- 5,398
- Buenos Aires
The following story is based on my first race report, a GT4 story by the name of Panorama 1992 as its latest update. The last chapter posted is the only one to be actual considered canon, but it's not necessary to read it. Of the rest of the story, some things may have remained the same, others changed, and it is recommended not to read the original story.
"End of the Road"
It was 1994 when we decided we wanted to take our lives in different directions. Long gone were the days of striving for professional racing. Upcoming children and growing families proved to be crucial in determining some of the boys' stance on the subject, when going fast was proving to be too dangerous for some and not enough fun for others. The votes were cast, and seven to three, that night we bid farewell to each other. Though I voted to continue, I only did it because we were going to lose anyway.
The intense rain caused our flight to be delayed, keeping us at the hotel. Because we wanted to spend as little as possible during our stay, even though we had said our final good-byes, we still had to share a room with another person. I will never forget that night. Not because of what happened later. Rather, because my roommate was Leonard Chase. And he was an interesting fellow indeed. With a no less important story to share. Which I didn't care to listen...
Me and the group had met Leo one week after we arrived in Japan. After visiting Suzuka, we traveled to Shimotsuma, Ibaraki, where we tried our hand at Tsukuba Circuit. Not long before we left to a nearby restaurant for lunch, Leo came to us asking for a wrench. Everyone and their mother made fun of him. Even myself. It turns out, though...
...the guy wasn't inexperienced at all. In fact, he made for a fine driver, and an excellent mechanic as well. We did gift him a spare wrench, after he made a bid for it. I suppose it wasn't fair for a group of 40 and 30 years old to laugh at a boy. An hour later, just as we were leaving the track, he walked up to me and said:
"You brake too early for the sweeper. If you waited a little bit and didn't lock up the brakes, you could shave some time there. I know because I was ,alomg the same mistake during my first laps." With the kind of expression that translates as "just who you are talking to?", everyone stared at him. This time there were no laughs. Only silence.
I was no idiot. I'd been driving, but most importantly, racing, for the past twenty years of my life. And I knew damn well the limits of my car and the limits of what I could do with it. Yet for some reason I thanked him for the tip, turned around, and left the track with my friends. The next day I woke up early and went to Tsukuba on my own, and against my common sense, I did as he said. Sure enough, I ended up in the sand trap outside of the sweeper. Twenty years later and I still can't explain why I didn't follow my intuition. Shortly afterwards I learnt betraying your intuition may be the best thing to do.
Leo was there at Tsukuba that evening. Because of his "help" the day before, and since everyone agreed with me, I asked him if he wanted to join us in our trip around Japan. Since we all spoke English, I assumed he would enjoy being in company with us. "Wrench", as some of the guys started calling him, told us he was from Australia, and that he had left his home two years ago. His car, the only thing that he kept with him during those two years, was something truly to behold.
A color that could only be described as taking out a portion of the night sky and slapping it into a, wouldn't you call it poetic: Skyline. Apparently, his neighbour had killed himself over some sort of tumor. The Skyline he was driving was an inheritance from that man. Or so he said: Leo was the last person given the permission to drive it. This isn't the story I talked about before.
On April 21st, Leo woke me up in the middle of the night. Sweating. He said he had heard a rumble coming from below the building. Specifically, and I remember it well: "The Ferrari is gone." I told him to go to sleep. And I've been kicking myself since then.
Because the F40 he made reference to wasn't ours. It wasn't anyone's actually. The car was Mr. Matsumoto, owner of the hotel we were staying on. We had seen him drive it around the building before. And I remember, of course, hearing one of my crew members talk about it:
"I will get on that car even if that's the last thing I do in Japan."
Forrest Abagnale wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box. And I wasn't any sharper when I answered "the only way you'll get on it is if you steal it."
I remember telling Leo, when he told us how he got his car: "You are driving a dead man's ride."
Well...
Now I'm carrying the burden of a dead man in my back, too.
End
Memories of Yore
"End of the Road"
It was 1994 when we decided we wanted to take our lives in different directions. Long gone were the days of striving for professional racing. Upcoming children and growing families proved to be crucial in determining some of the boys' stance on the subject, when going fast was proving to be too dangerous for some and not enough fun for others. The votes were cast, and seven to three, that night we bid farewell to each other. Though I voted to continue, I only did it because we were going to lose anyway.
The intense rain caused our flight to be delayed, keeping us at the hotel. Because we wanted to spend as little as possible during our stay, even though we had said our final good-byes, we still had to share a room with another person. I will never forget that night. Not because of what happened later. Rather, because my roommate was Leonard Chase. And he was an interesting fellow indeed. With a no less important story to share. Which I didn't care to listen...
Me and the group had met Leo one week after we arrived in Japan. After visiting Suzuka, we traveled to Shimotsuma, Ibaraki, where we tried our hand at Tsukuba Circuit. Not long before we left to a nearby restaurant for lunch, Leo came to us asking for a wrench. Everyone and their mother made fun of him. Even myself. It turns out, though...
...the guy wasn't inexperienced at all. In fact, he made for a fine driver, and an excellent mechanic as well. We did gift him a spare wrench, after he made a bid for it. I suppose it wasn't fair for a group of 40 and 30 years old to laugh at a boy. An hour later, just as we were leaving the track, he walked up to me and said:
"You brake too early for the sweeper. If you waited a little bit and didn't lock up the brakes, you could shave some time there. I know because I was ,alomg the same mistake during my first laps." With the kind of expression that translates as "just who you are talking to?", everyone stared at him. This time there were no laughs. Only silence.
I was no idiot. I'd been driving, but most importantly, racing, for the past twenty years of my life. And I knew damn well the limits of my car and the limits of what I could do with it. Yet for some reason I thanked him for the tip, turned around, and left the track with my friends. The next day I woke up early and went to Tsukuba on my own, and against my common sense, I did as he said. Sure enough, I ended up in the sand trap outside of the sweeper. Twenty years later and I still can't explain why I didn't follow my intuition. Shortly afterwards I learnt betraying your intuition may be the best thing to do.
Leo was there at Tsukuba that evening. Because of his "help" the day before, and since everyone agreed with me, I asked him if he wanted to join us in our trip around Japan. Since we all spoke English, I assumed he would enjoy being in company with us. "Wrench", as some of the guys started calling him, told us he was from Australia, and that he had left his home two years ago. His car, the only thing that he kept with him during those two years, was something truly to behold.
A color that could only be described as taking out a portion of the night sky and slapping it into a, wouldn't you call it poetic: Skyline. Apparently, his neighbour had killed himself over some sort of tumor. The Skyline he was driving was an inheritance from that man. Or so he said: Leo was the last person given the permission to drive it. This isn't the story I talked about before.
On April 21st, Leo woke me up in the middle of the night. Sweating. He said he had heard a rumble coming from below the building. Specifically, and I remember it well: "The Ferrari is gone." I told him to go to sleep. And I've been kicking myself since then.
Because the F40 he made reference to wasn't ours. It wasn't anyone's actually. The car was Mr. Matsumoto, owner of the hotel we were staying on. We had seen him drive it around the building before. And I remember, of course, hearing one of my crew members talk about it:
"I will get on that car even if that's the last thing I do in Japan."
Forrest Abagnale wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box. And I wasn't any sharper when I answered "the only way you'll get on it is if you steal it."
I remember telling Leo, when he told us how he got his car: "You are driving a dead man's ride."
Well...
Now I'm carrying the burden of a dead man in my back, too.
End