A few minutes into the previous night's ride, Brian had picked a fight with the cabbie. "He wasn't going the fastest way," Brian explains. He was taking side streets, while Brian--who suspects cabbies like to take advantage of drunken passengers--insisted that the freeway would be faster. "We were pretty drunk. [The cabbie] got mad, and they started arguing," Trueblood adds. "The cabbie said, 'I know this way is faster, I'm not trying to screw you.'"
On the phone the next morning, the cab driver had a solution to settle the debate: He challenged Brian to a race from the Dubliner to their house, to see which route is faster. The rules were clear: No speeding, obey traffic laws, no drinks before driving. The prize? Fifty bucks, or a night of cab rides. "This is a duel," Trueblood, 23, said seriously, while sitting at the Dubliner on Friday night, August 6, waiting for the cabbie to show up for what they've dubbed the Tour de Fremont. "And we're going to settle it like gentlemen."
A few minutes later, the cabbie--clutching a half-smoked Marlboro--pulled up, ready for the challenge. "Let's go," he grumbled. "I'm in a hurry." Trueblood got into the passenger seat, pushing aside the cabbie's empty Diet Coke cans and spare cigarette lighters. He planned to monitor the cabbie's driving, to make sure he didn't cheat.
Trueblood's roommate Brian, a tall 26-year-old in a hip bowling shirt, along with their other roommate, John, hopped into a 1995 Pathfinder SUV, and warmed up the engine. The cabbie was supposed to turn his cab around, so both vehicles were lined up on a fair starting line. But apparently he had a different idea.
"I'll see you there, asshole!" he yelled at Brian, hitting the gas and jetting south on Fremont Avenue North instead of turning around. Brian quickly recovered from the cabbie's false start, and zoomed the opposite direction toward Northwest 50th Street, slipping through the first stoplight just as it turned green.
Pushing 40 miles per hour along 50th--the "no speeding rule" was ditched, as Brian rationalized that "all cabbies speed" and therefore he'd have to, as well--the Pathfinder was on I-5 just three minutes after leaving the Dubliner (thanks to a well-timed U-turn to avoid a stack of cars at a red light).
In the backseat, John dialed Trueblood on his cell phone, to gauge who was winning. Trueblood refused to divulge the cab's location. "He hung up on me!" John yelled to Brian, who was closing in on the Lake City Way exit off the freeway.
Undeterred by a stoplight a few blocks ahead, near Wild West Trucks on Lake City Way, Brian veered the Pathfinder through a parking lot and around a Subway sandwich shop to bypass the gridlock. He was closing in on the finish line. Careening down 85th Street toward Ravenna Avenue, Brian and John looked around, expecting to see the cab at any moment.
They were still in the clear as Brian rounded the corner onto Ravenna, his house just a block away. Up ahead, a handful of their buddies were waiting to greet the winner, cameras in hand. "That was the best drunk bet ever!" one guy whooped loudly as Brian skidded to a stop. His friends congratulated him on his seven-minute time, and clear win--the cab was nowhere in sight. "I told you! He's taking Peter for a ride," Brian declared, cracking open a triumphant Keystone Light beer.
A full seven minutes later, the cab pulled up. The cabbie, working on his third cigarette, stared incredulously at Brian, who was leaning against his SUV and finishing off his beer. "How did you do it?" the cabbie asked, still sitting behind the wheel.
"I told you my way was fastest," Brian told the cabbie, grinning. "You owe me 50 dollars."
