The sun is shining down on northeastern California, as a group of racers maneuver and fight for rank, tearing down the open country side road as if it is a race track. The group recklessly weaves through pedestrian vehicles at high speeds in an attempt to gain first place, which I am fighting to keep. I notice the beauty of the mountains in the hazy distance to the east and a wall of dark clouds to the west. Rain is coming. That means wet and slippery roads which are very dangerous conditions for the race. Race; the word registers in my mind and I remember what I am supposed to be concentrating on. I push my A.D.D. aside and quickly gather my thoughts. I begin to regain focus on more pressing matters, with the knowledge that if I fail here today, I may not see those mountains again for a long time. My heart is pounding as the road ahead of me begins to gradually curve. I begin to drop a little of my speed and start to take the turn. I have taken turns like this one hundreds of times before. Muscle memory kicks in. I clutch the handbrake and wait until I am in just the right position, and then I pull. I quickly release the handbrake as the rear end of the car fish tails, and then I push the accelerator to the floor. I turn the wheel as fast as I can to the right as I begin to slide through the left hand turn. The tires squeal and the meter on the rev. counter shoots into the high eight thousands. I feel like I am floating as I drift along the winding road, and I feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins; a constant reminder of why I am here.

I take a look in my rear view mirror just in time to see the driver who has started drifting behind me get side swiped by a police officer, sending him sliding off the road, crashing through the guard rail, and rolling through a field of tall grass. As the car continues to roll, it kicks up mass amounts of dust, catches fire, and a tire flies through the air. I refocus my attention to the road as I stop drifting and my tires grip the asphalt, and I begin to regain my speed. The wreck is none of my concern; I don’t think I know the driver anyway. Instead, my sights are set on the flashing yellow light down the road that marks the finish line. I am in first place with everything to lose, and the cops are hot on my trail.

Police in these parts are tough, and they will do anything within their power to catch street racers. Speed enforcement officers have been issued exotic cars to keep up with racers in pursuits, and have been cleared to use excessive force after everybody began to think that the police were too weak to stop racers from endangering public safety. For racers like me, this was a declaration of war. The police were challenging us, and we, the racers, had to show them that they can’t keep up with us. We had to show them that we are not bound by any laws or rules they tell us we have to follow, and that we are free to go where we want, when we want, and as fast as we want. If anything, the police have inspired the racing community to get more organized. The cops have changed the game of street racing. It used to be just for fun, but now it has become about pride and which side is better than the other. Street racing has become a symbol of defiance and freedom. I’m not a thug, and wasn’t interested in defying the law when I started racing. But on the other hand, the police are standing in the way of what I love and how I make a living. To me, that is something worth fighting them on.

The cop behind me is one that I have seen a few times before, and he knows me as well. We don’t know each other personally, but he knows me by the cars I drive and my fake license plates. The entire street racing community is anonymous, but we recognize each other by custom paint jobs, license plates, and everyone has a code name that they go by. Take me as an example; my real name is Chester Wesson, but my code name is Hammerhead. My fake license plate only serves the purpose of allowing me to drive around and give the allusion that I am just another law abiding citizen with a fancy sports car. But if a cop tries to runs my license plate, the numbers don’t bring up any records or names, so I will likely need to outrun the cop before he has the chance to catch me and realize who I really am. The point is that you become famous for your alternate life under your nick-name as a racer, but you can live a normal life outside of racing. The cops can’t identify the real you from fake license plates, flashy cars, and a nick-name, and neither can the public. If we all went under our real names we would have to be running from the law all the time, but this way we are only fugitives when we climb into the driver’s seat and hit the streets.
I notice that the voice on my police scanner is coming from the officer behind me when he mentions my nick-name to the dispatch. This cop is one that particularly bothers me and has rivaled himself to me. In my opinion, he is nothing but an arrogant man who has been given a fast car to play with while he eats his donuts on the job, and is certainly not worthy to be calling himself my rival. He has a big ego and prides himself at his exaggerated number of arrests he has made on street racers, and he needs to understand how much better I am than he is.

The officer begins to gain on me as he comes out of the turn, and positions himself directly behind me in order to draft off of me. I instantly notice the tactical error and can’t help but smile as I capitalize on this opportunity. My fingers find the switch that sits to the right of my steering wheel that will put this cop out of the chase. Without hesitation, I flip the switch that activates my pursuit tech.
Pursuit tech. is usually reserved for speed enforcement officers, but can be found on the internet or at certain automotive repair shops or garages that secretively help the racing community for a little extra money. Pursuit tech. comes in a small variety of weapons including spikes, an E.M.P., and, for cops, the ability to call in road blocks or helicopters to aid in the chase. Racer pursuit tech consists of spikes and the E.M.P., but we also have a speed boost commonly known as nitrous. The nitrous provides an extra boost of acceleration to outrun police. Spikes are obviously made to deflate your enemy’s tires. They look like jacks from a game for children, except bigger and they are sharpened. You drop spikes out of the back of your car once you have your target at least ten yards directly behind you, and if you’re going fast enough you can do some serious damage to the other guy’s car in addition to blowing his tires. The E.M.P. is an electromagnetic pulse that disables your adversary’s electronics and slows them down until their system has the chance to reboot itself. As you may have guessed, I am about to throw down some spikes to demobilize the officer that is chasing me.

As I flip the switch, I can hear the twinkle of the spikes hitting the road and the loud pop and hiss of deflating tires. I can’t help but laugh as I hear the officer curse and yell as he hits the spikes and loses his grip, spinning of the road and colliding with a tree. Then I hear a discouraged voice come over the police scanner that says, “Dispatch, that son-of-a-b**** spiked me, I’m out of the chase.”

This turns my smile to outright laughter, and I wish I could say something to him as I literally leave him in the dust. I compose myself as I proceed to shift into top gear. I take a glance at my speedometer, which has just passed over one hundred eighty miles per hour, and begin to forget about the race. I have won, and everybody knows it. The finish line is less than three hundred yards down the road. I blink once, then again, and the race is over. I have won the cash, and maintained my reputation as number one.

The way you win prize money in street racing is obviously by winning a race, but you can also come in second and receive a small percentage of the winnings if the guy who finishes first wants to be generous. The way the whole system works is you have to buy your way into the race, and the buy-in is usually around two thousand dollars, and the winner takes all the money that was used by the other races to buy their way into the race. The winner may give second place somewhere around two thousand, simply out of respect. We may seem like punks, and most people wouldn’t expect us to be generous with our winnings, but it has just become something of a mutual agreement between all the racers that second place deserves some recognition. Of course, you don’t have to abide by the rules, but if you’re that kind of guy, usually, everyone will return the favor on the road. The moral of the story is, if you don’t want to be forced into a ditch at high speeds, you will share your winnings with second place.

Most of the time, a race will end with a crazy chase around the city, or wherever we are, until the cops realize that they can’t hang with us and they call off the chase. Then the winner will go to a predetermined location to get their money. Lucky for me, the only cop pursuing us got put into a tree thanks to yours’ truly, so I am able to go pick up my prize right away.
I begin to slow down as I glide along the country road and make my way towards the coast. I get on the highway and everyone is staring at me with suspicious expressions, as if they know what I’ve just done. The Ferrari that I’m driving attracts enough attention without the helmet that I’m wearing. Then again, I don’t dare take the helmet off and show my face, simply because some of these people aren’t stupid and realize that I’m a racer. At the same time, the attention makes me feel good. I pass two boys about twelve years old in the back of their dad’s sixty-five Mustang convertible. Their jaws drop when they see my car, and they point at me so their dad can get a load of the Ferrari FXX Enzo. The father smiles, but when he sees my helmet and driving gloves his smile turns to a scowl. He’s not a fool; he knows what I am. He makes it clear how he feels about me with an offensive hand gesture. I wave politely as I speed past them and take the road that will get me to an abandoned ship yard. This is the agreed upon location where the money is being kept.
I pull into the ship yard and immediately notice three other cars that aren’t supposed to be there. From left to right I see a McLaren F1, a Bugatti Veyron W-16 Super Sport, and a Koenigsegg CCXR Edition. Each one of these is a supercar that is worth over a million dollars, which is an indicator that these are probably racers like me. I park my car and hope something isn’t wrong as I walk into a massive garage filled with boats that look like they haven’t seen water in over thirty years. At the far side of the garage I see four silhouettes. As I approach them I begin to hear them talking amongst themselves. I hear them say my nick-name, and they stop talking and turn around as they notice that I have arrived. Three of the four have their helmets on to conceal their identity. The fourth man tosses me a bag which holds the winnings and walks out of the building, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary as far as receiving prize money goes, but I still don’t know why the other three racers are here. Fortunately, I haven’t taken off my helmet, so my identity remains unknown.
Before I get a chance to speak, the guy on my left introduces himself as Romeo, and the other two guys as Starfish and Thumper. These are obviously the nick-names that these guys have chosen to go under, and it seems to me that they are looking to set up a race. I tell them that I go by the name of Hammerhead, and that I have heard of them before. They are racers who are just about as good as I am, and get just as much attention from the law as I do. They are the real deal, but have a different reason for racing than I do. These guys started racing when the cops first tried to stop the racing community. They are what racers like me, and the rest of society for that matter, like to call “punk-asses,” and they race for no reason other than to defy and injure police who try to stop racers. To me, that’s a pretty stupid reason to race; none-the-less, these dudes can drive.
Romeo seems pleased to hear that I have heard of him. He tells me that he knows who I am as well and that he has been watching me. He tells me that he knows why I drive and how good I am, and also that he is not talking to me because he likes me. He says that he has chosen me because I am the right guy for the job, and our relationship is strictly based on business. I realize that they are not here to set up a race, and proceed to ask Romeo and his thugs what they mean by “relationship.” Romeo seems happy with my curiosity and excited to tell me why he is here. Without hesitation, Romeo begins to tell me his plan.
The four of us are among the most advanced drivers in the street racing community, and our mission, should I choose to take part in it, is to antagonize police to the point of breaking them. The cops need to realize that they cannot stop us, no matter how hard they try. The public needs to realize that even though the police mean well, all they are is a danger to everyone else. Everyone needs to see that the police are the ones who aren’t in control, and that, without them always trying to chase racers, there would not be as much danger on the roads as there is now.
Romeo knows that his plan will not sit well with me at first, and it doesn’t. He is asking me to sell out my beliefs and start hunting for cops with pursuit tech., rather than beating them in a fair fight. I only use my weapons against police units when it’s necessary, not for the hell of it. I tell him that I’m not interested, and that he can find somebody else to carry out his sick plan. But just before I can leave, Starfish and Thumper stop me. Romeo comes closer and begins talking to me in a more serious tone. He reminds me that the police are threatening my way of life and how I provide for myself. He tells me that the cops are growing more aggressive and will not stop until they are broken, and if we don’t break them, then nobody else will. I cannot argue with that logic. The cops are putting more and more heat on racers and it is only going to get worse. Soon enough, it will become nearly impossible to race on the streets and all I have worked for will be taken from me. Romeos words cut me to the core, and I begin to see what must be done. I tell him that I will do my best, but could not promise anything. Romeo laughs and Starfish and Thumper release me. They tell me it’ll all be fine and that we have nothing to worry about, but I can only see this ending in body bags on the side of the road.

As big of a joke as the police are to racers like us, we shouldn’t be asking for their attention. Maybe Romeo and the others don’t fully understand what police are capable of, but there are a few cops who know what they are doing behind the wheel. They are ex-racers and driving specialists who know what it takes to take down racers, and hopefully we don’t cross paths with too many of them.

It has been three months since I met Romeo, Starfish, and Thumper in the garage at the old ship yard, and since then we have gained a lot of publicity. There was a story about us on the national news, and everywhere I go I hear my nick-name mentioned in people’s conversations. I have to admit, Romeo’s plan has worked pretty well, and I like the attention. The four of us are in the national spotlight, and everybody is dying to know what we will do next. We have escaped the long arm of the law countless times, and the cops seem to be getting more and more discouraged. They have spent three months trying to catch us, but haven’t even been able to scratch our paint. We are the kings of these roads, and nobody can defeat us.

I wake up suddenly to the buzz of my cell phone that sits beside my bed on the nightstand. A text from Romeo reads “Emerson Ave. in an hour. Be there.” This means that it’s time to have some fun. I get out of bed and get ready. I eat an apple, brush my teeth, and take a shower. After I get dressed I run down the stairs, I slip on my black leather jacket, driving gloves and grab my helmet. As I walk into my garage, I have a difficult time deciding which one of my many cars I will take, and eventually decide on my Lamborghini Murciélago LP670-4 SV. I waste no more time as I open the butterfly door, hop in, and start the engine. The high pitch roar of the engine echoes in the garage as the Lamborghini comes to life.
Without delay I start driving towards Emerson Avenue. About fifteen minutes pass and I’m there. The usual crew has assembled on the side of the road; Romeo, Starfish, Thumper, and one or two others who want to stir up trouble for the cops. I do not waste any time talking to them, because there is nothing to say and we don’t really like each other too much anyway. Instead, he nods to me, and we all tear down the road.

After a few miles, we find what we are looking for. We pass a Corvette ZR1 with speed enforcement markings, and he immediately turns around and begins to follow us. I see him turn on his lights and then the chase is on. About five miles down the road we are joined by two more speed enforcement officers, a McLaren MP4-12c and a Porsche 911 GT3. The cop in the Porsche fixes his sights on the racer I don’t know and hits him with an E.M.P. right away. This causes an electrical fire in the cockpit, and the driver is forced to pull over, or be burned. A lucky shot by the cop, but I’m not impressed yet. More cops rapidly join the pursuit; no doubt they have realized who they are chasing. I begin to get nervous as the cop to racer ratio begins to favor the police. It is now four racers against seven cops, and I get the feeling that the police have sent their best after us this time.

The cops begin to close the gap, and I can see Thumper struggle to maintain his speed as the road begins to curve. Thumper hits his nitrous but it is too late. The officer in the Corvette has had the time to line up for a P.I.T. maneuver while Thumper struggles for speed. With one swift turn into Thumper’s left quarter panel, the officer forces him from the road and spinning into the woods on the left side. I can barely believe what has just happened, and I begin to understand the seriousness of my situation. I am dealing with cops who have had lots of experience, and their technique and aggression matches that of the racers. I am in over my head on this one, but I can’t show my fear. In a situation like this it is time for the remaining racers to embrace the oldest of racer traditions and that is to run away like cowards. I notice that Romeo and Starfish have the same idea as I see both of them make a sudden attempt to take a sharp left hand turn with the intention of escaping, in hopes of leaving me to deal with the cops. I cannot say that I am surprised, but I am still angry with them. We were supposed to be a team, although when I think about it I was prepared to do the same to them if it came down to it. To be perfectly honest, I don’t care what happens to them, they’re scumbags anyway. Luckily, these cops will not be shaken that easy. In fact, Romeo and Starfish have inadvertently done me a favor, and end up drawing four of the seven cops off of my tail. Romeo drifts through the turn as smooth as silk, but Starfish clips his back end on the guardrail and loses speed. The officer in a Porsche Carrera GT sees his chance, and slams into the driver’s side door of Starfish’s Lamborghini Aventador. At this point I thought I should be concerned that both Thumper and Starfish are probably dead, but I was in too much of a panic to realize how bad their crashes really were. All I can think about is what will happen to me if the cops are given the chance to even get near me. Thoughts of how I could escape were rushing through my head, but every time I tried to shake the police they stay right on my tail. I suddenly remember that I have weapons. I look for the narrowest road I can find, and my eyes find a ramp that will put me on the highway. It is a single lane that will not give the cops much room to maneuver, and it is the perfect place to drop spikes. I slow down enough to take the turn, and it will cost me. As I begin to straighten out and try to regain speed I am hit with an E.M.P. and I lose control. My power steering is shot, along with my pursuit tech. I side swipe the guardrail, and until my system is able to reboot I am a sitting duck. An officer in a Ferrari FF rear ends me and my head hits the steering wheel, which shatters the glass on my helmet. My dashboard is lighting up all over the place as my system recovers, my car is seriously damaged. I need to make a move and make it count before my car is destroyed and I get arrested or killed. My electronics are back online. I slam on the gas, and by the grace of God my car still works fairly well. I wait until the last few feet to release my spikes before I reach the highway. I see my chance and I flip the switch that drops the spikes. As I predicted, the cops cannot maneuver around the spikes and each other in such a narrow road, and all their tires are ripped to shreds. The police lose traction and collide with one another as I drive for my life. I look in my rear view and see the three cops piled up behind me, but I’m not convinced that it’s over until I get back to my garage.

I think of what has happened to the other guys; if Romeo got away and if Starfish and Thumper survived those huge wrecks. I start to think about all of the civilians who I have put in danger while racing, and how many bystanders have gotten severely injured because of me and the rest of the street racers. I begin to examine myself and the life I have chosen, and I start to understand why the cops chase me. I am a menace to society, and a danger to myself and everyone around me.

As I pull into my garage I can still hear sirens of the police as they continue to hunt for me, but their actions are in vain. I have won and they have lost, but I don’t feel good about it. I am still thinking of how much trouble I have caused over the years and how hated I am by everyone because of street racing. But I couldn’t stop driving if I tried; it’s too much fun, and I am addicted to the adrenaline.

Suddenly I am hit with the solution. For a moment I hate myself for even considering it, but then I realize why so many before me have gone down the same road. I know that I have to do it; to keep the public safe, to redeem myself, and to fuel my addiction. I must become the very thing that I set out to destroy; a cop.

As I walk into the police station I feel nervous. The cops who sit at their desks saw me pull into the parking lot in my Pagani Zonda Tricolore are staring at me with suspicion and resentment. They see my black leather jacket and the driving gloves hanging from my pocket, and know what I am. The officer behind the front desk looks at me with disbelief when I ask him how I can join speed enforcement. He hands me an application and a pen and tells me to fill it out. I thank him and sit down a few seats away from a guy with short black hair, a leather jacket like mine, and a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt. He looks about my age, maybe a little older, about twenty-five years old. I begin to fill out the application, but before I can finish my first name I take another look at him and see a patch sown into the left shoulder of his jacket. The patch reads “Romeo.” I say his code name aloud and he looks up at me. “Not anymore,” he says.

I smile as I stand up and move to sit by him, and see the same application I have just received in his hands. He looks at me with an expression that tells me he wants to be left alone, but when I roll up the left sleeve of my jacket he starts to laugh softly. He sees my tattoo of a hammerhead shark on the underside of my upper forearm. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a huge grin as he notices who I am. I sit down and we continue to fill out the rest of our applications in silence, and I feel a sense of fulfillment and closure pour over me as I start the next chapter of my street racing career from a new perspective.