It was the dead of night, around 4 AM, when I received the news that my wife’s Subaru was a mangled mess on a Northeast Minneapolis street. Just hours before, I had parked it in North Mississippi Regional Park. The night had started with a Friday night “slideshow”—a gathering of cars and crowds, promptly dispersed by Minneapolis police with stern warnings over a bullhorn. My guide for the night was E, a 23-year-old considered an alpha figure in the city’s clandestine car scene. “Leave your car, it’ll be fine,” he’d texted, as I joined him in his white 2015 Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT, a vehicle that belies its soccer-mom aesthetic with a sub-10-second sprint to 100 mph.
For over six hours, I was immersed in E’s world, witnessing young men, barely out of their teens, hanging out of Dodge Chargers and Ford Mustangs, performing donuts and figure eights in vacant parking lots. The air was thick with hot, grey tire smoke, enveloping the hundred or so teenage onlookers who had gathered from north Minneapolis to Eagan.
Above us, a State Patrol helicopter was a constant presence, tracking our every move. Each time flashing police lights appeared, the crowd scattered in a dozen directions, law enforcement giving only half-hearted pursuit. Then, another address would appear on E’s phone, relayed from the anonymous “admins” orchestrating these impromptu events, and we’d be off to another location to repeat the spectacle.
My knuckles, white from gripping my digital recorder, seemed permanently bleached as E pushed his speedometer to its limits. 90 mph in the Lowry Hill Tunnel, 95 on Energy Park Drive, and a terrifying 140 mph as we approached the University Avenue exit on 280. After surviving this adrenaline-fueled ride, E dropped me back at North Mississippi Regional Park at 4 AM. And there it was – my wife’s Subaru. A parking ticket tucked under the wiper blade had never been such a welcome sight.
Driving home, my relief was shattered. A driver, ignoring a red light and speeding at an estimated 60 mph on Broadway, T-boned my car. It was the slow-motion moment you see in movies – headlights in my peripheral vision, time stretching, and then, violent, sudden impact. The crash was deafening. Airbags deployed. His car careened across Broadway as my wife’s Subaru, with me inside, spun in the opposite direction. Stumbling out of the wreckage, I heard wailing from across the intersection. We met in the middle of the street, embracing, both overwhelmed to be alive. “I thought I killed you! I couldn’t stop!” he sobbed. He collapsed by the sidewalk, clutching his groin. A shirtless bystander, drawn by the chaos, called 911. Police arrived, took statements, and arranged tow trucks for his Chrysler 200 and my utterly destroyed Subaru.
What had just happened? Was it a bizarre, inevitable consequence of a night spent chasing the thrill of Street Racing Cars?
The Enduring Allure of Street Racing Cars and Youth Culture
The combination of cars and teenagers has always been volatile, a cultural touchstone for generations. Almost everyone has family stories of youthful indiscretions involving speed and cars – cruising down main streets, drag racing on empty stretches of highway in classic muscle cars, the very vehicles celebrated in Beach Boys anthems: Chevy 409s, Plymouth Road Runners, Pontiac GTOs. Young people pushing the limits of their cars is not a new phenomenon. Even “sliding”—the modern, social media-fueled iteration where supercharged engines spin tires and send cars drifting—is just a rebranded version of “spinning donuts” or “whipping shitties” in empty parking lots, activities familiar to many from their own youth.
While the act itself isn’t new, the modern “sliding” culture coalesced in 1990s Oakland, California. It was distinct: a car culture driven by Black youth, with its own style of dress, dance, and driving. Unlike other car subcultures originating in California, from hot rods to biker gangs, this was something new and different. Now, fueled by the Fast and Furious franchise, car-centric video games, and countless social media posts, drifting and sliding have gone mainstream. None of this explosion would be possible without the multi-billion dollar muscle car industry in Detroit, providing the supercharged engines that power this latest iteration of youth 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 significantly amplified the slideshow phenomenon. For teenagers, cars have always symbolized freedom, but in 2020, they became the only escape. Public health advice even suggested cars as safe havens during lockdown, recommending rolled-down windows and interactions limited to vehicles. With lockdowns in place and streets empty, what else was there for bored teens to do on a Friday night? This wasn’t just a local trend. From Atlanta to Rio de Janeiro, reports surfaced of slideshows – impromptu gatherings where hundreds of teenagers watched drivers perform dangerous maneuvers in muscle cars. Local social media groups organizing these late-night burnouts, like Instagram’s @kingofthelots and @mn_takeover, saw attendance explode from 50 to 100, and then to 300 cars.
City streets have always been the proving ground for drivers. More streets, more obstacles, more cars, more drivers—the city naturally breeds better drivers. The fastest cars and most skilled drivers have always been in urban centers, attracting suburban youth eager to test themselves against the best. During the summer of 2020, suburban teenagers flocked to the city every weekend to witness the spectacle of the best sliders. However, in the summer of 2021, as the meets escalated, things began to take a darker turn.
Race and policing are unavoidable factors when examining the reaction to these street gatherings.
In May, a 20-year-old driver, Markques Anthony Floyd, with a suspended license, lost control while sliding at a downtown Minneapolis intersection. His Infiniti G35 jumped the curb, injuring a group of teenagers, one of whom, a 14-year-old boy, suffered a traumatic brain injury. Then, in June, two suburban teenagers were fatally shot during slideshow meetups on the same night, reportedly caught in gang crossfire: Nicholas Enger, 17, from Cambridge, watching sliders 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.”
Following that violent weekend, authorities began to pay serious attention to the sounds of roaring engines in the night. Both the Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) and the State Patrol acknowledged citizen concerns about “lawless behavior,” including property destruction and hostility towards law enforcement, but remained tight-lipped about their strategies. Media outlets began to focus 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 became increasingly common. The roar of engines and screech of tires, whether from a Target parking lot or behind an office tower, became a constant, irritating reminder of what many perceived as law enforcement losing control in a post-George Floyd city gripped by pandemic anxieties.
The only way to truly understand this phenomenon was to experience it firsthand, to get a ride with one of these drivers.
Meeting E: The Hellcat King
I met Elijah Grove, known as E, on the Fourth of July. He arrived in my driveway in his two-toned silver-and-black 2019 Dodge Charger Hellcat, a car that commands attention even when parked. “This is my first interview ever,” he admitted as I climbed into the passenger seat.
The Dodge Hellcat, manufactured in Detroit, is arguably the most powerful and accessible street racing platform in America. Celebrity endorsements, like Billie Eilish’s, add to its allure. While not cheap, it’s attainable in a way that more exotic sports cars aren’t. E, who works cleaning foreclosed houses and sells Musty Boyz T-shirts online, secured a $65,000 loan to purchase his Hellcat from a dealership in Red Wing. It offers unparalleled horsepower for the price, and the supercharged Hemi engine produces a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard from a car. As E accelerated down Stinson Boulevard, the 6.2-liter V8 sounded like it was gargling metal tools.
E was surprised I’d contacted him through Instagram DM, and equally surprised he’d responded, given the negative media coverage surrounding the meetups. “Everybody’s pretty skeptical of the media,” he explained. “Nobody’s been interviewed from the races—and I’m like, I don’t care; it’s my voice getting out.”
He grew up on St. Paul’s East Side and attended high school in Roseville. Athletic but never excelling in any particular sport, he drifted from baseball to football, even briefly trying cheerleading. His childhood passion was dirt bikes, and he’s always been drawn to cars. His father introduced him to car shows and drag races at University and Dale. E started drag racing at 16 with his first fast car, a supercharged Pontiac Grand Prix. But it was his cousin Renzo who introduced him to slideshows in June 2020. When Renzo tragically passed away from an embolism that August, E began sliding in his cousin’s memory, discovering a natural talent for it.
His rise in the scene was rapid. 2021 became his breakout summer with his Hellcat. He now wears his Hellcat key fob on an orange-and-black beaded necklace, a gift from a powwow, as a statement piece. His Instagram following is still growing, but a feature on @srt.hellcat, a major Hellcat page with 200,000 followers, and a recent win at a Chicago meetup have boosted his profile. Yes, there are trophies for sliding. “They didn’t even know we were sliding up here,” he said of the Chicago competition. His winning move involved sliding while hanging out the driver’s window, his passenger shifting gears. He dedicated the trophy to Renzo’s mother.
E emphasizes that his sliding is about more than just personal glory. He is expecting his third child and recently moved into a new apartment with his children’s mother. He is 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 also knows loss intimately; his father is currently incarcerated on drug charges and they speak daily. (Later, E connected me with his father, Jarvis Thomas. “I don’t know if this is a good thing to say,” Jarvis told me, “but I taught him to drive it like you stole it, to be in complete control of the car, 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, to dispel the negative stereotypes. “If you listen to the cops or read Minneapolis Crime Watch, they try to make us seem to be bad people,” he said. “But actually come to one of these things, and you’ll see kids from the ghetto, you’ll see kids from the suburbs—you’ll see every different ethnicity in there.”
Inside a Slideshow: A Night of Speed and Smoke
The night of the slideshow, a video surfaced of a Charger doing donuts in front of the Winston Smith memorial in Uptown, a passenger firing a handgun into the air. The clip, broadcast on local news, amplified already heightened anxieties about slideshows and guaranteed increased police presence that night.
When I met E at North Mississippi Regional Park, he wasn’t in the Hellcat. It was in the shop. Instead, he was driving a 2015 Jeep Cherokee SRT, a “Street and Racing Technology” vehicle with a nearly 500-horsepower V8, capable of 150 mph. Plenty of power, but its all-wheel-drive made sliding nearly impossible.
Leaving the park at the request of the MPD, E checked his phone. The coordinates for the night’s meetup were disseminated on Discord, a chat platform popular with gamers. Drivers awaited the next address from anonymous admins. Moments after leaving North Mississippi, a new location appeared: the parking lot of Summit Academy, just off Highway 55 in Northside.
It wasn’t yet midnight, but around 25 cars and 100 teenagers were already gathered, phones out, recording. The unofficial uniform was tight pants and baggy hoodies, often featuring Nike logos. E, surrounded by his crew in black Musty Boyz T-shirts, vape pen in hand, wore his Hellcat key necklace. The guys, mostly sporting nascent facial hair, outnumbered the girls significantly. The girls present wore hoop earrings, false eyelashes, and hot pants tighter than the boys’ jeans. Nike sneakers—Jordans and Air Force 1s—predominated, in black or white. Initially, the crowd was mostly white, but that would shift as the night progressed. The first three sliders were all Black. The second, a grey Chrysler 300, drew cheers and applause as it executed a figure eight around streetlight poles. Fireworks erupted, shimmering above the cars. White smoke, squealing tires, and fireworks—perfect Instagram fodder.
Inevitably, the police arrived. Lights flashed, bullhorns blared, ordering dispersal. The State Patrol helicopter circled above. Back in the Cherokee, E jumped the curb to escape. The AWD Cherokee seemed a strategic choice for evasion. He checked his phone; the admins directed everyone to Dinkytown.
Cat and Mouse: Evading the Law
After hitting 90 mph through the Lowry Tunnel, we arrived in Dinkytown in front of Frank and Andrea Pizza after 1 AM. E went in for a slice and a Coke. Outside, white teenagers called out, “Where’s the Hellcat?” He explained it was in the shop. E carried himself with confidence. These kids knew him, knew his car, even in its absence.
Cars from Summit Academy blocked traffic at each intersection, awaiting the sliders. E preferred parking lots, but street takeovers were more popular with the younger crowd—more dramatic for social media, more disruptive to the public. Just as the first car prepared to slide, campus police arrived, slowly advancing with bullhorns ordering dispersal. We retreated to the Cherokee, and within minutes were back on the freeway. Another address from the admins: a parking lot in Eagan.
By the time we reached the warehouse parking lot in Eagan, the crowd had swelled. Almost 40 cars, twice as many people. More marijuana was being smoked, the atmosphere more charged. The constant tire friction had heated the asphalt. Fireworks were bigger, louder. Some Black attendees 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 powerful SRT car, a step below the Hellcat. TJ warned E about the tires: “I have enough tire left to get around, but not much more to slide.” E scoffed, “Oh, c’mon, I take my tires down to wires every night!” He claimed to have gone through 13 sets that summer. TJ mentioned his tire guy might have something, even at 2:15 AM. “Let’s see if my tire plug calls me back.”
It was E’s turn. His crew piled into the Scat Pack – girls hanging out each side, TJ in the passenger seat. Too cramped for a 45-year-old reporter. Even to an untrained eye, E was clearly the most skilled slider that night. His turns were wider, sharper, more intricate, narrowly missing light poles. Other drivers seemed rushed, sloppy. E’s tire squeals had a different rhythm, a controlled intensity. When he finished, the crowd erupted in applause, as if for a matador.
Then, again, police – this time Eagan PD. Back in the Cherokee, we moved against the tide of fleeing teenagers, skirting the edge of the lot, escaping onto the freeway. It was 2:30 AM, the roads deserted. E floored it, Chicago rapper Lil Herb blasting from the speakers. This was his fastest run yet. We flew past other cars as if they were stationary.
Slowing down at the University Avenue exit, we saw two lines forming for drag racing on Energy Park Drive. Parking near an embankment, we were approached by two white teenagers from Hudson, Wisconsin, wearing Bass Pro Shops hats. “Where’s the Hellcat?” they asked, disappointed to hear it was in the shop. “We’re in Mom’s whip tonight,” they said, staring at their sneakers.
E suggested a race against Serenity and her orange Charger R/T, the only woman driver I’d seen that night. Drag racing was usually for pride, not money, E explained, though gambling did occur in dice games back in the parking lots. The race was anticlimactic. The flagger botched the start, and E easily beat Serenity’s Charger.
And then, predictably, the police. Energy Park was shut down. It was after 3 AM. The night was over. E seemed deflated on the drive back to my car. “We shouldn’t be chased that much,” he muttered, surprised by the police intensity. “The Northside is literally a war zone, and they’re chasing us?” He wished for a closer track than Brainerd, or a police-approved lot for meetups. He’d even considered the idea of a “slide park,” citing a Detroit model.
Back at North Mississippi Regional Park, my wife’s Subaru was the only car remaining. Unscathed.
The Crackdown and the Future of Street Racing Cars
Weeks later, E’s Hellcat was back from the shop. He demonstrated its capabilities for me and a photographer at Energy Park. Power sliding in a Hellcat, nearly 800 horsepower directed to the rear wheels, with E at the helm, was an unforgettable spectacle. The high-pitched tire squeal, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the raw display of gravitational force – it was exhilarating. “Never gets old,” E grinned.
As dusk fell, after assuring us no meetups were planned, we left. Hours later, E was arrested near Energy Park by a Ramsey County sheriff’s deputy for reckless driving. His phone was confiscated, he was booked, released, and his license suspended.
Talking to him later, a multi-jurisdictional crackdown was clearly underway. More of his 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, stereotyped. “It’s weird,” he said. “That’s the stereotype now: Sliders are ghetto Black gangbangers in the Dodges.” He insisted no one intended to hurt anyone, and the property damage charges seemed excessive. “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 their tactics, Hennepin County Sheriff Dave “Hutch” Hutchinson, elected on a platform of transparency, was more forthcoming. His deputies were collecting license plate numbers and seeking maximum prosecution. “Because it’s not just drag racing anymore,” he stated. “There’s violence.” He cited the deaths of Nicholas Enger and Vanessa Jensen. “I’m a car guy,” he added. “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 response came when asked about the responsibility of manufacturers of these powerful cars. “It’s a private industry; they can sell whatever they want,” he conceded. “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 follow skateboarding’s trajectory – from menace to mainstream, with skate parks becoming ubiquitous. “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. But is a felony charge for burning rubber an overreaction? The Minnesota Office of Traffic Safety (OTS) reported a projected 27% increase in traffic fatalities for 2021, partly attributed to pandemic-era reckless driving. Street racing fatalities, though underreported, rose from two in 2019 to seven in 2020. Speed, it seemed, was the real culprit, pervasive on freeways at all hours. Was one more likely to be harmed at a slideshow, or by a speeding commuter on the way home from one?
Reckless Speed and Existential Urgency
Perhaps my own car accident, following a night immersed in the world of street racing cars, was a form of delayed stress reaction, or simply a statistical inevitability. Maybe all that speeding between meetups had finally caught up with me. Or maybe it was just the ruthless odds. I thought about E, about speed, about the restless urgency of youth, the constant rush to get somewhere, anywhere, without considering the potential consequences, the immense cost to themselves and others. The sun was rising. My wife wasn’t answering her phone. Her Subaru was totaled. I decided to walk the final mile home.
Originally published in the October 2021 issue.
