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"Tonight we ride the mansions of glory in suicide machines." Bruce Springsteens words were sung out through the cars speakers as the ignition was turned on. A young hand reached down to hit the CD play button and an altogether different beat began to play, reflecting where the car and driver were at. It was dark. The car sat in a cul-de-sac in Anywhere UK, a universal Brookside that anyone would recognise, but few would know it’s location. The car slipped out, through a maze of light bricked houses and onto the main road. Anywhere scrolled past the windows. The brightly lit dual carriageway cut through sprawling industrial estates. Same-same grey blocks of steel and concrete bore razor edged corporate logos that proclaimed economic might by their familiarity. The only things that told you where you could be were the street signs. Each was the same size, had the same the lettering and pointed to places that were once different.

The car screamed back it's individuality. It was a Ford Escort, riding low on wide wheels, its turquoise paint shone in the street-lights and the rasping exhaust echoed off the featureless walls.

For now, the cars speed matched that of the early evening traffic. Some heads turned, many in contempt. A saloon car full of teenagers pulled alongside with all heads craning to check out the suburban hot rod. Then it accelerated off, tempting a pursuit. It was ignored, tonight meatier challenges would be laid down.

Soon, giant palaces of glass and neon could be seen ahead. The signs pointed the traffic towards the superstores and the leisure complex. Cars streamed down the slip-road, some turning off to the drive-thrus, and most headed towards the car park of the huge multiplex. The Escort cruised past rows of shiny middle-class dreams, and then turned across the front of the multiplex. Thousands of people, mostly young people, streamed into the place. The huge entertainment factory sucked them into its shiny interior, channelling and siphoning the expectant crowd into its darker depths.

The Escort turned around. It made its way to the car-park of a vast, closed, DIY store. At one end was a dozen cars and a small crowd. Alloy wheels and the occasional flash paint job set the scene. The Escort growled past on the service road. Although all heads turned to see the newcomer, the night was too young, and no real competition was in evidence. Despite the cries for action from the attentive gathering, the turquoise car carried on, and coolly headed towards the ring-road. A meandering path was set, an exploratory lap of the ring. Another smooth high-way stretched out before the Escort, punctuated by roundabouts but curving inexorably right, back on itself. The car past lay-bys with numerous trucks, blinds drawn across the windows, the truckers sleeping off their daily work. On the other carriageway, in the distance, three bright lights appeared, then, with a howl, three loud ‘bikes screamed by at incredible speed, the riders hunched low over their handlebars to get the last mile per hour out of their machines. The Escort driver couldn’t help but thrill to what the night had in store. As if reading the thoughts of the driver another car appeared in the mirrors. A white car, with fluorescent orange flashes down the sides. Suddenly, flashing blue lights reflected off the street signs. A routine, familiar to both parties, started. One traffic policeman engaged the young driver in banter, which always threatened to turn into interrogation, the other began to check over the car, peering into its insides with the aid of a torch, occasionally reciting chassis and engine numbers into his radio.

"Are you going up The Cross tonight?" asked the first policeman

"Already been."

"Going back?"

"Maybe."

The second policeman closed the bonnet of the car and walked back to join his colleague in questioning.

"Where did you get the turbo engine?"

"A breakers yard."

"Is it chipped?"

"Maybe."

"OK, go. Be careful."

The two policeman returned to their car to briefly discuss their stop.

"Not a sight you see every day."

"Best tell night shift to keep an eye on the ring road."

The Escort continued its meandering journey. Eventually it ended back at The Cross. The crowds were coming out of the cinema, their imaginations sated and subjugated by Hollywood’s dreams. The car park of the DIY store was almost full. Colourfully painted, alloy wheeled products of customising obsession’s lined up with more normal hatchbacks. Drum and bass boomed out across the lot, coming from a small van parked at one end. The owner held court with a small group of followers and poured forth about bass boxes and amps. Clusters of youths wondered along the rows of cars and tried to tempt anybody driving into mis-behaviour. More sat on the roofs of cars waiting to see some action. A white Toyota Supra sped down the service road and braked sharply to turn into the car park. It then veered recklessly to the more empty part and squealed to an almost dead halt. Then with a roar from the engine and howls of protest from the smoking tyres, it spun through 180 degrees and tore back to handbrake turn centre stage, and now almost the entire crowd was hollering at the driver for more. He was only to happy to oblige. The car stayed stationary, but the engine howled again and the back tyres began to spin wildly. Soon clouds of smoke were pouring from the tyres, and the crowd was in a frenzy of excitement. Some ran over to the car and started to push the back of it side to side, just to get closer to the action. The crowd yelled and laughed, the engine howled and soon the car and its cohorts were completely obscured by acrid white smoke. Then with a bang one of the tyres exploded, firing molten rubber pellets back at those dumb enough to be standing behind. With the show over, the jubilant crowd returned to their vantage points, and the Toyota limped to a parking spot to change wheels. The driver was planning where to get the next set of junk-yard tyres, so next Friday he could again, for ninety seconds at least, be somebody.

In the centre of the car park were the cleanest, most modified cars. Bonnets were raised, and knowledgeable voices talked about engine management chips and camshafts. All kept a respectful distance from a gunmetal grey Sierra Cosworth and the skinny youth leaning against its side. In contrast to the sports-wear and occasional designer labels all around him, he was wearing just a plain jumper and jeans. The flawless paint and the polished wheels of his car showed where his money had gone. A gentle, nervous, frisson could be felt in the throng around this car. This guy was the lord of the ring road, and the knowledgeable knew that with this man and this car the pretence stopped. There had been many challengers to the throne, but all came back to The Cross with their dreams of supremacy in tatters.

A new car, not seen at The Cross before that evening, entered the car park. All heads turned to see the turquoise Escort. It’s low profile tyres and loud exhaust spoke of speedy intent, the keen eared thought they could hear a wastegate close, and soon the word turbo rippled through the experts in the centre. Then suddenly the game started. Something, happened. A brief meeting of eyes, a careful look along gun-metal flanks, soon the crowd knew what was going to happen. The occupants of the saloon car seen previously, jumped off their vantage point on their roof and walked over to the Escort. They started to talk car, trying suss out its potential. Meanwhile, the Cosworth driver talked with two of his confidants, having his opinion of the new threat solicited. One of the small group around the Escort walked over to the small group around the Cosworth. An arrangement was made, the challenge was official and suddenly eager spectators jumped into their cars and screeched off towards places over looking the ring. The two protagonists left the car-park and by now the crowd leaving was quite big, many making the short walk to the set of traffic lights on the slip to the ring. The cars pulled alongside at the red light. There was no revving of engines, no tyre spinning, they waited coolly with their engines burbling, both drivers looking into the middle distance. A hush came over the crowd, a solemnity bore out of the fact that here they could see the sudden death of a male ego. And then the lights changed. Two sets of tyres screamed, two engines roared. By the top of the slip road there was a leader, the Cosworth had the edge from the start and as they joined the main carriageway it managed to smoothly slip past a truck in the slow lane. Foot still jammed hard down and the speed rising inexorably, the grey cars driver couldn’t stifle a laugh as the Escort had to slow to avoid the juggernaut. As the car topped a hundred miles per hour the smile left his face as he realised that the car behind didn’t drop back like all had done before, but held station. The first roundabout rushed up to meet them. The Cosworth driver applied his brakes hard. Then his right mirror suddenly filled with turquoise and the Escort shot past, leaving braking impossibly late and diving into the corner before the now worried champion. Out of the roundabout the Cosworth managed to regain a little ground and now they were alongside. It was a increasingly terrifying stale-mate. Neither car could out-power the other and the speed was rising to insane levels. 100, 110, 120, and now another roundabout presented itself, the Cosworth driver knew he had to out-brake the Escort on the gentle curve before it. It drew nearer, and nearer, then at the same time both cars threw out all the stops, their bonnets dipping down violently. The grey nose of the Cosworth just about led into the junction, but he was attempting it far faster than he ever had before. The Escort, perhaps sensing impending disaster, backed off even more. At the apex of the corner, something, perhaps an imperfection on the road surface, perhaps a panicky jerk of the steering wheel, made the car come alive like a frightened animal. It quivered on its suspension, bouncing up and down, and side to side in a series slight, but quick, oscillations. Out of the corner it fishtailed violently one way, then the other, and then it span completely, smashing its nose against the central reservation. It then careened backwards across the carriage-way, steam pouring from the radiator. The car thumped into the curb and rolled, almost gracefully, onto its roof. The Escort stopped alongside the wreckage and killed its engine. Quiet descended. Then a figure could seen awkwardly trying to extract himself from the heap. A door opened and the driver tumbled out. He picked himself up and looked across at the Escort driver. It was a look of pained humiliation, he had been defeated.

There was a faint sound of closing sirens and the Escort started with a roar, and in a victory display smoked the tyres with a fast getaway. The two drivers would never have listened, apart from overheard snippets, to Springsteens tales of 1970’s highway duels, of people who would otherwise be societies no-bodies using high-octane screams to prove they exist. But the Chevys and Hemis set the scene for these regular British replays. The Toyotas and turbos had the same function, telling the same tale with very nineties overtones.

The Escort driver allowed a smile. She had made her mark.

©Graham Brown