It wasn't until my face met the crisp morning air outside the corner gas station that I realized how daunting the mission that lay ahead was. The night before, in an overworked and perhaps unrealistic fog, I had bet Engineering Editor Chen that I could outrun a plane to Las Vegas.
A Boeing 727 goes more than six hundred miles per hour and creates enough thrust to blow a Nissan Skyline down the runway like a discarded candy wrapper. But that didn't occur to me during a late night pep talk with former IMSA car driver Steve Mitchell. He drives a 525-wheel hp R32 Skyline GT-R and, like any racer, loves a good challenge.
I had him at hello.
My secret weapon and I had a singular hope. Both teams were starting at the corner gas station, which meant that Chen would have to fight traffic all the way to the airport, battle with the incompetence we Americans affectionately know as the TSA (Transportation Safety Authority), then stand in line and fight for a seat after that.
On landing, he'd have to taxi to the jetway and unload. But the real hope was in the infamous Las Vegas taxi line. It's illegal to hail your own cab in Las Vegas, which results in lines like those for bread in Cold-War Russia.
Our plan was considerably simpler; hit the road and hit the gas.
7:00 - I hate Vegas. It's the one place where people are encouraged to be more stupid than they normally are-all because the commercials say they can get away with it. That's exactly why I'm standing here, at 7 a.m., still hung over and shivering away, waiting for the GT-R that I'm to race.
As tempting as flying (on the ground in this case) in a highly tuned Skyline GT-R to Vegas is, I'm taking the airborne route for several reasons: sleep, booze and freedom from the pressures of getting pulled over by the man. I'll take the hour-long oppression of flying in an aluminum sardine-can over the freedom of being strapped to a racing bucket for at least three hours on top of an endlessly droning exhaust any day. The GT-R is all yours Tate.
7:09 - Fashionably late, we arrive in the monster that is to rocket us 270 miles into the desert, to a place where anything goes. And I can't wait to get there. A couple of quick pictures before departure capture the lumps in our respective stomachs, and Jay and I are off to the gas station. -JT
7:15 - I'm laughing as I leave the gas station and head toward the airport. Mitchell and Tate are still fending off onlookers and the "what is it," "how much horsepower" and "how fast is it" questions. Really people, it's too early to be curious.
The light's green and throttle's open as I point the wheel toward the southbound 57 on-ramp. Even though a ticket's been reserved for the 9 a.m. flight, I'm still looking forward to the extra time and Bloody Mary or two to kill my throbbing head.
Over the blind crest at the end of the ramp is the glare of brake lights and a southbound parking lot. There's no choice but to turn on the blinker and merge into the crawling masses.
7:22 - Easing our metallic grey machine up the northbound onramp, Mitchell has a look of intent that could likely rival Genghis Khan when charging into battle. It's clear he's taking this as seriously as I am, as he allows the throttle plate to twist open and the morning's first gulp of pressurized air to rush into the eager RB26. We're fired from a rifle as we enter a freeway barely speckled with cars.
7:42 - The off-ramp-blip the throttle, slide into third and feel the last rush of speed right before pulling into the terminal. Shit! The mobile marquee flashes All lots full. Time to suck up the $23 dollars a day and valet the car.