Jawbreakers

Gumball 3000 roars through Europe at over 200 mph with RIDES in the backseat.
Story & Photos: Brian Scotto

Don’t tell me what it costs, just bring ‘em,” yells a badly-dressed rich cat who is ordering drinks as daylight breaks through the curtained windows of the Trafalgar Hotel bar. Pro skater Rob Dyrdek’s security guard, Big Black, enjoys a lewd lap dance from a luscious and voluptuous bird while I am reeling from too many Becks chased with 151 proof debauchery. Black and I may be the only ones in the room not netting a cool mill’ or more a year. But fuck it, the “boyfriend” of the aforementioned bird seems to be content with paying for my drinks all evening and the last living relative of Dracula is in the house servicing any lady wishing to get bitten. Some random dude next to me, whom I’ve been told is the heir to a throne, says “I have no idea whatever possessed me to do this.” The music sucks, the dancing is straight up embarrassing and we have all consumed way too much alcohol, but it’s a small price to pay considering I’m in London to take part in the notorious Gumball 3000 rally.

This may be the only moment of the rally that I find myself happy to not be piloting a car in the morning. I am sleeping on the floor and having flashbacks to the Gravitron at Six Flags. Damon Way, Ken Block and Rob Dyrdek are not as lucky… Wait, actually these dudes are some of the luckiest chaps I know. Ken and Damon own and operate DC Shoes, a ten-year-old company that started by designing skateboard shoes and has now expanded to apparently taking over the world. Dyrdek makes his living skateboarding professionally. They invited me to follow along to cover the Gumball 3000 from a backseat perspective. DC is campaigning a team of six drivers in three cars and is also one of the events main sponsors.

Inspired by the cult road trip movies of the ’70s like Burt Reynold’s Cannonball Run, founder Maximillion Cooper’s ravaging rally caters to high-society ravers and speed-craved racers. This year’s Gumball travels 3000 miles, spending nights along the way in London, Prague, Budapest, Dubrovnik, Bari, Sicily, Rome, Florence and then ends in Monte Carlo, just in time for the Formula 1 Grand Prix.

I wake up Saturday, May 14th in a five-star hotel in London. I shit, shower, and shave, since this may be my last chance to do any of that for a while. The first stage, which starts at 6 p.m., takes us through the night on what will be a 15-hour drive to Prague. By the time I get my hung-over self to the lobby, it is bustling with pre-Gumball activities—including doing “breakfast” shots. Everyone seems prepped and ready to go. An ear-piercing howl comes through the lobby doors—a Ferrari owner is revving for the natives. Ken, half joking, tells me to get to work.

We head to the starting grid after a drivers meeting where we are warned by a top copper (British for cop) that it’s a rally, not a race. He then asks if there is a winner. Obviously, even he isn’t convinced of the event’s “not a race” caveat. Waterloo Place is packed, police barrier to police barrier, with some of the illest cars I have ever seen. London’s car-crazy drool over dream whips like the Pagani Zonda, Ferrari 550 LM, Double R Phantom, Lotus Espirt, and on and on. The three DC Shoe WRX STis are decked out in matching camouflage graphics. These are no ordinary STis. Tuned by Vermont Sports-Car to around 430hp, they can run down 911s, as will later be proven. The racers are told to get ready. Ken’s wife and co-driver, Lucy, slides her seat up as far as it can go and I stuff my 6’8” frame into the back seat. I am losing a turf war with expensive luggage. Engines begin to roar—it’s go time.

Upon exiting Waterloo, we are given our first taste of just how epic this trip is going to be. The streets are lined with Gumball fans for blocks. The crowd is so thick at points, Ken has to slow down to not hit people. Ten minutes later we’re apparently lost. We are relying on GPS-guided, cell-phone navigation that is narrated by Burt Reynolds—by the end of the rally, I loathe this man. Seconds before the name-calling starts, a 1960’s Jaguar E-Type, covered in Gumball graphics, blows by us. While some may see following others in a rally race (which is based on your ability to navigate) as cheating, at Gumball 3000 it makes it more fun—who else you going to race on the highways?

We were warned to keep it slow through England. The DC team complies at just under 100mph. Within 45 minutes of the starting line, the first car is pulled over, a Porsche 911—the rumor, later heard, is that he went directly to jail and didn’t pass go. Five minutes later a Ferrari is stopped by a Volvo police car. The DC team begins to regret that they skipped on radar detectors. “I just don’t want to be paying thousands in tickets,” Damon said just before we headed out. Now he is leading the pack, pushing us 5mph faster every five minutes.

British supermodel and Gumball veteran Jodie Kidd passes us in a silver Lambo—she is in the passenger seat making funny faces at me. I ask Ken to gun it and he does, with pleasure. We cruise in the three-digit range all the way to the Chunnel—a train that connects England to France under the British Channel. “For some reason, the cruise control won’t work past 100mph,” jokes Ken as he honks at yet another overpass overfilled with Gumball fans. They cheer louder the faster we race, waving signs that say “Go Gumball.”

“I’d definitely do this again next year,” declares Lucy, only one hour into the rally. “But ask me again at the end.” Who knew at this point how far the end actually was? Granted, Rob and Black are veterans, but this year’s Gumball was covering 13 countries in eight days. I try not to think about how I have to leave in three days—after only seven countries. The train car we load into is filled with Porsches, Ferraris, a Dodge Ram, the DC STis and buckets of anxiousness. The train ride is 50 minutes, and France will be dark when we arrive. Ken shows me video footage on his Mac laptop of a Gravel Rally he had competed in a few weeks earlier where he rolled the car. You see, this is Ken’s new love—racing cars. I am not sure to feel safer or not as I get back into the car. I just hope to vive through la France.

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