Street racers dice with death

Julius Strauss joins young Muscovites who get their kicks by drag- racing souped-up cars through the capital's streets after midnight

9 February 2003

At 90 mph the traffic lights were approaching fast. In the right lane a lorry was braking to a halt and in the middle and on the left there were two stationary cars.

Igor, clenched over the steering wheel and tense as a piano wire pulled his car onto an ice-laden verge and accelerated hard through the red light.

Welcome to Street Challenge Moscow-style.

In a city of gross extremes and the relentless pursuit of kicks, it must surely rank as one of the most hair-raising ways to spend a Saturday night.

One hundred percent illegal and horrendously dangerous, it packs the thrills of Formula One, joy-riding and ice-skating into a 20 minute dice with death.

For dozens of young Muscovites the weekly meetings are what they live for, skimping and saving during the week to buy a double-headed exhaust pipe or leather-clad steering wheel.

"I come for the people, the show and the speed," said Katya, a pretty 21-year-old with flowing brown hair and a smart black leather jacket.

In her other life Katya is a manicurist and a dancer. On Saturday nights she takes out her Passat VR6 and becomes an automotive maniac.

Now in her third season, she says she has crashed only twice and both times walked away unhurt.

"I've always loved driving," she said. "When other girls were playing with dolls, I was playing with cars."

Collisions seem to be frequent. Some of the cars had missing wings, others no bumpers. But for Moscow's youth the danger seems to be a draw rather than a deterrent.

Mikhail, a shy-looking boy of 19 who drives a souped-up Lada with 120 hp, has been racing for a year now. "I come every single weekend," he said. "I love the speed, the adrenalin. It is like an orgasm," he added and blushed.

The evening I joined the racers began sedately enough with a meeting of car enthusiasts and groupees outside Moscow's House of Artists.

There was the usual mechanical talk, loud music, flirting and engine-revving that you might see in any mid-American town on a steamy summer night.

Anton Boeing, chief organiser, gave out a radio frequency, 97.5 FM, and everyone tuned in on their car stereos to wait for the secret location of the event to be revealed.

Yulia, a spectator and a 19-year-old psychology student, said: "I am going to start racing in the spring. I already have a Lada and with my university scholarship and a bit I saved up, I'm sure I can finance it."

For Saturday's event I was given Igor, a 20-year-old salesman, as my racing partner. He was a quiet, slight boy with a Volkswagen baseball cap and a nervous manner.

His vital statistics were not reassuring. He told me quietly that this was his first time in the big league and that he had already lost his licence three times and bought it back from the police.

His car, a battered Golf with a raised rear axle and a pink, plastic rabbit wired to the front, was a replacement for another he had destroyed three weeks before.

Around us the other drivers were making last-minute adjustments to their engines. More than a dozen policemen had gathered to watch, although an "arrangement" with the organisers kept them in their cars.

Only hours before, another patrol had fined me for "causing ecological damage" after I stopped by the roadside to allow a desperate lady passenger to answer a call of nature on the grass verge.

But I was beginning to learn about the Moscow traffic police. This time they just smiled, safe in the knowledge that their pockets would be well-lined by the evening's organisers.

Igor was sweating. He gasped down half a cigarette, splashed liberal quantities of anti-freeze over our windows and mirrors and pulled on his mountain biking gloves.

"Relax," I told him as I watched his quivering hands. "I know I should, but I can't," he said.

Then we were off. We slithered around curving tunnels with 25 mph speed limits at 70 mph and ran red lights with barely a glance.

As the traffic thickened, Igor yanked the wheel, first left, then right, headlights flashing wildly to warn other motorists of our approach.

As we skidded past the finish line, Igor executed a violent handbrake turn that left us facing the wrong away only a few yards away from a group of policemen.

I emerged from the car, legs a-tremble, to be greeted by Anton, beaming. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked. "You will come again?" I nodded, dishonestly.