The guy working the cash register inside the Thrifty Food Mart seems oblivious to the growing crowd and numerous poorly muffled cars in his parking lot. Even the tire-shredding donuts, just performed by a guy in an AE86, seem to go unnoticed.
The food mart gas station is on a corner in Glen Oaks, just north of downtown Los Angeles. It's 10 p.m., Saturday. Any Saturday. Already in the lot is a red Supra twin turbo, which looks stock, a yellow BMW M3 on 18-inch rubber, a black RSX with Type R wheels, a red Mustang GT and several assorted Honda products, including a very rough CRX, an EG Civic and an Si coupe on juice.
Glen Oaks is an industrial area, beehive busy by day, deserted at night. Surrounding the well-lit Thrifty are dark streets and dark buildings. Occasionally, two guys pair off at the light, their HKS Super Draggers echoing off the windowless buildings, but the real action will take place later, about a mile up Glen Oaks Drive, where the road is four lanes wide and devoid of civilian traffic.
Across the street, in a dark, closed gas station, a red 5.0 on slicks and skinnies rolls in. The guy stomps it before shutting it down. Then he sits there, parking lights on, like a tiger stalking its prey. No motion. No nothing.
More cars. Nothing serious. Ian's Civic hatch is stock except for the Ground Control coil-overs and aftermarket wheels. Then there's another new GT Mustang, this one black, with cut coils and Flowmasters. The guy says the car runs 15.0 at Palmdale, which doesn't exactly impress the crowd.
"This sucks tonight," says Sean, 18. "This place is dead. You should've been out at Ontario last night, there were more than 100 cars. There used to be 600 cars out there every weekend, but since 'The Fast and the Furious' came out, the cops are all over us."
Ontario is about 40 miles east of L.A. It's also industrial, and has been the location of several recent and well-publicized police crackdowns on street racing.
"I don't know why the cops bother," says John, 19. "If they bust one place, we just move on to the next. I race in cities all over L.A., Ontario, Sylmar, Compton, Brea, Commerce. Just last weekend I got busted in City of Industry."
Ja Rule's "Pain is Love" continues to thump from the black Celica parked in the corner, but it's drowned momentarily by a guy in a lowered DC2 Integra blazing his front tires out onto La Tuna.
At 11:15, more lightweights arrive. A blue CRX, a white Civic hatch on mismatched wheels, and another black, very stock-looking Celica roll in.
The guy with the red '93 Supra is Nick. Nick is 18, but looks 12. He has pimples and braces. His car is stock. "I've got a boost gauge," he says half joking. Nick lives more than 50 miles away in Camarillo. He made the trip down with his paranoid little buddy in the stock yellow M3. Neither is here to race, and neither believes our photographer isn't a cop.
Occasionally a red Camaro rumbles past, interrupting Ja Rule, but the guy never pulls in. Maybe he knows the Thrifty has shitty coffee and no public john, so he's taking his business elsewhere.
Midnight. Time to race. Cars file out. Every exit is jammed. The "strip" is just up the street. Most guys pull out peacefully, but the occasional hot dog lays it up in VTEC and drops the clutch. Within 30 seconds, the Thrifty is as deserted as the rest of town.
12:01, with cars lining both sides of Glen Oaks Dr., the first two cars, a pair of EG Civics,line up.
12:02, from out of nowhere the LAPD helicopter appears, shining its spotlight on the crowd.
12:02, we bail.
12:15, we regroup at the Denny's just off Interstate 5 in Sylmar, an industrial section of the north San Fernando Valley, but the crowd has thinned.
12:17, the first Focus of the night arrives, but it's mechanically stock except for a cold-air intake and exhaust. The guy must have spent all his money on the body kit.
The soundtrack for this scene is JayZ, thanks to the black Accord with the system parked in the middle of the action. The car isn't exactly race ready, with its white body kit, 18-inch Tenzos and "KURUPT" graphics, but it sure sounds good.
12:45, another AE86 pulls out and rips off a donut in the middle of city traffic. Wait a minute. Same guy. Same AE86.
Like clockwork, the po-po rolls by every 20 minutes. They don't hassle anyone, but they look, which is enough to make some guys nervous. Several bail, including Nick and his paranoid friend in the Bimmer. Most stick it out, however; after all, standing next to your car in a parking lot isn't illegal.
At 2:06, things seem to have cooled, so everyone rolls out. James, 19, leads the pack in his turbocharged yellow '91 MR2, which he says has a "semi-built" engine. The track is Bradley Avenue, about a mile away in the shadow of the Nethercutt Collection, which is one of the premier museums of classic automobiles in the world. There we wait for the crowd to gather, looking at the Packards and Duesenbergs through the museum's oversized front windows. But it's not happening. The cops are making an example of some kid in a Supra a block away, and everyone is spooked.
The night's over. Cops 1. Racers 0.
Twenty-four hours later, we're on our fourth glazed and second large coffee, before the Krispy Kreme parking lot begins to fill. It's 9:50 p.m. Sunday. Any Sunday.
First the V8 crowd rolls in, sounding like the pack at Daytona. There are several stock-looking Mustangs, including one Cobra, two stock-looking Z28 Camaros and one mean-sounding orange Camaro SS convertible with white wheels and a roll bar. It's lowered with big meats, and owner Gus admits it's "not stock."
It's early. Most of the lot is empty. The Krispy Kreme, which sits in the larger parking lot of a shopping mall, is filled with families and handholding couples looking for a Sunday night sugar rush. Still, the mall rent-a-cops, two on bicycle, one in a white Explorer with "Security" on its doors, gather. They try and look tough, but they can't. Everyone knows they're going to pedal over and hassle us. Fact is, they've already called the sheriff.
10:14, lowriders roll through. There's 10 of them, including a Tahoe SUV, an Explorer Sport Trac and a white Lexus GS400. They hop, the guy in the Tahoe burns a spot right in front of the rentals, and parks. Burning a spot is when you manipulate the car's suspension with hydraulics until all the car weight is on one rear tire and a front tire is literally off the ground. Then you drive around in a tight circle and leave a perfect circle tire mark behind.
Greg, 25, parks his '91 CRX Si next to a white Cobra Mustang which sounds serious. Greg races regularly, says he does it for the adrenaline rush. He also says his Honda runs 14.5 in the quarter mile, thanks to a GReddy cold-air intake and Matrix exhaust. Maybe his Matrix springs help too.
10:18, John rumbles in and parks. His black Mustang immediately draws a crowd. It's loud. His exhaust is just short of open. John climbs out, opens the hood and is instantly in negotiations for a money run.
"You running on engine?" asks an onlooker.
"I could," John replies.
"You want to run nitrous to nitrous?"
John seems up for anything. "We could," he says.
This spooks the other guy. He starts making excuses. Double-talking. "I don't run around here Sunday nights," he says. "I'll give you a phone number, call me on Tuesday and we'll meet."
John agrees, but he knows the guy, who's running a Honda of some kind, is all talk. He shrugs, takes the phone number and answers questions from the crowd about his '94 Mustang, which he says is powered by a 347 cubic inch stroker engine.
"Spanking imports gives me enjoyment," says John as he closes the Mustang's hood.
Just then, two black and whites cruise in. On cue, the crowd scatters like roaches. But the cops have to pick on somebody. Tonight it's John. They pull him over in the mall parking lot and go through the routine.
We follow a black '90 Integra to the parking lot of the Ranch 99 Market about five miles away. When we arrive, it's already packed; it's like most guys don't even bother with the Krispy Kreme anymore, knowing it's going to get busted.
There we run into Shaun, 19, who's running a B16-powered '91 Si. It's rough looking, but sounds strong.
We also meet the SiRacing Team, a local crew. The crew has come out with a dozen '99 and 2000 Si Civics, but they swear they're not here to race. "When we street race," says the groups spokesperson. "We go off on our own."
Eric, 21, says he has the quickest Civic of the group. It's a red '99 Si with black stripes. But Eric swears he's gone legit. "I've learned my lesson," says Eric. "I used to race on the street out of stupidity. Now I race on the track. I even won a trophy last Sunday at Irwindale."
11:40, the man rolls in, we roll out.
Again, we follow Adrian, 18, in his black Integra. He leads us to Camacho's, a Mexican night club, about 10 miles west down the 60 freeway.
Camacho's is far from a safe house.
Just last week it was the site of a hard crackdown. The cops sealed all exits, and impounded a few vehicles.
As soon as a decent crowd gathers, we head out to the track, which is just up the road. There's about two dozen cars in the convoy.
11:51 we reach Capital Ave., which slices through an industrial park. This is where all the magic happens. It's two lanes wide, but well lit. The cops are coming. It's only a matter of time, so everything is rushed. A quick check of the track, and the first two cars pair up. It's a white Galant VR-4 and an Integra. The Galant is quicker than expected. It's also all-wheel drive. When the starter drops his hands, it darts off the line in near silence and easily walks away from the tire-spinning Acura.
At the top end, it's the Galant with his hazards on, which is how the winner tells the crowd of his victory.
Next up, a red del Sol spanks a Civic Si. Then the Integra that lost to the Galant lines up and loses to a 1G Eclipse.
These aren't money runs. There are a few side bets in the crowd, but basically a car pulls to the line, and whoever wants to race, lines up beside him.
12:01, the action stops momentarily as a very old man in a security uniform cruises through the crowd in a mid-'80s Cadillac.
During the downtime, it hits us. There's not a Supra or Skyline or NSX or RX-7 out here. Not one. Where the hell are those guys? Home polishing their dubs.
12:02, a Civic Si stomps on a very, very loud red CRX.
12:03, that first-gen. Eclipse beats up on that same Integra.
12:04, it's muscle car time. A white Firebird, T-tops out, does a big rear drive burnout and takes a red Camaro by a car length.
12:05, two beat-up Civics take the line. One is primered, and sounds like it's powered by a weed eater. Both launch hard, but the kid in the primered car misses second gear and blows the run.
Embarrassed, he then lines up against a new Celica GT with chrome 19-inch wheels. Again, he launches hard, but misses second gear.
"That kid's got to learn how to drive," says an onlooker.
Now cars are lining up two by two, with runs going off every 30 seconds.
The rough-looking B16-powered Civic, driven by Shaun, who earlier in the night said, "I don't race on the street anymore, I've got too many tickets.
I owe more than $1,000 in tickets," pulls up to the line. He yells to Adrian, who's standing behind his black Integra, "Wanna race?"
To which Adrian, who won't run for money, replies, "For fun."
Shaun nods in agreement. Adrian jumps in his car and lines up. But before the two take off, somebody yells, "Cops!"
It's 12:52. We cruise out single file past a lone squad car. He looks at us. We look at him. He's got nothing and he knows it.
Cops 1. Racers 1.
What will the score be next weekend?