The Night the Streets Ignite
It was 4 AM, and unexpectedly, my wife’s Subaru became a mangled mess on a Northeast Minneapolis roadside. Just hours prior, I had parked it in North Mississippi Regional Park, Northside, Minneapolis. Police had already swept through the lot, their bullhorns ordering the Friday night crowd of teens and twenty-somethings, gathered for what they call a “slideshow,” to disperse. My mission was to meet E, my guide for the night and a 23-year-old figurehead in the city’s underground Street Racing scene. A text from E instructed me to look for his white 2015 Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT – a soccer mom’s vehicle, yes, but one that conceals the power to hit 100 mph in under 10 seconds. “Just leave your car,” he’d said as I hopped into the passenger seat. “It’ll be fine.”
I was about to plunge into six intense hours with E, witnessing young men, some even younger than him, hanging out of Dodge Charger and Ford Mustang windows, tires screaming as they spun in endless circles in vacant parking lots. A haze of hot, grey smoke billowed from the blacktop, engulfing the teenage onlookers from North Minneapolis to Eagan.
Above, the relentless hum of a State Patrol helicopter tracked our every move. At the first hint of flashing police lights, the crowd would scatter in a dozen directions, each time pursued half-heartedly by law enforcement. Then, another address would flash on E’s phone, relayed by the mysterious “admins” orchestrating these impromptu street racing events, and we’d repeat the whole chaotic ballet in a new location.
I remember wondering if my knuckles would ever regain their natural color after being clenched white around my digital recorder. E’s speedometer was a blur, a digital slot machine hitting 90 in the Lowry Hill Tunnel, 95 on Energy Park Drive, and a terrifying 140 as we approached the University Avenue exit on 280. Having survived E’s high-octane tour, I was dropped back at that North Mississippi Regional Park lot at 4 AM. There, under my wife’s windshield wiper, was a parking ticket. Never had I been so relieved to see one.
Driving home, however, relief turned to shock. A car roared through a red light on Broadway at an estimated 60 mph, clearly late for a UPS shift. His vehicle slammed into my front passenger side with the force of a missile. That surreal, slow-motion moment you see in movies – headlights in my periphery, time stretching, then compressing – became reality. The impact was deafening, airbags exploded, his car ricocheted across Broadway, and my wife’s poor Subaru spun in the opposite direction, with me inside. Stumbling out, I heard wailing from across the intersection. We both lurched towards each other and embraced in the middle of the street, overwhelmed to be alive. “I thought I killed you! I couldn’t stop!” he cried. Leading him back to his wrecked Chrysler 200, he collapsed onto the grass, clutching his groin. A shirtless, drunken neighbor, drawn by the spectacle, called 911. Police arrived quickly, took statements, and summoned tow trucks for both vehicles – his Chrysler and my Subaru.
What on earth had just happened? It felt strangely connected to the adrenaline-fueled night of street racing I had just witnessed, a night that had begun so differently and ended with such unforeseen consequences.
A Timeless Mix: Cars, Youth, and Rebellion
The volatile combination of cars and teenagers is nothing new. Everyone has a family story about a dad or uncle who raced on University Avenue, Lake Street, or the then-new 694-494 loop in the classic cars celebrated by the Beach Boys – Chevy 409s, Plymouth Road Runners, Pontiac GTOs. Young people pushing the limits of their vehicles is a tale as old as the automobile itself. Even “sliding,” the seemingly social media-driven act where powerful factory-built V8 engines spin rear wheels into a controlled drift, isn’t a modern invention.
We called it “spinning donuts” or “whipping shitties” in my youth, in empty parking lots. But it wasn’t until the 1990s in Oakland that this evolved into a distinct driving culture. Oakland’s youth developed a unique style of dancing, dressing, and driving. Unlike much of car culture emanating from California – from hot rods to biker gangs – this was driven by Black youth, marking a significant cultural shift. Now, drifting and sliding have gone mainstream, amplified by the Fast and Furious franchise, car-centric video games, and countless social media posts. None of this would be possible without Detroit’s multi-billion-dollar muscle car industry, fueling the latest iteration of youthful rebellion.
“The best drivers have always been city guys—and during the summer of 2020, kids from the suburbs were flooring it on their way into the city to see the best sliders every single weekend.”
The pandemic became a catalyst for the slideshow phenomenon. Cars have always symbolized teenage freedom, but in 2020, they became the only escape. Health experts even suggested that rolling down windows and interacting with businesses and people from within your car was a form of COVID protection.
With lockdowns in place and empty streets beckoning, what else could a teenager do on a Friday night? This wasn’t confined to the Twin Cities. Reports of slideshows – spontaneous gatherings of hundreds of teens around muscle cars performing drifts – emerged from Atlanta to Rio. Local social media car groups like @kingofthelots and @mn_takeover saw their meetup numbers explode from 50 to 100, and then to 300 cars throughout the summer of 2020.
The best drivers have always been city drivers, perhaps due to denser streets, more obstacles, or simply a higher concentration of drivers. The fastest cars and most skilled drivers have always drawn suburban youth seeking to test their skills against the best. During the summer of 2020, suburban kids flocked to the city every weekend to witness the best sliders. However, when meetups surged again in the summer of 2021, things quickly turned darker.
Race, Policing, and Escalating Tensions in Street Racing
Race and policing are undeniable factors shaping the reaction to street racing events in our streets and parking lots.
In May, Markques Anthony Floyd, a 20-year-old driver with a suspended license, lost control while sliding in downtown Minneapolis. His Infiniti G35 jumped a curb, crashing into a group of teenagers, leaving a 14-year-old boy with a traumatic brain injury. Then, in June, two suburban teenagers were fatally shot during separate slideshow meetups on the same night, reportedly caught in gang crossfire: Nicholas Enger, 17, from Cambridge, watching slides on East Lake Street, and Vanessa Jensen, 19, from White Bear Lake, caught in crossfire in North Minneapolis.
“The cops and Minneapolis Crime Watch make us seem to be bad people. But come and you’ll see kids from the ghetto, kids from the suburbs—you’ll see every different ethnicity in there.”
Since that tragic weekend, authorities have been unable to ignore the roar of engines in the night. Both the Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) and State Patrol acknowledged citizen concerns about “lawless behavior,” including property damage and hostility toward law enforcement, though they remained tight-lipped about their strategies. Media coverage increasingly focused on “drag racers” and “hot rodding.” Social media accounts like @CrimeWatchMpls amplified police scanner activity. News stories about out-of-control youth and their cars, coupled with the pervasive sound of engines and screeching tires from parking lots like the Target on Lake Street or near the old Prudential tower on 394, fueled public frustration. Many felt that the noise was a stark reminder of the perceived loss of control in a dystopian, post-George Floyd pandemic city.
The only way to truly understand this phenomenon was to experience it firsthand, to get a ride with someone in the scene.
Riding with “E”: An Insider’s Look at the Street Racing Scene
I met Elijah Grove, 23, known as E, on the Fourth of July. He arrived in my driveway in his two-toned silver-and-black 2019 Dodge Charger Hellcat, though it wouldn’t stay parked for long.
“This is my first interview, ever,” he admitted as I got into the car.
The Dodge Hellcat, manufactured in Detroit, is arguably the most potent and accessible street racing platform in the US. It boasts celebrity endorsements – Billie Eilish received one for her 18th birthday – and while not cheap, it’s attainable without needing billions of streams like a Porsche or Ferrari. E, who flips foreclosed houses and sells Musty Boyz T-shirts online to build his influencer profile, secured a $65,000 loan to purchase his Hellcat from a Red Wing dealership. It delivers maximum horsepower for the price, and its supercharged Hemi engine produces an unbelievable roar. The 6.2-liter V8 sounded like it was gargling metal as E accelerated down Stinson Boulevard.
E was surprised I contacted him through Instagram DM, and I was equally surprised by his response, given the negative media attention surrounding meetups. “Everyone’s pretty skeptical of the media,” he explained. “Nobody from the races has been interviewed – and I’m like, I don’t care; it’s my voice getting out.”
Growing up on St. Paul’s East Side and attending Roseville High School, E describes himself as athletic but never found his niche in baseball, football, or even cheerleading. He enjoyed dirt biking as a child and always loved cars, attending car shows and drag races at University and Dale with his father. E started drag racing at 16 with his first fast car, a supercharged Pontiac Grand Prix. But it was in June 2020 that his cousin Renzo introduced him to slideshows. After Renzo tragically passed away from an embolism in August 2020, E began sliding in his memory, discovering he had a natural talent for it.
His ascent in the scene was rapid, and 2021 became his breakthrough summer with the Hellcat. He now wears his Hellcat key on an orange-and-black beaded necklace from a powwow – his signature piece. His Instagram following is still relatively small at 3,000, but a feature on @srt.hellcat, the main Hellcat Instagram page with 200,000 followers, and a recent win at a Chicago meetup have boosted his profile. Trophies are indeed awarded for sliding prowess. “They didn’t even know we were sliding up here,” he said. His winning maneuver in Chicago involved sliding while hanging out the driver’s window, shifting into neutral as his passenger slammed it into first gear. He dedicated the trophy to Renzo’s mother.
E emphasizes that sliding is not just for personal glory. Expecting his third child this year and recently moved into a new apartment with his children’s mother, he’s troubled by the violence. He was sliding in North Minneapolis the night Vanessa Jensen was killed and had to flee with a friend’s young son in his car. He understands loss – his father is currently incarcerated in Faribault on drug charges, and they speak daily. (Later, E connected me with his father, Jarvis Thomas, who said, “I don’t know if this is a good thing to say, but I taught him to drive it like you stole it, to be in complete control, but to have fun with it. So in a way, he took a thing I was doing negative and made it a positive – that’s where my pride is.”)
E was eager to show me the reality of a meetup, beyond the media portrayal.
“If you listen to the cops or read Minneapolis Crime Watch, they try to paint us as bad people,” he stated. “But actually come to one of these things, and you’ll see kids from the ghetto, kids from the suburbs – you’ll see every different ethnicity there.”
Inside a Slideshow: From Parking Lots to Police Scrambles
The night before the slideshow, a video surfaced of a neon-lit Charger performing donuts in front of the Winston Smith memorial in Uptown. A passenger hung out the window, firing a 9mm handgun into the air. Bystanders scattered, and the 12-second clip made the evening news. Already on edge about slideshows, the metro area braced for heightened police presence at tonight’s meetup.
Arriving at the North Mississippi Regional Park lot, I was surprised to see E in the Cherokee, not the Hellcat. It was in the shop, he explained. However, the Cherokee SRT, Chrysler’s “Street and Racing Technology” division, still packed a nearly 500-horsepower V8, capable of 150 mph – more than enough speed, but its all-wheel-drive made sliding nearly impossible.
As we left the North Mississippi lot at the MPD’s request, E checked his phone. He was logged into Discord, a chat platform popular with gamers. Meetup coordinates were disseminated on an open Discord channel, with drivers awaiting the next address from an admin. Moments after leaving North Mississippi, a new location appeared: the parking lot of Summit Academy, off Highway 55 in Northside.
Before midnight, around 25 cars and 100 teenagers, phones out and recording, filled the lot. The dress code: tight pants and baggy hoodies with variations of screen-printed Nike logos. E, vaping an oversized electronic pen, was surrounded by his crew in black Musty Boyz T-shirts, their logo on the front and “Get back or GET SMACKED!” on the back. E wore his Hellcat key necklace. The guys, sporting nascent facial hair, outnumbered the girls by roughly 10 to 1.
The girls present wore large hoop earrings, fake eyelashes, styled bangs, and tight hot pants. Everyone wore Nike sneakers – Jordans and Air Force 1s – in black or white. In the first hour, the crowd was predominantly white, but this would shift later. The first three sliders were all Black drivers. The second slider, a grey Chrysler 300, drew cheers and applause as it drifted figure eights around streetlight poles. Fireworks erupted above the cars. White smoke, screeching tires, and fireworks – the perfect Instagram spectacle.
Then, police arrived – had it even been an hour? Lights flashed, bullhorns blared, ordering dispersal. The State Patrol helicopter circled overhead again. Back in the Cherokee, E hopped the curb to exit. The AWD Cherokee seemed a strategic choice tonight. Phone in his lap, E received the next admin message: Dinkytown.
Chasing the Slideshow: Dinkytown and Beyond
After hitting 90 through the Lowry Tunnel, we arrived at Frank and Andrea Pizza in Dinkytown after 1 AM. E went in for a slice and a Coke. Emerging, white kids called out, “Where’s the Hellcat?” He explained it was in the shop. E carried himself with confidence. These kids knew him, and his car, even in its absence.
Cars from the Summit Academy lot blocked each stoplight at the intersection, awaiting more sliders. E preferred parking lots, but the younger crowd favored street takeovers, creating more provocative Instagram content and irritating more adults. Just as the first car prepared to slide, campus police arrived, driving slowly down 4th Street, bullhorns ordering us to disperse. I followed E back to the Cherokee, and within minutes we were on the freeway again. The admin had sent another address: a parking lot in Eagan.
By the time the kids regrouped in the parking lot of a massive machinery corporation warehouse in Eagan, the crowd had doubled. Nearly 40 cars and twice as many people. More blunts were being smoked, and the atmosphere was more charged. The tire friction had heated the asphalt. Fireworks grew larger and louder. Some Black kids complained about the noise. “It’s probably the white kids shooting off these fireworks,” one said. “They’re gonna blow up this spot – 12 is gonna slide in here.” (12 is slang for police).
E’s friend TJ offered his all-black Dodge Charger Scat Pack, another SRT Dodge with a powerful Hemi V8, slightly less potent than the Hellcat. TJ warned E about the tires. “I have enough tire left to get around,” he said, “but not much more to slide.” E retorted, “Oh, c’mon, I take my tires down to wires every night!” E explained he’d already gone through 13 sets this summer. TJ mentioned his tire guy might be available, even at 2:15 AM. “Let’s see if my tire plug calls me back,” he said. Regardless, it was E’s turn to slide. His crew crammed into the Scat Pack – a girl hanging out each side, TJ in the passenger seat. Too tight for a 45-year-old reporter.
Even to an untrained eye, E was clearly the best slider that night. His turns were wider and sharper, with more intricate angles and closer calls with the light poles. Other drivers seemed rushed, sloppy teenagers eager to finish. E’s tire squeal had a different rhythm, a deeper sound, during his long, sweeping drifts. When finished, the crowd applauded as if for a skilled matador, recognizing his duende – courage, style, and soul.
And again: police, this time Eagan’s finest. Back in the Cherokee, we moved against the tide of scrambling kids, skirting the parking lot edge, and onto the freeway, a mock taunt to the police. It was 2:30 AM, the freeway deserted. E floored it. Chicago rapper Lil Herb’s “Fight or Flight” blasted on the Cherokee’s stereo. This was E’s fastest driving yet. I tried to remain composed, but we were overtaking cars on 94 as if they were stationary, in another dimension.
E slowed down at the University Avenue exit. Two lines formed for drag racing on Energy Park Drive. Parking by an embankment, two white kids in Bass Pro Shops hats from Hudson asked about the Hellcat. “It’s in the shop,” E repeated.
Disappointment registered on their faces. “We’re in Mom’s whip tonight,” they said, staring at their Nikes.
E told me to get in; he wanted to race Serenity and her flashy orange Charger R/T – the only woman driver I’d seen all night in a muscle car. Drag racing, E explained, was usually for pride, rarely for money, though gambling happened in dice games back in the parking lot. It was academic anyway – the flagger botched the start, and E easily beat Serenity’s Charger.
And then, inevitably, police again. We were flushed from Energy Park. It was past 3 AM. The night was over. E seemed deflated on the drive back to my wife’s car.
“We shouldn’t be chased this much,” he said, surprised by the police intensity. “The Northside is literally a war zone,” he added, “and they’re chasing us?” He wished for a closer track than Brainerd, or better yet, a police-approved lot for meetups, avoiding the need for high-speed dashes between locations to evade law enforcement. He’d crunched numbers, and with investors, his dream of a “slide park” might be possible. A model existed near Detroit, he said. Back at North Mississippi Regional Park, my wife’s Subaru was the only car left.
Not a scratch. Or so I thought then.
Aftermath: Arrests, Impound, and the Bigger Picture
Weeks after our night ride, E’s Hellcat was repaired. He took me and a photographer to Energy Park to demonstrate its full capabilities. Power sliding in a Hellcat with nearly 800 horsepower to the rear wheels, with an expert driver like E, was a visceral experience. The high-pitched tire squeal, the acrid burnt rubber smell, the raw force of physics – it ended with an involuntary giggle. “Never gets old,” E grinned.
As darkness fell, after confirming no meetup was scheduled, we left. Hours later, E was arrested near the same spot by a Ramsey County sheriff’s deputy for reckless driving. His phone was seized, he was booked and released, and his license suspended.
Talking to him later, it was clear a multi-jurisdictional crackdown was underway. More friends were arrested. A week later, his Hellcat was impounded as evidence of “destruction of public property.”
E sounded dejected, recounting his legal troubles. He felt unfairly targeted, persecuted for crimes he hadn’t committed. “It’s weird,” he said. “That’s the stereotype now: sliders are ghetto Black gangbangers in Dodges.” He insisted no one intends to hurt anyone, and police were overreacting with property damage charges. “How are they giving me felony damage to property for leaving burnout marks on the street?” he asked. “You really think locking up more sliders is gonna prevent gang violence?”
While MPD and State Patrol were evasive about tactics, Hennepin County Sheriff Dave “Hutch” Hutchinson, elected on a platform of transparency and equity, was more forthcoming. His deputies were collecting license plate numbers, urging county attorneys to prosecute to the fullest extent. “Because it’s not just drag racing anymore,” he said. “There’s violence.” He cited the deaths of Enger and Jensen. “I’m a car guy,” he stated. “And a lot of my friends have nice cars, and we don’t do that; we don’t take over streets and drive like jerks.”
His most intriguing comment came when asked about the responsibility of manufacturers of these high-powered cars.
“It’s a private industry; they can sell whatever they want,” he said. “But in my opinion, these companies should put on some rallies. I mean, they got enough money [for] insurance premiums if something happens.”
I suggested sliding could become the new skateboarding – once seen as a menace, now embraced with skate parks in every suburb. “Maybe [for] the good ones that don’t carry guns and shoot people,” Hutch replied. “I’m open to ideas if we can stop people from getting hurt and killed, but again, you’re as good as the company you keep.”
Sliding is undeniably louder and more disruptive than skateboarding, happening at night, carrying an inherent danger that skateboarding doesn’t. But is charging E with a felony for tire marks an overreaction?
Minnesota’s Office of Traffic Safety (OTS) reported a projected 27% increase in traffic fatalities for 2021, with the pandemic contributing to a surge in reckless driving. But how many are linked to sliding or drag racing? OTS data suggests street racing fatalities are underreported, with seven in 2020 compared to two in 2019. Speed, it seems, is the real danger, pervasive on freeways at all hours. Are you more likely to be harmed at a slideshow or by a speeding commuter on your way home from one?
Reckless Speed and Existential Urgency
Perhaps I was still processing the trauma of my car accident, and my amateur statistical analysis – we are all amateur epidemiologists now – was a flimsy attempt to rationalize the events of that midsummer night. Maybe the constant speeding between meetups simply caught up with me in a statistically predictable way. Maybe it was just the odds. I think about E, about speed, and the universal urgency of young men, always rushing, so focused on arriving that they overlook what they stand to lose, or worse, what they could cost others. The sun was rising, my wife wasn’t answering her phone, and her Subaru was totaled in the city impound lot. I decided to walk the final mile home.
Originally published in the October 2021 issue.
