Friday night at the end of a work week is no longer “big night out” territory for men in their 40s and 50s. It is recovery time. It is couch time. It is staring blankly into the fridge like it contains answers. So Andy, The Prof and I made the responsible adult decision to save our questionable behaviour for Saturday night, when this week’s meet landed at Kennedy Commons, an OG Scarborough car spot that used to be legendary on Thursday nights. Hundreds of performance cars, hundreds more spectators, and just enough rev-bombing, burnouts and anti-police charm to get the whole thing shut down for about a decade. Heritage, really.
Event organizer LegitWhips seemed confident that a few stern “no revving” and “no two-step” warnings would keep the peace, which was adorable considering the IG poster featured a G35 shooting flames out of its tailpipes. Still, for a couple of hours, things were actually pretty calm. Cars rolled in as sunset approached, people wandered around, and the lot never reached the full Woodside Square warzone energy from a couple weeks earlier. Then the guys and I drove over to one of the shops for iced coffee, because nothing says outlaw street scene like three middle-aged men hydrating responsibly.
While I stood outside attaching a GoPro to the roof of the SVX, a voice behind me boomed, “You’re not part of these hooligans, are you?” I turned around to find Officer Dave, with his partner waiting in the cruiser, and my magenta underglow glowing beneath the aired-out Subaru like a neon confession. Denial seemed ambitious. Dave explained that the landlord did not like car meets in his lot and that everyone had to leave. I told him I was pretty sure the organizer had permission. Dave laughed, then described the organizer as an 18-year-old in a Honda with the muffler cut off who had not asked anybody for anything, which, to be fair, did sound painfully believable.
There were no burnouts, no major chaos, no cinematic police chase, just a bunch of cars assembled on private property until private property remembered it was private. I kept my iced coffee receipt like a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free card, proof that I was a customer and not merely a car-crazy hooligan with mood lighting. Within three minutes, LegitWhips posted that the meet was relocating to SkyCity plaza up the street, where the owners appear to be organized men with private security and a higher tolerance for bubble tea customers with exhaust systems. By midnight, the young guys were heading to the industrial park for street-racing near the railroad crossing, while the rest drifted home, exhausted by the criminal underworld of parking, sipping, and being told to leave. Not exactly an impressive night, but at least the coffee was legal.