From Sea To Speeding Sea

Thanks to the lower altitude, the road to Prescott was bare. It was a wide, level stretch of two-lane, virtually deserted, and Gurney ran the entire 51 miles with the speedometer needle glued on 130 mph. Whisking through Prescott we plunged into the National Forest. Mile after mile of tight, mountainside switchbacks whispered underneath us. The masterful timing and discipline of Gurney became more apparent with each passing yard. I sat there in admiration, watching him run quickly and easily through the nasty turns, never squealing a tire, never wasting a motion on the steering wheel. I had witnessed a virtuoso playing with a priceless instrument, and it came to me that this had to be the peak of excellence that every driver must aspire to. Surely all men cannot be Gurneys, but such lofty goals still must remain, as opposed to the current egalitarianism that presumes all drivers are helpless dolts who must be packaged in mediocre, crashproof capsules lest they hurt themselves.

The nasty cut beyond Yarnell was traveled with similar ease and suddenly we were on the desert floor. Flat, open road lay between us and Los Angeles. Dawn lit the way and Gurney upped the pace to 140 mph across the desolation.

The lawman caught us on a back street in Quartzsite, Ariz. I'd spotted his car, a mud-brown Dodge Highway Patrol sedan, parked in front of a run-down cafe at the roadside. The car had been empty, indicating that he'd been having his morning coffee when we'd ripped past, doubtless rattling the windows in the little place. I'd told Gurney about the car, then kept my eyes focused on the caf�, watching for movement. I saw headlights flick on. "He's coming. He's chasing us."

"He'll never catch us," Dan said.

"He's gaining. He must be running 140 miles an hour!" I reported.

We sat there, speeding along in limbo, trying to figure out what to do. There was no sense trying to elude him on a side road. There were no side roads. Outrunning him was out of the question. A short distance ahead was the Arizona-California border on the Colorado River. He could easily radio ahead and stop us at the agricultural inspection station. We drove onward, as if in a trance, letting him close the gap.

"We'll turn off in Quartzsite and get some gas. Maybe he'll miss us," said Gurney. He sailed onto an off-ramp and scuttled down a back street. Sighting an empty self-service gas station, he braked the Ferrari to a stop. Perhaps our pursuer in the mud-brown Dodge hadn't seen us get off the Interstate.

Perhaps he had. We had barely shut off the Ferrari's engine when the boxy form of the Dodge, its twin gum-ball roof lights flashing crazily, slewed to a halt in the gravel beside us. A tall, lean patrolman in a starched khaki uniform leaped out. His glands still pulsing from the pursuit, his feathers ruffled in a kind of cock-rooster triumph, he marched over to Gurney and curtly demanded license and registration. Little more was said as he strode back to his car and removed a pad and pencil. We stood there, the silence broken only by the furry, electronic jabbering from the patrol radio and the hushed background rumble of the Interstate traffic. The officer obviously recognized Gurney.

Ripping the ticket off the pad and handing it over, the Highway Patrolman, as if to signal the end of the official business, turned to regard the Ferrari for a moment, then asked, rather affably, "Just how fast will that there thing go?"

"C'mon out on the freeway again and we'll let you find out," Gurney snapped stonily.