

After a few laps, Fredrik rumbled to a stop beside us, through a wide smile he asked , “how can I get these pictures, where are you online?”. A normal level headed journalist would simply pass out his business card or provide an email or phone number. One problem, I am neither normal nor level headed. Instead, I haltingly attempt to give him my Instagram, but over the deep bass of exhaust from cars all around, my words are drowned out. Looking to my right I see and hear the growing queue of cars impatient to continue their cruise. Horns and big block revs roar their displeasure with this bumbling American blocking traffic. So caught up in the Raggare spirit of the show, I come to the simple solution. I pull up my contact screen, toss my cell phone into his lap, and tell him to bring it back on the next lap. Genius. He shrugs and peels out in a 15 meter water soaked burn out. Was that a bad idea? I shrug too. We will see what happens, I guess.

After an uncomfortably long amount of time, Fredrik returns phone in hand. Just as before, he peels off into the night. About an hour later, right before I’m about to call it a night because of the increasingly heavy rain he returns and pulls up onto the curb. He gets out and offers me a ride.

We take things slow in the beginning, rumbling along the loop. The car’s interior is spotless. The once tattered white interior has been redone. Black leather seats and immaculate black trim covers the dash. The only hint that this car has been redone is a glowing tachometer beneath the dash. Until he told me, I thought the car was a well maintained original. Everything is exactly as it should be. On lap two, things became dramatically more interesting. “Should I do another burnout”, he asks. Duh!