From Park City to Vegas With Rachel: the Ride of My Life!

When I told people I was going to be leaving Park City with with Rachel, most everyone laughed. "I hope you’re ready for that," "You’re really in for it" and "Bring a spare pair of shorts, mate," pretty much cover what I heard about her driving. Now, you can call it bravery, or simply evidence that the less intelligent members of the gene pool will thin themselves out, but those comments only made me more anxious to hop into her black Lamborghini. Rachel is a former model from Switzerland, and was the only person who showed up in Calgary solo. She heard about the Bullrun while at a Formula One race in Monte Carlo, her daily driver is an SLR McLaren, and she bought the Gallardo specifically for the rally, two days before the start. It doesn’t even have plates yet. The first day of the rally, she was popped for doing 130MPH, and waited in the back of a squad car while the Canadian cops tried to figure out how to tow the Lambo. Apparently, they couldn’t find a flat-bed, so they told her to drive safely and let her go. How’s that for luck? While she was gunning the engine at the starting line, she asked if I could navigate, and I replied that I could. As soon as the Bullrun official handed me the route card, she pounded the gas so hard I nearly got the wind knocked out of me. We were off!

Once on the highway, Rachel kicked it up to 110. We were pulled over approximately thirty seconds later. There were 12 other Bullrun cars stopped, and everyone was gathered around a very pissed-off trooper who was reading the assembled drivers the riot act. After he went back to his cruiser, Rachel actually walked down there to try to persuade him to let us go—which I thought was a good way to wind up in jail—but he just sent her back to her car, and we waited for about fifteen minutes before they sent us on our way. Apparently, the cops were just waving over any cars wearing the Bullrun livery, and didn’t have any proof we were speeding. Sweet!

After we got rolling, we transfered to a rural route, and Rachel started making some time. She’s taken a laundry list of performance driving classes, and gets loads of track time, so she was completely at home behind the wheel of the Lambo, which she called her "mad cow." She’d rip along at between 120 and 130, and if it was clear, fly by anything in our path. If there was oncoming traffic, she’d bang down through the gears, wait for an opening, and blast past.

I can only imagine what that Lambo must have looked like in it’s victims rear-view mirrors as it angrily decelerated. To the faint of heart, it could very well have been terrifying. Now, given how often I’ve told people to "take it to the track," it’s probably hypocritical to say how immensely I enjoyed this, but I don’t care. It was easily one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had. And anyway, I wasn’t driving.

After about 45 minutes, we transfered to I-15, and Rachel pulled into the passing lane. We were ripping along at about 150—the fastest I’ve ever been in a car!—when she had to slow down to crest a hill. It was a lucky break. As soon as we got to the other side, the radar detector went ballistic, and we saw the cop. Popped again. She was only going 110, but in Utah, that means a mandatory court appearance. Given that Rachel has a New Zealand license, and no real incentive to return to Utah, the cop almost arrested her, but fortunately for both of us, he just issued a citation and let her go. After that, we stopped for gas, and the car drew a crowd. Rachel went inside for snacks, and I explained about the Bullrun. It was impossible not to feel like a rock star.

After another considerably calmer hour on the freeway, there was another set of red and blue lights in the rear view. Busted again. The Lambo didn’t have cruise, and apparently, Rachel had let the car creep up to 90. At this point, I started seriously thinking about what I would do if she went to jail—and I didn’t have any particularly great ideas. But aside from telling us how stupid "this Bullrun business" is and generally acting like a jerk, we just went through the now-familiar "why doesn’t this car have plates" discussion, and waited. Fortunately, he only issued another ticket. At this point, we were seriously behind—all of the almost obeying the speed limit and police stops had really taken a toll.

We got to the checkpoint in St George, just as the other cars were about to leave. Of course, in the chaos of everyone exiting, we got stopped again. As I pulled the registration out of the glove box, I wondered how many times you can get pulled over in a single day before they take you to jail on general principle. But the cop just told Rachel to slow down, and sent us on our way.

Since every cop in Utah and Nevada knew that Bullrun was headed to Las Vegas, we hung with a turbo Porsche and cruised the 135 miles to Vegas at about 90. It might not have been the most exciting way to end the leg, but after everything I’d gotten to experience, I could hardly complain. When the hell am I going to do anything like this again?