag-race car on it. Big slicks in back, nothing inside except a bucket seat. His last quarter mile elimination time from a legal dragstrip is printed on his window: 10.45sec. These guys are serious! Chris says I'll have a hard time turning up a race with any of the cars because the bikes beat 'em so bad but I go back to Mr. Dragster and he agrees to a match. About this time, the imports rev up and head out to do their own sparing. This crowd tends to be young and the cars are hopped up with bolt on stuff. Loud pipes sound like a favorite accessory. At midnight the word spreads like a rumor through the crowd that a site has been chosen. I don't know how this happens. Telepathy? Pheromones? Whatever, the destination is an industrial road over by the Expo Center. Everyone fires up. The air throbs as engines built to go fast are made to drive slow out of the lot. Chris and I fall in about 2/3 of the way back in the pack. Our destination is about five miles away and the route snakes us along the levee between the Columbia River and the Portland Airport. As we drive, ahead, a mile of taillights winds away. This is an incredible sight on the semi-deserted streets. We move like a giant organism. I think of mechanical army ants in an urban forest. At the site, the cars quickly array themselves along the side of the road. Everyone backs in diagonally so headlights shine away from the racers and down the "strip". The line is half a mile or better. Around us, the warehouses and shops are dark and mute. There are no houses in the area but the city glow permeates the sky overhead. The first cars line up. A man stands in the middle of the road as the cars stop. He's facing the racers, back to the "finish line". He points to the car on his left, the driver nods and the starter raises that arm. He points to the second car. That driver nods and the starter has both arms in the air. The engines rev and suddenly, the starter drops his arms and the cars blast off the line. The roar of engines echoes off the buildings. As the rubber smoke from the first race hovers in the street, the next two cars stage for their race. Races go for a few hundred yards to a mile. They go until one driver gives up, acknowledges that they're beat. Sometimes the race is for money, usually for sport. This is an interesting crowd. Young and non-drinking or drugging. At least those that race are. Unwritten rules are enforced by not being able to find a race, or loud gossip that the offending party can overhear "who wants to race a drunk!" In extreme cases, some of "the guys" will go over and talk to the violator. Some laws are broken but some are enforced! Interesting. I'm in line with Mr. Dragster and we are moving up. Three cars have gone. The kids get a kick out "the old guy on the hot bike" who is willing to go against a really hot car. We move up another slot and then, suddenly, its all over. A police car bumbles down the road on his way back to the station from an unrelated call. He stops and asks "What's the event boys?" Boys look down, scuff gravel with toes. He calls for some back-up and moves to the end of the line. The back-up arrives and parks at our end of the race and they turn on their red 'n blues. That's it. That's the signal that the night is over. Another unwritten rule is that the police don't hunt us down, they don't follow us to break up the race. They wait until a call comes in. This can take up to two hours in a really deserted spot. They arrive. They turn on their lights. We leave. If everybody leaves, there are no tickets and no hassles. If you run a race after the lights go on, you are ticketed. Relations are surprisingly friendly. No talk of "pigs". Its just a game and they don't seem to mind the races too much. Some of the kids know some of the cops, have talked to them before. Chris is told "You get some turn signals on that thing if you're going to ride it on the street. I warned you last night and if I catch you next week, I'll have to write you up." No comment about his lack of license plate! I ride home for the night. I'm a little frustrated by my missing the race. Maybe next time, any Friday or Saturday in the "darkness at the edge of town." |
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