Live Fast Die Young

Here is my article for BC Magazine

Live Fast, Die Young: A Night With the Street Racers

According to oral accounts, street racing began in Hong Kong in the early seventies when truck drivers took to the roads to race each other out of boredom and rebellion: two of the staples in the birth of any subculture. The scene then grew with the onset of more favourable economic times; boy-racers bought motorcycles and took to hurtling down the then-quiet streets of Mong Kok at breakneck speeds. Groups began to gather to view the nightly parade of racers and those who raced well became stars in their own rights. At the height of the craze, 400 to 500 people would gather on the flyovers of Prince Street to socialize and bet. Then came the boom of the eighties: the next generation with their bigger paychecks, the newly built freeways and the relative stability of four wheels.

–9:30pm. I am standing outside my apartment, nervous, waiting. I am about to join the murky world of illegal car racing in Hong Kong. These are the guys I grew up watching in the movies, reading about in the newspapers, hearing roar past out on the road. The street is quiet. My neighbours are walking their dogs; a few men sit by the store drinking their rice wine. As the residential neighbourhood readies itself for sleep, the sound of engines punctuates the air. Who are they, I wonder? Who are these people who slip past us at high speeds in this, one of the fastest cities in the world? Are they triads? How much money do they make on a race? I think I might be scared when things get too fast, but I know there is no way out.

9:35pm. Even from the bottom of the hill the sound of petrol combusting in revved-up engines reverberates though the high-rises. Within seconds 4-G brakes are reversing the forward momentum into a slow roll. A Silver AE111 parks right in front of me and four other cars rev their engines behind, rolling on neutral. The whole street is watching. A kid in a hoodie and baggy jeans jumps out of the front seat, nods towards me, and says, “You sit, la.” I watch him get into the back and I slip in the front…

Dee, the driver, is wearing a green shirt with slacks and dress shoes. His tie is crumpled up on the back seat. “How come you’re dressed so nice?” I ask.

“Been to work, what do you think?”

“Where are we going?”

“To the gas station.”

“To get gas?”

“No, to meet up.”

The pedal goes down. These are not men of many words. I grab the seat belt and struggle to put it on, getting thrown back in my seat as we turn a corner, but I’m relieved to see that everyone else is doing the same. The car feels womb-like, enveloping me from the world outside. The windows are tinted and the seats curve around my body. The roaring of the engine automatically puts up a barrier between the crew and the outside world. It’s an announcement: ëWe’re here’. A statement of defiance and intent.

Five separate engines roar in a synchronised order. The first accelerates, then the next and the next and the pattern repeats. The people on the streets stare at us. I know what they’re thinking. Where are these people going? Who are they? Why can’t they drive like normal people? I smile to myself because, for a few hours anyway, I am part of the crew.

We meet low-grade traffic on the Eastern Highway and I think we might have to grind to a halt. Instead, the gear shifts and we glide through the traffic, in between the other cars, without losing much speed. I look over at Kowloon. It seems to sparkle. Hong Kong looks beautiful. It’s not a view you get crammed in the MTR or on the bus. As we reach Taikoo Shing the traffic thins out. I can feel my back being pushed further into the seat and the wall of buildings on the right starts to blur in a long trail: window, window, window, merging in one long line of light.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

“Why?”

“Coz you’re going so fast.”

Dee laughs. “Why? It’s all about control. I don’t spend so much time and money fixing this car up so it can be unsafe.”

“How much have you put into this car since you got it? $8,000?”

He laughs at me.

“$30,000?”

“I don’t know… over $60,000 in modifications at least. It’s been a few years, I just put whatever money I have into it. This is my life, you know. This is all I care about… you see that car behind us? He’s pushing. He wants to join.”

I turn around and a green Saab is tailgating: coming right up close, slowing down a little to give us some space, then moving back near the bumper again, flashing its lights at us. Dee reaches over to the stereo and turns it down ëto listen to the engine better’. And we go. This time I am thrown forward for a second as Dee changes gears. The engine roars and, unlike before, the other four cars don’t follow each other one by one, they go together. All I can focus on is the painted line on the concrete and maybe a few cars ahead. The side view is so fast that it no longer makes any sense. I lean slightly to the right to look at the speedometer. We go from 160 km/h to 190 in three seconds. Then it just keeps climbing. 200, 215, back to 198, up to 210, 230. I look behind us to see the Saab catching up. Then another roar: the Levin and the Civic overtake all of us, the Celica slips in from the right and the green Saab follows.

“Did you see that?” he says to me, grinning.

The engine roar drowns out my reply. Because we are now behind we have to weave in between the other cars. We catch up to the Civic and for a moment the cars are driving parallel to each other. Dee looks over, the driver waves to indicate: “Go.” We pass. In front of us are the Saab and two of our crew stuck between the fast lanes, waiting for an opening. I feel a sudden burst of frustration. Can’t those cars move out of the way?

“F*ck, so stupid,” Dee says as we move across three lanes to the slowest and overtake all of them. The seat shakes and I look back to see the Civic that let us pass catching up. We are miles ahead now. Game over. As the cars slow I ask: “He let us go first so he could follow you, right?”

Dee doesn’t answer because he doesn’t have to. People with a passion don’t admire easily, and to be the head of a posse, to be ëAh Gor’, is something you have to earn. It’s no accident that when I first approached this bunch about writing an article everyone told me I had to ask him. And no one argued when he said yes. One by one the others catch up until all five of the posse are together again. The green Saab is out of sight: gone, given up or turned off. “If you can’t catch up: don’t push, suck dick.” says Dee. I look at the clock. From the time they picked me up it’s only been 15 minutes.

A mobile rings. Dee passes it to Hoodie, who listens for a while and looks at us, “There are white horses patrolling all through Shek O. Justin just got picked up. Let’s not go there.”

“F*ck, Dick, Crazy. Where?”

“At the parking lot. They saw the illegal modifications and said his car was seen speeding there last weekend. They asked him if he wants to drive to the compound himself or get it towed.”

“F*ck. Tell him to make them tow it. Just to make things difficult.”

“Tell him to tell the cops to tow it,” repeats Hoodie, “Oh, good… he’s already done that.”

“We’re going to Hero’s Pagoda, then. Call the guys.”

Instead of turning off to Shek O we drive past the exit. As if through some form of telepathic communication the other four cars follow. “So what happens when a car gets towed? Does he lose his licence?”

“No, the cops take it in for a week, check it for illegal modifications, then give you a list of everything that needs to be removed – you do that, then bring it back for inspection. You get a fine. It’s a few thousand. It’s going to be a pain.”

“So you can still drive then?”

“Yeah, but not as fast,” he laughs.

For the most part, these cars are simply shells of what they used to be. The suspensions have been changed for a smoother ride round bends; the brakes made four times stronger; and the wheels changed for a better grip and more stability. Everything has been ripped out and replaced. “Not everything is illegal. Just some,” explains Dee.

“What’s he going to do?”

“Work, put it all back in. Our cars are who we are.”

Back on the freeway again Dee turns serious. “Over there is where Justin’s brother crashed his car. He lost his leg.”

“He broke it?”

“No, he lost his leg completely. Severed, cut off above the knee. The car in front smashed into the sides, bounced back and took Justin’s brother with it. They spun around and his car flipped over. If Justin finds out, you can’t tell him I told you…”

“And Justin still races?”

“Why not? It’s his brother, not him.”

“You can die riding a bus, you can die because something falls on you, you can die all these different ways. Cancer – you smoke, that will kill you,” says Dee. “It’s about fate. When it’s your time, it’s your time. We might as well enjoy the time we have here. Do what we like doing. Where are the guys anyway? Why are they so far behind?”

We slow down and eventually the Civic appears. I roll down the window and the driver yells, “I was waiting for you guys at the back. I didn’t see you pass.”

Dee shouts, “I was at the front, f*ck. Which means they’ve gone past already. I was too busy talking. I didn’t even see them.”

We go off again. This time there’s no talking from me. I just watch the unfamiliar road signs and the giant overpasses looming above us. I really have no idea where I am. The sky is open because there are no high-rises here and Hong Kong feels huge, like it can go forever. I realize that it’s not just the speed, it’s the sudden openness, the freedom that you feel when you’re in a car going fast.

A screeching of tyres. I am acutely aware of the small space I’m in; the road; the barricade and the cars. How thin the metal is that stands between those things and me. My head lurches forward and I’m staring at the floor of the car. As a reflex I put my hands on the dashboard to hold myself up. We skid a metre, maybe two. The surface of the road and my feet are practically in direct contact and I’m far too confused to look up. I close my eyes and hope for the best. Our car slows, I can feel the wheels gripping the concrete and we’re going forward again. I look up.

“F*cking dickhead. He just moved right in front of me while slowing down. He didn’t even indicate.”

“We didn’t crash, right?” I ask, “We’re okay?”

“Scared now? I told you, you wouldn’t want to come along.”

I just nod and lose myself in the lights and sounds of the fuel burning in the engine.

“Do you ever seriously think about dying like this?”

“I do.”

“Why do you do it then?”

Dee pauses; this time he thinks. “It’s fun. For the thrill. I really, really like cars. I’ve liked them since I was a boy, I used to have car toys, watch car cartoons: I really loved them. So when I was old enough I saved up all my money and bought one. I don’t have a lot of money. Most of it goes to help support my family. I have to give some to my sister: she’s still in school. What’s left isn’t that much. I always dreamed of having a car and I don’t want to spend my money on anything else. I don’t like to sing. I don’t do drugs. I hate discos. I can’t afford my own place. I love cars.”

“What do you love about them?”

“What can I say? All of it. I like the parts, I like the different models, the machinery. And now I have my own, a real one, I want to see what I can do with it. What I can add to it. I want to test it out and use it like it’s intended. You understand? I like to hang out with my friends, I like to talk shit with them, smoke a few cigarettes and drive to all these different places with them.”

“So it’s not really about being the fastest?”

Dee nods, “I want to be the fastest, but it’s also about being the best driver. How well you know the roads, the car and yourself. When you buy a new part for the car, you can’t use it. It’s too powerful: you have to learn how to control it bit by bit. It’s like a test, an experiment. If I do this, what will happen? If I do that, what will happen? Being fast is easy, just buy yourself a Ferrari and go. But it’s more than that. I can’t afford one anyway, so I have to find ways to make my crappy car go as fast as theirs. Just to see if I can.”

“So there’s no money involved? Don’t you gamble?”

“That’s just in the movies. The really big guys, the car gods, the guys who are in jail right now, they gamble money. Everyone puts in $5,000 dollars and you get 10 or 15 cars and the person who wins gets, say, $40,000, then the next person gets $25,000 and the third gets $15,000. But they don’t do it so much anymore as the cops are coming after the really big crews.”

“Yeah, and they patrol all the places it can happen and break it all up,” says Hoodie. “You can’t race if there are motorbikes speeding up and down the roads. And they do things like this…”

There are blue and red flashing lights on the edge of the road: a police van parked behind a white and blue barricade. A police block.

“What do we do?”

The boys look at me strangely. “Nothing.”

We slow down and a policeman looks at us through the windshield. He motions for us to stop. This time Dee steps on the brakes completely. I roll down the window.

“Where are you going?” asks the policeman.

“Nowhere, we’re just on our way home.”

I give him my sweetest smile. He shoves his hand through the window: “Show us your ID cards.” After fumbling with our wallets, we pass our ID cards to him. He reads out our numbers into his walkie-talkie, followed by the number of the licence plate. Then he walks back up towards us, “Do you know any of these other guys?” he asks, motioning to the crew who are parked in front and behind us, being checked at the same time. Hoodie shrugs, Dee says, “No,” and I shake my head and feign shock at being accused of associating with such people. The cop motions for us to leave.

“That was easy,” I say, relieved.

“As long as you don’t give them lip and you’re not a triad, gwo wak gei, they don’t tend to bother you.”

“You’re not gwo wak geis?”

“No! I don’t do anything illegal.”

“Except drive too fast,” I say.

“It’s not like murder or arson. Of all the things I could do. Beat people up, sell drugs, get protection money… what’s driving too fast? Don’t be crazy.”

“I am riding with you, aren’t I?”

The Crew: Toyota AE 111 (1988), Nissan S15 Silva (1991),
Toyota Celica (1987), Honda Civic (1992) , Toyota Levin (1995)