Cars burn rubber in parking lots, filling the night air with thick curtains of smoke and the sound of screaming engines.

Inches away, spectators stand and watch -- many with smartphones raised to record the moment.

The high-adrenaline scene is straight out of the action movie series "The Fast and the Furious," except the setting is the streets of Portland and this isn't make-believe. And on Sunday night, racers brazenly shut down the Fremont Bridge for half an hour, blocking traffic and defying police as they staged their souped-up rally-car performance.

Across Portland, such gatherings play out frequently on Sunday nights, though they fly largely under the public radar as most people are home and fewer officers are on the streets. At the most popular event, called T5 by participants and police because of its proximity to the Port of Portland's Terminal 5, up to 1,000 spectators regularly flood onto sidewalks and empty parking lots as a couple hundred cars descend on the area.

The gatherings can turn dangerous -- and deadly. Four people have been killed in Portland street racing-related incidents in the past three years. Many more have been injured, including a recent high-school graduate who ended up in a coma and is still in the hospital after being hit by a racer in June.

In April, a meet-up ended with shots fired. The next month, a racer tried to ram a police vehicle.

"It's so beyond what people can believe," said Portland police Officer John Fulitano, who for more than two decades has been working out of the North police precinct, where most races happen.

Street racing is no new phenomenon. It's an adrenaline rush birthed the day automobiles were created, and video games and the movies have contributed to its evolution. But in recent years, it's accelerated in Portland.

Engines rev. Small fireworks blast overheard. And the races begin.

Cars shoot off in pairs while others crowd into parking lots, industrial complexes and intersections to drift and do burnout circles, commonly referred to as donuts.

Racers say they know the police are relatively powerless to put an end to their fun. The Portland Police Bureau, already stretched thin by other overtime demands, has limited resources to combat the racers. And safety concerns hinder officers' ability to chase racers when they flee.

Some in the car community are trying to create safer options for the enthusiasts. But both police and some participants are starting to ask what it will take to wake racers up to the escalating dangers of street racing.

They hope it's not a catastrophic crash that takes multiple lives.

A Deadly Game

The racers often leave behind an obvious trail. Beer bottles and oil canisters litter parking lots. Dark black stripes and dozens of overlapping rings are burned across intersections and lots. But they've also left a trail of headstones and hospital bills.

Street racing-related deaths have killed four people in the past three years, according to Portland police:

Linda Johnson, 65, was killed on Dec. 4, 2015, after two racing motorcycles crashed into her car at Southeast 160th Avenue and Stark Street.

Nick Alexandar Chernyavskiy, 20, was killed on Jan. 23, 2016, after crashing the motorcycle he was racing into another motorcyclist on Northeast Airport Way near 145th Avenue.

Alexander Keppinger, 26, died in the hospital two weeks after he was injured as a passenger in a crash involving two racers on March 6, 2016, on Northeast Glisan Street near 139th Avenue.

Daniel Kharlamov, 19, died on April 21, 2017, as the result of a high-speed crash on Southeast Powell Boulevard near 37th Avenue. Police believe he was racing another motorcycle.

MOXIE AND MODERN MACHINES

The young, tech-savvy racers use their phones and the immediacy of social media to coordinate logistics -- and create a lopsided game of cat-and-mouse with police.

They also thrive off social media attention. At any given moment, dozens of phones record the gatherings. YouTube is a hive for T5 videos from over the years, and the phone app Snapchat brings more racers to the action in the moment.

Snapchat maps, where people can post videos from their location and be seen by any user, show the action from any hotspot. The videos and evidence disappear after 24 hours, but that's plenty of time to alert the masses.

On Sunday, one such video was posted from the Fremont Bridge about 10 p.m., where headlights lit up dozens of people who had stopped their vehicles and swarmed the bridge. At one point, three cars blasted circles around each other as people stood feet away amid southbound traffic lanes.

About that same time, a large crowd began gathering at the Goodwill parking lot at Northeast Marine Drive and 122nd Avenue. Soon the action kicked off, with the cars at times barely visible in their own clouds of smoke.

The party continued uninterrupted for at least 30 minutes. Police showed up, and the participants scattered, as usual. Officers often spend Sunday night chasing racers from one site to the next, but it's a temporary solution.

"The cops are never going to stop us," said a man in his early 20s who would not provide his last name. "It's the adrenaline that keeps everyone coming back."

It's almost as if the racers feel immune from police, said Fulitano, the officer.

One Sunday in June, an officer responded to a report of street racing in the 5400 block of Northeast 148th Avenue. He was almost hit intentionally by a truck as he approached a group of about 50 people in his marked police car, according to police reports.

When officers decided to chase the truck, drivers, many of whom remove their license plates, moved their vehicles in the way. Two people were eventually arrested.

Map: Street racing incidents reported from January-June in 2016-2018

Racers' disregard for police was evident Aug. 5, as officers investigated a vehicle, presumably racing, that had just crashed off Marine Drive. As they inspected the car, the racing continued, with a pair of motorcycles at high speed blasting past the group of officers and their lighted vehicles.

The bureau's current chase policies prevent officers from pursuing racers unless absolutely necessary, as chases can increase the danger to the public.

To complicate the situation, a judicial ruling a few years ago impeded police ability to tow vehicles, said Sgt. Greg Stewart, who works out of the North Precinct. So racers can just come back and get their cars after police leave. For those with a suspended license, towing is a much more efficient deterrent than a ticket anyway, he said.

"It probably took our best tool for addressing the situation," Stewart said.

The bureau has 100 fewer officers now than when Stewart began 20 years ago, he said. And on any given Sunday night, less than than two dozen police officers cover the entire North Precinct as 500 to 700 racers and spectators spread out across the area.

The goal is always to defuse the racing situations without force, but two officers going into a crowd of hundreds of racers can be dangerous, Stewart said.

DANGER AHEAD

Fulitano said he fears a driver will lose control and mow down a crowd of onlookers one of these days, comparing it to the devastation terrorists wreak on crowds with their vehicles.

When Fulitano started in the precinct decades ago, most of the racers were in smaller groups on Swan Island. The scale has exploded.

To make the stakes even higher, he said, many of the popular racing areas are far from emergency centers.

"They're all my kids' age; I hate going out there and seeing them hurt," Fulitano said, adding that every day he feels the racers are just barely sliding by without a large-scale accident.

Less-obvious victims include local businesses, which have reported property damage. Some truck drivers have been assaulted by racers refusing to let them leave on their routes, Fulitano said.

Some property managers of businesses along Marine Drive, in the Delta Park area and on Swan Island are working to reduce the number of racers on their property.

One company hired security for Sunday nights to photograph any racers driving past, Fulitano said. Another installed speed bumps, which may have deterred side-by-side racing but didn't stop racers from doing donuts.

"The speed bumps just gave them little arenas," Fulitano said, pointing to fresh tire marks after a night of racing.

Sunday night seemed more intense than usual, some said privately.

Stewart said people began calling in tips Saturday night that participants from as far away as Oakland, California, were heading up to Portland for the races. The bureau prepared with as many extra officers as they could, though staffing remains limited, especially after so many officers worked overtime for recent protests.

Police for the most part kept racers from their normal spots, like Marine Drive, Stewart said. But the added police presence seemed to agitate racers, he said.

"Taking the bridge is almost like a temper tantrum," he said.

Clearing racers from the Fremont Bridge presented its own challenges. Traffic was backed up on the one-way deck of the bridge, making it difficult and time-consuming for officers.

But shortly after 10 p.m. they cleared the bridge and were able to identify and cite a few of the racers that night. But the majority made clean getaways.

OFF THE STREETS

Some adults are trying to provide safer, organized events to reduce illegal racing.

Devin Hosking, 35, has for the past six years been the main organizer for the Red Door Meet, a family-friendly informal car show held every Sunday evening at Southeast Second Avenue and Belmont Street.

Car enthusiasts gather along SE 2nd Ave. under the Morrison Bridge Sunday, Aug. 12, 2018, for the weekly Red Door Meet. The event takes place every Sunday.

For Hosking, a parent, staying away from the illegal racing scene was an easy decision.

"But for younger people it's a thrill and it's fun," he said. "You can stand right next to a car when it goes flying by you."

Fulitano said, however, some racers show off their cars at the Red Door Meet but then still head north to race. "It starts as a unique, fun experience, and then breaks out into craziness," he said.

Hosking stressed that his meet has no association with illegal racing, and he hopes it will keep kids off the street.

Legal racing can be more expensive. Many of the illegal racing cars would need upgrades to comply with safety standards, and some drivers don't have licenses or insurance.

Peter Belefanti, a Nike manager who builds race cars on the side, for three years has held independent, monthly racing events at local venues for experienced drivers.

He recognizes the financial barrier for those getting into racing, so he also offers free lessons with an instructor to anyone cited for reckless driving, speeding or racing on the streets.

No one has taken him up on his offer yet.

"I'm just trying to get to them before they hurt somebody or themselves," Belefanti said.

His main observation from more than 30 years in the racing world is that it's dangerous no matter what, but there's no safer place to race than on a track.

Police are also trying to redirect racers. Without the ability to chase and tow like they used to, policing the racers has become a more thoughtful, education-driven process, Stewart said.

The Oregon Department of Transportation and the police are working to create social media campaigns to inform racers of the costs and consequences of their decisions, he said.

"We'd like to resolve as much of this as we can just talking to people without having to write tickets or arrest folks," Stewart said.

"I JUST HOPE SOMEBODY LEARNS FROM THIS"

Sunday marked two months since Taylor Jennison was admitted to the hospital. In June she was a passenger in a car turning onto Marine Drive when a racer hit it.

The 18-year-old was rushed to the hospital with a broken pelvis, ruptured bladder, brain injuries and two broken femurs, according to a GoFundMe account to help pay for medical expenses.

She was in a coma for 10 days and required a feeding tube to eat and a tracheotomy to breathe, the site said.

Every day is filled with chronic pain and what has added up to hundreds of strokes, said her mother, Kristene Jennison.

"I just hope somebody learns from this," Kristene said. "This is horrific, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

The most difficult part right now is the uncertainty, she said. They don't yet know when Taylor can move to a rehabilitation facility or how much the medical bills will total.

Kristene, an outreach worker for individuals with substance abuse problems, said her job is rewarding, but she doesn't know if she'll be able to go back by Sept. 10 when her employer stops holding her position for her.

It's been traumatizing for her and her other kids. She sleeps at the hospital five nights a week.

She also has to move. The family's home of nine years has stairs, which won't be accessible for Taylor, who had planned to use her scholarship to study nursing at Portland Community College.

"These street racers don't care about their future, don't care about others," Kristene said. "And she's completely the opposite. That's what makes this a little harder to swallow."

--Anna Spoerre