Agitation radiates from the crowd, breaking like waves on the two cars. The Blitz front-mount intercooler in the STi hangs massive, and once fired, the rumble of the 2.0-liter boxer engine edges out the crowd.
The owner of the EVO V with "faster than a speeding ticket" emblazoned on the windshield doesn't seem too worried. The starter, a purposeful man with an enormous set of lungs, clears the concrete pad. Officials down the line clear onlookers to a safe distance. Six thousand rpm rips from both cars; drivetrains don't concern these two. The starter, off to the side, drops his hand and both cars lift their snouts high into the tropical afternoon. The Mitsubishi pulls hard in first gear, nosing out the STi, leaving harder in second, third, and it's over.
We're on Grand Cayman for the Quincentennial (500 year) Celebration car show, ogling the impressive spread of rides on display. Car culture is huge, endemic, even systemic in Cayman. With wicked equipment on display, we ask the owner of a Skyline GT-S, "Where do you guys run?"
"You mean drag racin'? There's racing tomorrow on the east end."
"What time does it start," we ask. "About midnight?"
"No, mon." comes the reply, "2 o' clock. In the afternoon."
Boys will be boys, and like everywhere else in the world, speed contests are fated. Although there's talk of building a permanent racing facility, a fairly unique situation exists to keep inevitable grudge matches as safe and as organized as possible. A long, straight chunk of road on the interior of the island, frequented by large gravel trucks and other, often commercial traffic, turns into a part-time quarter-mile strip every Sunday afternoon. After everyone returns from church, of course, as the Cayman population is especially devout.
The Cayman Islands inhabit the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea in proximity with Jamaica and Cuba, about 500 miles, or a 70-minute flight, from Miami. No need to endure a 12-hour flight to Japan to view U.S.-verboten machinery: As a British Crown colony, cars on the islands drive on the left and are right-hand drive, making Japan the premier source for used cars. Pulsar GTi-Rs, EVOs of all generations, Imprezas, Starlets, FTOs, B-series brethren, Skylines... they're all here. Certain purveyors such as Tony's Toys import Corollas and other appliances for the average consumer, but specialize in selling and modifying the good stuff.
We leave late, and the drive from Georgetown takes about 30 minutes, mostly because we get lost. We see signs for a quarry, spot an EVO II intent on getting somewhere fast, and follow. Several cars are parked at the sides of a wide-paved road and we slow. We're waved forward, and in the distance can see an expanse of parked cars, a milling crowd and an empty strip.
A strip it is: The local hot rod association poured a concrete pad some years back, lined the sides with massive tractor tires for safety, and even installed grandstands. Organizers periodically stop traffic, cars run and the road re-opens until the next match is set. Not completely by the Colony books, but smart governance by officials charged with the greater public good.
Fathers, sons, mothers, girls in tight tops, brothers and uncles wear warm expressions and obviously enjoy the pervasive sense of community. Grinning mouths spill laughter and predictions. We walk down to the concrete pad where a crowd gathers around two cars. A stripped yellow EF CRX looks like it was salvaged and painted with a broom. The front mount, however, is no joke, and with slicks mounted, means business.
We walk behind a rather pedestrian-looking VR6 Golf, which pulls forward. There's nothing pedestrian, however, about the fat slicks bulging past the front fenders, the turbo kit, or the blue bottle sitting belted to the passenger seat.
The drivers get the thumbs-up, don their helmets and pull up to the line. Turbo B-series power burns the slicks for a good 60 feet, the pilot wearing a look of severity rare on the island. The Golf does a small burnout and backs into position.
The crew for the VW sprays two even paths of VHT TrackBite, just before the flagger clears the concrete pad and pushes everyone back behind the tires. He looks ahead to the next official, just one of several making the safety chain down the track. He looks for a thumbs-up, but gets waved off. A hand dragged across the flagger's throat means no go, and the drivers turn off their engines. About 2 minutes later, a crusty gravel truck and a few cars behind rumble down the strip.
Both cars lay big patches once the road is clear and again line up. The drivers, hot and impatient in their helmets, focus on the starter. He looks down the strip, headlights flash past the 1320 mark, but again he waves them off. The racers throw up their hands in exasperation, back up, shut off their engines, pull their helmets and step out into the sweaty afternoon.
While we all wait for a train of traffic to clear, the kind of shit-talking that would make Don King proud ensues. The champions of each car take center stage in an event as seemingly entertaining for the locals as the race itself. The discussion looks heated to us, voices booming, silver chains swinging, arms flung wide in exasperation. Most of the Caymanian slang escapes us, but the volleys in the rolling lilt of the Caymanian Jamaican/cockney/Australian accent fired at each other turns out to be no more than good showmanship.
Ten minutes pass till the strip is clear, and the drivers get the nod. Both execute quick burnouts, as they don't want to miss the slot. The crowd, a couple hundred strong, bears down on the two cars with cheers. The flagger looks down the line: thumbs up all the way down, and all pedestrians are clear. The Honda inches forward to meet the bumper of the Golf, revs kept soaring, and the flagger steps off to the right. The flagger's hand is held high; he hesitates, looks right and drops it. Both cars launch hard, slicks still spinning as they transition off the concrete. The Honda looks pretty good through first gear, but the 2.8-liters of pressurized, nitrous-huffing VW power puts the hurt on the CRX in second, and the Golf walks hard in third gear. This doesn't seem to surprise the crowd all that much. They know the stats on every hot car on the island.
The mechanical symphony having traveled out of sight, the crowd retakes the concrete and dancehall reggae rings loud from a red Beetle that's more rolling sound cabinet than car, its air-cooled engine little more than a generator.
Some dirtbag in a Honda Accord does a peg-leg burnout out of the parking lot and down the strip to the scorn of onlookers. A fellow standing next to me shakes his head. His name is Eric, and he owns a purple Integra GS-R. He used to have nitrous, he says, but his car still features trick items such as a Spoon limited-slip diff.
No street Hondas run today, and Eric says they usually get a grousing from the crowd who'd understandably rather watch stupid-fast cars.
As evening sets in, a gaggle of JDM'd Hondas materialize for a group shot.
Fast cars on the island are not limited to Nipponese manufacturers. There's a string of slick-tired, nitrous-fed Mustangs and big-block muscle that consume the expensive local high test in even greater quantities. The diversity of vehicles on the island reflects the diversity of the population, where 40 percent are "mixed," making a cultural utopia rich in language, flavor, music and attitudes. Nothing domestic, however, runs today.
A late-'80s 600cc rocket gets walked up to the line by its long-legged, leather-wrapped owner. The crowd disperses as the built four-cylinder fires, high-compression combustion amplified by a chrome megaphone exhaust. Parked near the start of the extended swing-arm is a little blue bottle. The rider revs the piss out of the bike, and legs spread wide, feet planted, drops the clutch, shocking the rear street radial into puking a river of smoke into the crowd and onto the cars behind. No one lines up next to him. He crab-walks the bike backwards, looks around, and rips down the cleared lanes, spinning the rear tire clean through third gear.
After the bike makes his bye-run, two GT-S Skylines pair off, followed by an EVO III with a giant front-mount and a big rear-wheel-drive Toyota sedan. Guys are pairing off every few minutes now and there's break in the action for the better part of an hour. Despite the warm off-shore breeze, a constant cloud of tire smoke and clutch dust hangs over the starting line.
As the sun sets, a cop rolls through in the waning light. People regard the cruiser, an Impala, only slightly, and certainly not with the animosity and fear common stateside. No one scatters. The cop looks around and leaves without saying a word. He knows the racing is just about over.
There are no stadium lights here, and the setting sun signals cessation of the day's fun. The crowd and cars disappear quickly in a string of glowing taillights, growling exhausts and air escaping from blow-off valves. Little remains to be seen in the twilight but dark streaks on light concrete and palm trees silhouetted against the Caribbean night.