Rush to danger

The problem

It was a simple equation: Other drivers would pull up and gun their engines, and then Mike Senato would show them what his juiced-up Honda Civic could do.

"When they rev you," the 27-year-old says, "that's when you want to race."

Despite a stained driving record and a license bordering on suspension, Senato knows how. He's a Tacoma-based professional driver on the West Coast circuit.

But this is no official race he's talking about. This is street racing, day or night, on open roads or motorist-dotted freeways. If you don't take challengers on, he says, you get shown up. Your friends call you things like "weak." "It's that ego thing," he says. "(So if) people roll up on me, I mash on 'em. It's dumb, once you think about it."

That's one way to put it. Dangerous is another. Police call it reckless driving, a criminal offense. But being fast, especially faster than someone else, is no new phenomenon; the urge goes back ages, to chariot races and marathons.

The thrill of doing it perilously is glorified in Hollywood chase scenes and memorialized in pop films such as "American Graffiti," "Grease" and "Rebel Without A Cause."

But drivers risk disaster when they street race: The NBA's Charlotte Hornets finished the 1999-2000 season without star player Bobby Phills, killed Jan. 12 in a head-on collision after street racing against teammate David Wesley. Closer to home, Justin Simmons, 15, was killed May 2 when his brother's Acura crashed while racing along a winding Spanaway road; Pierce County police are still looking for the other car.

There is a loosely organized subculture that feeds off this need for speed, of mostly young drivers who spend their money on acceleration-minded upgrades and their weekends trying to prove mettle with their pedal. They collect in pockets throughout Puget Sound, as many as 300 cars and more than twice that many people, swarming race sites around south King County and sparking weekly headaches for law enforcement.

"It's gotten to the point where it's not going to go away," says Tukwila Police Capt. Doug Partlow. "It's kind of the thing to do."

Those with thin wallets spring instead for trendy decals that earn them the term "sticker racers" from serious speedsters. Others still, derided as "tourists," show up just to watch as racers set up for illegal quarter-mile runs - the length of an official heat - on deserted nighttime side streets and industrial back roads.

But police and race enthusiasts alike worry that young, inexperienced drivers seeking speed highs will end up courting tragedy.

"They think they have the skills," Senato says. "They're so invincible." In his mind, he grabs the wheel and remembers: "You're just thinking about beating this other guy. You're in the zone. You have nothing else on your mind but doing what you're doing."

The scene

Street racing didn't just roll off the assembly line. Veteran Seattleites spin tales of midnight muscle cars tearing along Alki Beach or Shilshole Marina in the 1970s, girls planted roadside on the hoods of Mustangs and Camaros. Guys on walkie-talkies warned of incoming police, who would break up the party and send everyone running for the nearest late-night drive-in.

Today's illegal racing crowd reflects a different world - more global, high-tech and diverse. Muscle cars have been joined by tricked-out Japanese and German imports. Their drivers are a multicultural mix mostly 16 to 24 years old who direct their south valley assault via cell phones, seeking an interactive high apparently absent in PlayStations and Go Karts.

"A lot of these people are young," says Chau Luu of Urbanasian.com, a locally-based Internet site targeting Asian youth. "They can't really go to clubs, so the next best thing is to race."

The scene was jump-started in the mid-1990s on south Seattle's West Marginal Way, which by night sets out a wide, mostly blank straightaway. But armed with cell phones, racers now spread their activity among multiple locations, making policing more difficult. When officers show up at one spot, speedsters hit the airwaves, figuring out where to go next.

Thus were born today's south King County sites, which racers refer to by the names of nearby businesses: IKEA. Boeing. Texaco. Renton Honda. Marginal Way lives on, too.

Racers cluster in crews, seeking inclusion as much as outlaw thrills and speed. Their names give props to auto supply shops, echo car lingo or reflect attitude or racial identity. Dayza. Infamous. Ultraspeed.

Several years ago, after the scene got so hot it was detailed in a racing magazine, police took note. They clamped down. They slowed it to a crawl.

It's roared back with a vengeance: On big nights, several hundred cars flock to south King County, from as near as Bellevue and Tacoma, from as far as Bremerton, Olympia and Bellingham.

"Now we see people we've never seen before," says 20-year-old Dave Firth, a three-year scene veteran. "I talked to one guy one night and said, `Where you guys from?' He said, `Shelton.' I said, `Dude! You guys roll deep!' People come from everywhere."

The crowd

While hundreds are drawn to the scene as spectators, only two or three dozen drivers actually race, the fastest among them earning notoriety. Says Senato, the racing pro: "When you start beating everybody, people respect you."

He once considered the street drags tune-ups for his runs at Seattle International Raceway, but no more: Having attained corporate sponsorship, his car is now limited to sanctioned events, outfitted with finery he never would have bought himself. "I'd rather do this than be out there doing the illegal stuff," he says.

For hundreds of others, though, the lure remains, and participants range from 17-year-old high schoolers to auto-world junkies to anomalies like 45-year-old mail carrier Paula Heaton.

You'd think a 45-year-old single mom might be a wood-paneled station wagon among shiny, youthful convertibles, but after raising five kids, Heaton bought the car of her dreams last year - a Mustang Cobra. On weekend nights, her Kent apartment swirls with smoke and young racers - guys like fellow Cobra fan Jeff Clements, college student Dave Firth, technician John Lowenstein and Jiffy Lube employee Jerry Williams.

These are guys who wash their cars in 30-degree weather, who talk about speed in terms of how many seconds it takes them to go a quarter-mile. Once he's done juicing up his car, brags Auburn's Clements, "it should be running in the low 12's."

The group is tight as a pit crew, whether kickin' it at Pioneer Square or going to court to fight tickets. As a whole, they've collected their share of citations, from illegal exhaust pipes to speeding.

While her age difference might raise some eyebrows, police say Heaton's just a racing fan reclaiming her youth. Her explanation is that she wants to promote safety - to ensure cars line up far enough apart and that fans don't get too close. And to provide support to kids: "They say, `I wish my mom were out here.' " Heaton says. "They're doing something that to them is an accomplishment. They want somebody to share it with."

And of course, she's out there to win.

"It's a control thing," she says. ". . .It's being a woman, and my age, and getting out of the car and saying to some 17-year-old, `I beat the piss out of you.' They just go, `Damn!' They're like puppy dogs."

And Firth, the college student, insists street racing offers a safer alternative to partying.

"I used to go out every weekend and party, get drunk and drive home," he says. "But I'd rather be in a safe place where everybody is sober. . . I asked my parents, would you rather have me out there racing or at a party getting drunk?"

(Police confirm alcohol has not generally been a concern for law enforcement.)

But Senato says most kids don't tell their parents what they're up to. "It's like, what they don't know won't hurt them," he says.

And the problem is that some find it hard to keep speed urges in check, even away from the scene. They start to see traffic tickets as part of the territory, like bruises on the way to the soccer finals. While many citations are given for stylish modifications that are technically illegal - new exhaust pipes and reflector lights, for example - others are more serious, such as trespassing, speeding and reckless driving.

The way some of them see it, if someone pulls up on you, what are you going to do? Back down? What did you spend all that money fixing your car up for?

"There's so many guys with souped-up cars now," says car enthusiast Blair Greenberg, an 18-year-old senior at Bellevue High. "You just downshift and rev it, and you can be off on a race. It all comes down to how much intelligence you have. Some guys go out and just try to pick road fights."

The police

Police in Kent, which bears the brunt of the street racing action, have had their eye on the activity for two years. "It's a big social gathering," says Officer Paul Petersen. He calls the non-racers "looky-loos."

While Petersen doesn't know of any serious accidents or injuries in Kent so far, he worries that could happen with spectators so close to fast-moving vehicles. (Veteran racers also say they recall no major injuries, but can remember at least a couple of totaled cars.)

Petersen says the looky-loos also spin their tires in parking lots and damage tar, while sudden police presence prompts others to plow over commercial landscaping in a panic, leaving litter and broken bottles behind. Fender-benders are increasingly common.

When they aren't busy with other crime, police in Kent, Renton, Tukwila, Auburn and Des Moines as well as state patrol officers combine weekend enforcement efforts, with up to 15 officers shooing away racers and writing tickets - 82 in one night for trespassing alone, Petersen says. Generally, he says, Kent assigns one to 10 officers to the activity, while in Tukwila, it means four to six officers work overtime.

One of the more troublesome spots for police has been the Texaco/Wendy's island near Kent's Boeing's plant, which until recently was an unwilling host to hordes of weekend racers. Their cars mobbed the parking lot, preventing other customers from coming or going, and store employees accused them of shoplifting.

Now, on nights that racers are out, the station stays open, but closes its parking lot to auto traffic.

Drag racing is, by definition, reckless driving. But because the tricked-out motorcades roam the county mostly from midnight to 4 a.m., area police say they threaten themselves and spectators more than they do other motorists in their jurisdictions.

But speedsters who originate outside south King County jet through freeway traffic to get there, making the voyage possibly more dangerous than the scene itself. And as tricked-out motorcades shuffle from place to place, those in back sometimes run red lights to keep up.

Renton Police spokesman Penny Bartley says that in that sense, they're no different from other reckless drivers: "Nowadays, you always have to be cautious when you're driving," she says. "People are always running red lights. Look at 4 o'clock in the afternoon."

Actually, police like to race, too - when it's legit. "There's nothing wrong with it when it's in a safe setting," Kent's Petersen says.

In fact, during Seattle International Raceway's racing season, from mid-May to mid-September, Kent Police sponsor a race called "Beat the Heat." Officers sometimes give coupons for raceway admission along with the tickets they issue to rogue racers.

"We're doing everything we can to encourage them to go to a place where it's legal and safe," Petersen says.

Solutions

The cotton-candy twinkle of squad cars disrupts the darkness of an undeveloped T-intersection in Kent. "Cops!" goes the cry.

Chaos ensues: Prime time for fender-benders. This is why Urbanasian.com's Chau Luu says racers "need a place where they can watch and have fun and not worry about whether they're going to get caught anytime soon."

"We're not always safe drivers," Heaton admits. "We roll in big numbers. Somebody's gonna get hurt. . . This is why we need to build a track. We don't need to be doing stuff like this."

Police say they don't need to be doing it at all. But with Seattle International Raceway already well booked, the solution proposed by Heaton and others is a new track catering to young racers. Heaton imagines a nonprofit venture that could offer affordable, around-the-clock racing.

There are noise-pollution laws and time restrictions to consider, as well as money. But if she can put it together, Mike Senato says, "people will be up for it, because they like to race. And they like to race all night long."

Others disagree. "It's too controlled," says 20-year-old Eric Hedahl of Maple Valley. "Who's gonna pay to race when they can do it here for free?"

More likely are similar efforts by Seattle International Raceway, which is mulling a site with input from leaders of Urbanasian.com. Jim Rockstad, the raceway's general manager, says he expects it will be in place by next year. "We want to help before somebody gets hurt or killed," he says.

The ones left behind

You can build a track, and maybe they will come, but for some it will never be enough. For them, a challenge from a juiced-up competitor is just too much to stomach, even if it's on a public roadway.

For them, there are no barriers - no red lights, no police flashers, nothing but the chance that a voice in their adrenaline world will howl above the rest: Stop. It's not worth the risk.

In Spanaway, the site of 15-year-old Justin Simmons' death has been memorialized with balloons, photos and a wooden cross ("God has you now. I love you. Mommy"). Police say Aaron Simmons, Justin's 19-year-old brother, was racing another car on 204th Street, a woodsy, two-lane road when a sport utility vehicle appeared from the other direction. As the other car swerved, Simmons' Acura crashed off the road into a telephone pole.

Two of Justin's Spanaway Lake schoolmates, Reynaldo Rios, 17, and his girlfriend, 15-year-old Brittany Braun, are typical high school teens: Fashionably but modestly dressed, they take Rios' car on fast-food runs to Spanaway's busy Pacific Avenue during long class breaks.

A nearby public park, they say, is where most street racers find their competition, taking the battles onto nearby public roads. They hope Simmons' death will bring attention to the problem. See that traffic light right there? Guarantee you, they say, if you sat here a while, you'd see two tricked-out cars go at it before long.

"It happens a lot," says Rios, a junior. "They don't think about where they are and who they can hurt."

Rios says he barely knew Justin; Braun, a blond, petite sophomore, says he was a friend. But they don't know much about Aaron, who according to police had a history of fast driving.

So at this Rios can only guess, but he's willing to bet: That the last thing on Aaron's mind was that he might hurt his younger brother.

Marc Ramirez's phone message number is 206-464-8102. His e-mail address is mramirez@seattletimes.com