Yet Another Race Story! A Story in 30 Parts

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Rykon Zero

Rykon Zero

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RykonZero
Chapter one

Bark! Bark! Bark!

Oh for god’s sakes.

And so begins another lifeless day. I’m David Jackson. I will be accompanying you on this dull existential meltdown, I thought to myself, as I trudged down to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard. “Where are they?”
Aha! I found my rather irritatingly small amount of Froot Loops. Milk. On cereal. And, eat. I took my cereal to the table.

Bark! Bark! Barkbarkbark!

I took joy in knowing that my Neighbor’s dog was out in the gloomy Seattle rain. That damn thing barks more than is physically possible for a dog that size. I put my head in my hands as I walked to the window.

"SHUT UP!" It didn't stop barking.

After hitting my hip on the table, I realized that I hadn’t taken a wee all this morning, which further ruined my day. I got out of my chair, and headed to the bathroom. I thought, ‘I forgot to take a piss? I’m in a worse state of affairs than I thought.’ After I had done my business, I looked at myself in the mirror. 23, working at a bank, with a collection of about $10,000. I don’t look too bad, but I wouldn’t be the first to get a date. Part Asian. Part European. All Washingtonian.

I walked back to my bowl of food, which had gone soggy. Yesterday, on the way home, I had picked out a used car magazine. I’ve wanted to get a car for ages, but never really got on to it. As I took a huge bite of the fruity stuff in my bowl, I picked up the mag and opened the cover. I flipped through it, looking for a good deal. It was unlikely for me to find anything here. Rice. Rice. Redneck mobile. Rice, Rice. Oh, hello, what’s this? My eyes fell upon a dark blue box shape. Upon further examination, it was a Toyota MR-2, with a supercharger, apparently. “84 model. $7,124? Wow. I looked for the location of this car. Bellevue? That’s not far away, I can bike that far. I made a note of the location. I went back to the book, and flipped through the rest of the pages. This looks promising. A Suzuki Cappuccino. Someone had imported it into America. Nice, but only 63 HP. Next one was an unmolested Honda Civic. It was fine, except for the Honda badge. I saw other cars, but that MR-2 stuck with me. I went back to the page, and got the address.

I finished my cereal, half dreaming about that MR-2. I was absolutely smitten with owning my first car. And it was a Sports car, too! I put the dishes in the washer, happy to see the rain leaving. I grabbed a coat, and got out my cell phone. I called a taxi service, and the dispatcher sent me a taxi. I gave him the directions, and we left. the rain had completely stopped now, and I hadn't a care in the world. As we were going past a light, I saw an ad. “Gran Turismo championship qualifying, the 15th!” Three days from now. I want to go, for some reason.

When we got there, the sun was shining. A beam of light landed on the car for sale. I was amazed. It looked even better up close! Staring at it the whole way, I knocked on the door to the house. An old man appeared.

“Hello?” he said.

“Uh, hello. I read in a paper that your car is for sale.”

“Oh! Yes. Are you going to buy it?”

“Yes, I am.”
We walked over to the car.

“Do you accept checks?” I said.
“Yes.” This was quickly becoming my dream day. I wrote him the check, and he gave me the keys.

“Take good care of her. She’s been good to me.”
I got in the car, and was thrilled.

“She needs an oil change, but that’s it. On with you.” I started up the car, and heard an engine that wanted to be exercised. I waved bye to the man. He had an odd smile on his face. I pumped the throttle. Not bad. Not bad at all. It only had about 130 HP, but it only weighed, like, 5 ounces. I looked around on the road. I remember from my childhood, my dad would take me to a really windy road, and drive around. It was the best time of my life. Now, I shall re-live that feeling. I turned on to the familiar road. I knew how it goes, and drove. This car is incredible! It is an excellent turner! I felt the corners melt under me. When I finally got home, my heart was racing. I own that feeling now! I had stopped at a diner on the way home, for precious nutrients. It had gone dark, and I needed sleep. I headed to bed, where I knew that the feeling would last. The feeling of owning a car, and that the car was awesome. And boy was I wrong about this morning.​
How is it?
 
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A good start Stig., and definitely not a Useless/Spam post!! :P
The first paragraph has a distinctly Douglas Adams / HHGTTG feel to it! :lol:
Keep it up! 👍
 
Yeah nice start. I hate those yippy dogs, too. :mad:

Where did you manage to find an '81 MR2, tho? They didn't start making them till '84 :confused: never mind...

looking forward to next chapter.
 
Chapter 2

Bark! Bark! Bark!

Oddly enough, this time I was glad to hear the dog wake me up at 6:30. I opened my eyes, let them adjust to the new light, and sat up. My room was ordinary. White walls, posters of supermodels, posters of supercars, and posters of supermodels on supercars. I flung my legs out of bed, taking time to sniff my fuzzy blanket. Standing up, I looked outside. Amazingly, a beautiful day outside. I got dressed, ate my cereal, and ran outside.

There she was.

My ‘84 MR-2 sat gleaming in the new sunlight, wet from the dew. And of all things, the idiot dog next door was barking at it. not at a bird next to it, or a tree, the car. Now, I knjow this was wrong, but I just had to. Hopping into the car, I turned on the engine. That got it angry.
Barkbarkbarkbarkbark! Then, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, I revved the engine. The dog fell off the fence in absolute shock. Laughing in joy, I saw the check oil light on. Oh well, can’t be that hard. I found the hood opener thingy and pulled it. It made a little pop sound. I got out, ran around, and got my first glance at the engine. It was all shiny. I wound the dipstick, pulled it out, and found what must have been dog vomit in the oil. Nasty. I figured that I couldn’t change the oil, because I didn’t have a jack. It was Thursday, so my friend was working at the store. I decided to drive down.

I wanted to be careful driving the car, but it was just too awesome to step on the throttle. After a few minutes of driving, down to the auto parts store, I pulled into the back, and saw my friend, Jason with a few bottles of antifreeze.

“Hey! Big shot! What’s happening!” He said.
“Oh, not much, just needed an oil change.”
“On your new car, no less. Boy, she’s a looker.”
“Yeah. Can you help me with this?”

I went into the garage, and got out a jack. I wheeled it out, as Jason got a few bottles of oil.

“Is this going to be enough?”
“Probably.”

I wheeled around to the back of the car, and propped it up. After about 10 minutes of poking around under the car with a spanner, I finally found what I thought to be the oil drain out.

“Jason! Get me an oil pan!”

He complied, carrying a 5 gallon oil pan. I set it where I was sitting, and unscrewed the cap. A small trickle flowed out from the cap. Oil. Or, more likely, what happens when you don’t change oil in a car for 24 years. Good god. This oil was so foul, I threw up in the oil pan and it looked exactly the same. After violently disposing of the nasty oil, I popped the hood and Searched for another 5 minutes, finally finding the cap, which was 3 inches wide and said OIL in big block letters.

“Jason! Oil!”

And then after 4 gallons of oil, I realized that I needed to screw the valve back in. After doing so, I got the oil in the car, successfully. I closed all caps, and the hood.

“Hey, David, you still owe me for the drinks a few days ago. $100 should cover it. ”
“You slimy little arse nugget. You never forget, do you?”
And after giving him 100 dollars, I was off, in search of the fabled “Driving Park” That I heard was around here.​

End of chapter 2. If not fully satisfied, please return unused portion for a full refund.
 
its ''minor'' details like that that make the story ;) im thinking of having a go myself, i have the best part of an idea already and i got a C in english at school lol
 
Wow there are a lot of ad links to his story. Is is simply because he has a lot of writing or is it because as more people link to here, more gets ad-ed

Parnelli Bone
He threw up in the oil pan! :lol: that ROCKS!
Click to expand...

But it looked the same... opaque oil? w/ little chucks of cereal and globby milk?
 
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Chapter 3: The beginning.

Well, yesterday, the neighbors went on vacation, so I had to use an alarm clock. Oh well. All’s good. I got a new ECU chip for my car, and I installed it after I came home. Now, today, I have a little meeting to go to. You may remember it, it’s the recruiting leagues of the Gran Turismo race series. I figure I’ll just check it out for the heck of it. I heard there is no fee for entrance, so I’ll go. First, morning ritual. Eat, get dressed, go out side, and admire my car. I got out my laptop from the garage, and plugged it in. I had gotten a little manual to tell me how to tune the ECU. I managed to get 5 more HP from the engine by tweaking the fuel injection timing and ignition. I was proud, and felt good, I may have gotten 150 Hp out of this MR-2’s tiny little motor. I locked my house’s doors and closed the garage. I hopped into my car to hear a slightly different noise from the engine, a happy engine, an engine that was proud to be loved in such a way. It felt like it was ready to race. It felt like it wanted in the Gran Turismo Race Series.

Oh no. A windy road. I need to back off a bit, I thought to myself, snickering, as a Ricerboy in a Honda Civic with 300 Lbs of body kits on lurched it’s way beside my car. Through the Bass of a techno song, I could have sworn I heard him say “Wanna race?” I just had to humiliate him. I pulsed the throttle. He pulsed back. Or, he may have needed to restart his engine. We set off, him with a head start, because he had put NAWZZ in his car. I saw the fire come out of his exhaust, followed by the bang of a rebelling Honda destroying one of it’s own cylinders, leaving what the owner thought was 11 cylinders left. I slowly moved ahead at half throttle, while smoke was pouring out of the exhaust like the West Indian Pot Smoking Team. As I pulled up beside him, while he thought he had the upperhand, foot to the floor, I shouted at him, “Do you know how to shift out of second gear?” I put my throttle open, and shot like a bullet into the sunrise. The rest of the trip to the middle of Seattle was rather boring, except for opening the taps a little when in the open. I remember the flyer saying that the Track was under the Alaska Way Viaduct, so that’s where I headed.

Seeing hundreds of tiny cars was an amusing experience, as I checked in to the main office, located in a semi trailer.
“Hello, I’m David Jackson, I’m here to sign in to the races.”
“Hello, sir, May I ask you what you’re driving?”
“I am driving an ’84 Toyota MR-2”
“Okay, you are going to be in heat number 273. Here’s a small booklet that tells you everything to know about these races. If you have any further questions, feel free to ask me.”
“Thank you sir!”

I was flipping through the booklet reading on the information. I’m going to be racing against 6 people in a race. At the end of the races, the 6 fastest time posters will be selected and be given sponsorships by major companies here, including Pirelli, Goodyear, AIM, and Autobacs. Cool. That would be cool. Oh! Here! Each top 6 person gets 1,000 dollars, and the fastest all together will be given 5,000. Not bad. The winners of the individual races will get $500. That would be nice.

I got a little schedule for the heats, and mine was near last. That meant near dark. Oh well. I went to one of the GT mechanics, and asked him to tune my car. “Sure.” He dialed in some new timing settings, and said I was ready to go. I spent a little time jogging around, waiting for my turn. I saw the times posted, and the current best. No way I’ll be able to beat those. So, after heat 272, I got in my helmet and in my car. I pulled into the little markings for the cars. Of course, I was going to be in the back. I looked at the other cars. Not much, just Hondas, and Toyotas. Well, I do have a Toyota myself. Muahahah.

The little light on the tree turned red. I turned on my engine. There’s only 3 laps, so I got to make things count. The lights turned yellow, so I revved my engine. Ooh, that felt good. That was a nice feeling. And then, GREEN! I dropped the clutch, I felt the supercharger spool, and I left the competition at the lights. The first corner was a right hand hairpin. I accidentally let the rear slide, and I saw the nearest Honda Integra get bigger in the mirror. I can’t let that happen again. I sped up, and got to the second corner, a left hand corner, first. I kept the car steady, and the MR2 flew out of that corner. The straight up ahead was uphill in the hilliest road in Seattle. My car left the ground on each level out. I got to the next corner, and left the cars in my rearview. After a few gentle turns, and another corner into a parking lot, through a sort of U-turn thing, I was in the lead by 5 seconds. I made it up to the next right turn up to the pitlane chicane, where I nearly grazed the walls.

The second lap was more of the same, but I let the Honda catch up. It was just one second behind me by the time I crossed the line again to the third lap. But at the hairpin, I felt an awakening. I could see the corner apexes. I felt the car bounce as the suspension vibrate. I could feel every pebble in the road. This must have been what Buddha felt. The lap went by so fast. It did in fact. By the time I crossed the finish line, that Honda was an entire sector behind me. When I pulled into the pits, All the crews looked at me funny.

“What? What time did I post?”
“You… you… you posted the fastest time so far, beating the previous person by over 3 seconds!”
“No. No! No way! I beat the fastest person here?”
“Yes!”

I watched the rest of the races, but none came even close to my time. The realization that I’m getting $6,500 hit as the last heat finished, with about 10 seconds behind me. I was in absolute disbelief. The intercom system came up. “Can I have the top 6 times please come to the podiums.” As I walked over to them, I saw the biggest trophy I’ve ever seen. I got on the number 1 podium, and had the whole crowd cheer me on. I couldn’t hear the announcer, I was in such a rush. After the 2nd placer got their check and trophy, the man there handed me my trophy and my check for $6,500 dollars. I was in such bliss, I barely felt as I got sprayed on by more champagne than it was possible to drink, I got called to the trailer. I got a towel with the GT symbol on it, and dried myself off.

“Hello sir. Are you still feeling victorious?”
“Yes sir! What did you want me for?”
“Well, you’ve gotten a sponsorship.”
“From who?
“belive it or not, Polyphony digital. The guys who run the GT series. They want you to go to the Sunday Cup, to be a competitor. There won’t be as much money as today, but we wanted to give you a little bit of headway for modifications.”
“Where is the Sunday cup?”
“It’s at many tracks, but PD will give you tickets to go where ever you want.”
I got a special Polyphony Digital pass that entitled me to go where I want..
“Keep the towel.”

I managed to get out of the parking lot without killing too many orphans. On the trip home, I kept getting surprised to look at the passenger’s seat, where the badge laid, on the towel. When I finally got home, I got into bed, thinking what just happened. I fell asleep wondering if I still needed my bank job…​

If anyone is offended by any section in this story, it's your own problem and you can just sod off.
 
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Stig.
I slowly moved ahead at half throttle, while smoke was pouring out of the exhaust like the West Indian Pot Smoking Team.
Click to expand...


:lol:

If anyone is offended by any section in this story, it's your own problem and you can just sod off.
Click to expand...

Oh i'm sooo offended! :lol:

Hey, i'm trying to figure out what race is 3 laps and pays $6,500? :confused: At first i thought you were doing a Family cup race, but those are 2 laps at $500.
 
Parnelli, it was sort of like the intro to Gran turismo, it's not actually in the game.


Chapter 4: A new world opened.

Ah. This is better. I just used my $6500 on upgrading my car. I bought a new suspension kit to help with the suspension rolling, I cleaned out the engine, and I bought a flywheel and clutch. I haven’t yet told my bank I quit yet, in case I need to have a fall back. Oh well. I am now here in a town famous for it’s Autumn Ring track. The race I’m entering is in a day, so I have that time to practice on racing. I brought Jason along with me, because he’s a good mechanic, and I like to have a friend nearby.

“Man, this rocks! I get to watch you race!” he said. I drove up to the gates, and paid 5 dollars to putt around the “Mini” track. That was the track I’d be racing. I went through the pits to find the garage I’d been assigned. “Incredible!” I said as I pulled into the open garage. Lining all the walls were powertools, and other shiny trinkets I couldn’t be bothered to name. I had a lamp made from Honda Integra headlights hanging from the ceiling, And dozens of pictures of people who had this garage.

I had a truck follow us here, that carried all our stuff. He offloaded the assorted objects, including a muffler that I found on the ground after my little encounter with Captain Rice Crispies, A white Simpson racing helmet, a white jump suit, assorted produce, and an AK-47. As I stepped out into the beautiful sunrise over a placed who’s name I have managed to forget in 5 minutes, I looked out over the track. It was beautiful. I couldn’t help but go out for a drive. As I got my keys, I went over to Jason. He had managed to sneak a small book of, that I initially thought was Manga, had discovered was something very similar, but you wouldn’t see young teens reading in public. Ah.

“Did you have to order that in straight from Japan?”
“Uh, yes.” He said as he frantically pulled a blanket over himself.
“Do you want come with me out onto the track?”
“Uh, sure.”

I closed my driver side door, and turned on the engine. The singing of the supercharger belt was music to my ears, although Jason thought it was a loose fanbelt. The idiot.

I pulled out onto the miniscule track and went around it. First corner was a near hairpin turn. I went to the outside edge, turned in, hit the shining apex, and sped out, all while Jason was yelling his head off like a small Japanese schoolgirl. Next corner up was a left hand turn, slightly sharper than 45 degrees, and flew out to a shallow right hand corner, hitting the apex perfectly. Next, a right hand corner, and sliding quite badly onto the dirt. Followed by a right hand corner, another , and another in such quick succection that it was easy to just lock the wheel, and take the corners like a fluffy corner. Next was a set of 2 left handers that I took smoothy, although Jason, now screaming like a small Japanese schoolgirl being raped violently by flying space Carebears, seemed to think that this was one of the most horrible things ever to have graced the land. I don’t need a tachometer, he starts screaming at 7000 revs. Now, approaching the final straight, I turned right, and right again, flying past the pit lane to the horror of my terrible co-pilot, and onto the main straight, posting a time of 49.742. I can do better.

Repeating my trials, With Jason becoming less like a 13 year old girl with eyes the size of lemons, and polygonal, and more like a grown man, with eyes no larger than olives, I managed to post a time of just over 45 seconds. We returned to the pits for a bite to eat, and looked into the parts manuals that I just bought. I got the suspension manual. After reading for about 10 minutes, I decided to dial in a little extra camber. Jason on the other hand, seemed to be staring at one page in the clutch manual, and reading backwards. I'll just let you think that over...

The characters in this story are completely fictional. Any likenesses to real people are completely coincidental. If anyone reminds you of yourself, go away and bite the wax tadpole.
 
Wow, It’s been a long time. Might as well post up a new section to my story. Let’s see if I’ve improved.

Chapter 5: Ricer’s revenge! (Yeah, as if.)


Bark! Bark! Bark!

Oh, good. The dog’s he…

Wait. Where am I? This sure as hell isn’t my house…
Ah, yes. That’s what happens to my mind when mostly asleep. Here’s the correct sound effect.
Vvvvvrrrrrmmmm psh vvvvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm psh…

Dialing into the correct state of mind, I woke up and got into my slippers. Somehow feeling like it’s been ages, I get up and search for the bathroom.

Ah.
Walking down to my pit garage, I gazed over to my MR2. The angular shape somehow reminded me that I had no cereal. I walked over to the port-a-potties and had a re-cap of what I was doing here. I had won a major race back in Seattle, and I won a by-invitation only race entry to this little track in the middle of (Insert state name here) by the town of I’m Sure You Should Go Away. That’s an interesting name, but it’s quite ironic, especially when talking about the town. Finishing my business, I walked back to my pit garage, walking by my friend laying on my couch, curled up with a book called “Sanity; how to retain it when your best friend who owns an MR2 drives you around at exceedingly fast rates of speed” By Ray Von. Hm. Never really thought he was that scared of my driving. I should do it more often.

I hopped into my car soon after putting some proper clothing on, ending my Arthur Dent style robe arrangement. I turned on the engine, and drove out on the road to town. Noting the ticket for my race, heat 124, which puts me racing in mid afternoon, I drive out the front gates, noticing a Honda Integra with a driver that looked suspiciously familiar driving to the pits. Hm. Interesting. I kept driving to the store despite the orphans on the road, and arriving in a now red MR2.

Suddenly waking up, I suddenly realized that I nearly hit a ravine. I added coffee to my shopping list. The Store, as it was suitably called, was filled with things that you expect in a store, like food, and groceries. Seeing as this is called The Store, I bought, in addition to my Captain Crunch and Seattle’s Best coffee, I bought a bottle of new car smell, seeing as my car had now taken on an odor similar to spinal fluid, A new computer that was mysteriously overpowered with four GHz of processing speed, and a medium sized Suzuki Cappuccino. Taking advantage of a special sale going on, I got a blue 747 at 99.9% off and several thousands of gallons of jet fuel of which to carry around my cars and a few military officials. Noting the rather high towing capacity of my MR2, I went back to the track to hopefully surprise Jason with a new present. The Cap. Not the 747. He gets airsick.

Arriving back from the airport, seeing as my plane doesn’t fit in the pit garage, I drove into the pits along with my cereal. Eating my cereal, I got a whiff of a familiar scent of a small Honda’s engine rebelling again, eating one of it’s cylinders, and running with what the owner thinks is now 10 cylinders. Jason, now waking up in the rafters, suddenly decided to scream.

“What is this!?” He screamed.
“Other than the obvious admission of Sparta, I’m not entire certain.”
“How did I get up here?!”
“I put you up there, obviously. Oh, by the way, I got you a new car, it’s in my 747.”
“…”
“What?”
“When did you get a 747?”
“When I got the Cappuccino.”
“I’ll assume that’s the car you got me, so where did you get the car?”
“At The Store, obviously.”
“Which store?”
“The Store.”
“Which one?!”
“That’s the store’s name, The Store.”
“Wha…”
“Yeah, I know. Come down here and get some cereal.”

After reading his completely puzzled expression, I decided to look at the other cars in the pit garages. Rice, retarded, retarded, rice, retarded, Honda, Honda, retarded, Honda and retarded, redneck mobile, and evidently a custom ricer Honda retarded redneck mobile. Hmm. I’ve seen better. In a scrap yard. Oh. There’s that Integra. Honda. I kept wa… Wait. I smelled that same familiar smell from this morning, and with a sudden realization, I found the Ricer boy. He was putting an extra wing on the hood of his Civic. Seeing as I had an innate sense for cars, I could hear it screaming for help. I decided to heed it’s request and told it I would buy it soon. Noting a feeling of Déjà vu, I saw that my bank account went up 100,000 Cr.. Strange. But nice. Nearing the end of this filler chapter, I looked out onto the heat number. 122. It’s nearly time for me to go racing. But this chapter is long enough and my back is hurting from typing. Here is where it shall end.

If a part of this chapter hurt your feelings, and you want a formal apology, I’m sorry, that action is currently unavailable at this time. Please don’t try again later. Sod off. Again.
 
I'm loving this!

"and evidently a custom ricer Honda retarded redneck mobile. Hmm. I’ve seen better. In a scrap yard."

:lol:👍
 
It's my story style.

Actually, I should probably work on the next chapter. I'll pull out my old computer because this one isn't good for typing.
 
It's been a while, and I felt I really should write a little, to make sure my skillz don't get rough over the summer, and since I had been playing GT4 quite a lot, I thought this would be a nice revival, especially since I wanted to do this for a while.

Chapter 6: Gritty Reboot AND A PICTURES HOLY BALLS
​

"Ow, damn!"

"Woah, are you okay? You hit your head, hard! I'm pretty sure you were out cold for a minute or two!"

Where the hell am I? Kansas? Wait, who am I? Oh, that's right. David Jackson, friendly neighborhood sp- no, wait, that's not right. Ah! I'm a racer! That's what I'm here for, at Autumn ring! Man, that was one hell of a bump, I feel like I lost a year or two of my life. Wink wink.

"Hey, what'd I miss?" I asked my friend, Jason.

"You better get ready to go, it's heat 123 right now. They're calling drivers from heat 124 now. That includes you," he replied wiping off a spark plug. I assume it's from his Straight Espresso, considering the horrible quality the engine was in when I bought it for him.

"CrapcrapcrapCRAP!"

As I ran over to my MR2, I almost fell down on an oil slick. Noting its similarities in consistency and color to vomit, I swore at Jason, and reminded myself of why I don't let him change the oil in my car, and also of how I was knocked out in the first place.

Opened the door of the MR2 and hopped in. A familiar smell wafted into my nose. Oil, gasoline, lighter fluid, children's remains and tire smoke. Now, I'm in the mood for some racing. Started the engine, Listened to the 4A-GE rev and the super charger whine. Now I'm in the mood for some winning. Just in time too, a race advisor dude person walked into the garage and up to my window.

"David Johnson, heat 124?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Heat 123 just finished, and we're going to have you do a warm up lap first, to get your tires warm. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES GO ABOVE 31 MILES AN HOUR. DOING SO IS A CRIME PUNISHABLE BY AT LEAST 25 YEARS IN PRISON OR THE DEATH SENTENCE."

"But I live in Washington, there is no death sentence there."

"THERE IS NOW."

"Err..."

'FOR QUESTIONING MY IMPECCABLE LOGIC YOU WILL BE SENT INTO THE PITS OF HELL TO DO BATTLE WITH DARK LORD CTHULHU TAKE UP THE BACK. HAVE A NICE DAY. PULL OUT INTO THE PITS. OF HELL"

Don't you just hate days like this? Aaaanyway, did as he asked, and pulled out into the pit lane. There were five cars starting to pull out, and I joined the line. A person at a sign post flipped a number, and heat 124 officially started.

I was kind of worried, actually. All of these cars out class me in some way. Directly in front of me, there's a Mazda 6, with "concept" written on it's license plate holder. In front of that, is a heavily tuned Ford Focus, in front of that, an MG TF, I guess my rival for this race, what with mid-engined and such. Wow, that made sense. In front of the MG is a Pontiac Sunfire, also with concept written on it. What sort of idiot brings a one off million dollar car that can't be repaired or replaced to a race with cars so cheap I'm fairly certain no one cares what happens to them? Well, I guess it's helpful that cars can't actually get dama-AAAAAAAAHHH LA LA LA CAN'T HEAR YOU

Oh. Sorry about that. Anyway, in front, leading the pack, is the most god-awful ugly car I have ever seen roll out of a factory, an Alfa-Romeo 166. Wait, this is America. Why are there so many foreign cars? Actually, now that I think about it, who makes these rac-AAAAAAAAHHHHH

Oh, hey, last corner. After this, I guess I start racing. This is kind of unfair, the first car gets going before anyone else, but I'll survive. What ever. Finally, I cross the start line. Gun the throttle, and let the engine do the work. Turns out those engine mods I gave this car didn't do that much. The car feels faster, but it's kind of for naught in the face of 200+ horsepower the competitors are pumping out. The first corner's coming up, a sharp right hander, and the Mazda6 brakes way too early. I pull up right beside him, on the corner inside. Not only do I have the better position, but my car's lighter, so at the corner exit, I pull way ahead of him. The next prey is the Ford Focus. On the second corner, he pulls a little too wide, and With the left side almost touching the dirt, I pass the Focus. Next up, the MG. I'm doing such a fine job of slaughtering the rest of the opponents, I really should back off, but this is a short sprint race, and I need to get to first as soon as possible. Cutting the corner again, I pass by the MG on the next corner's rumble strip. The next car, the Sunfire, actually blocks me for two turns. Even though I had the inside, the distance was just too great, and by the next corner, I'm on the outside. But I am not a man who gives up that easily. I push the tires as hard as they will go, and I pass the Sunfire on the outside, thanks to some tuning I had done. There was an immense amount of momentum (ALLITERATION WOO) from the overtake, so much in fact, I swing by the Alfa on the inside, being careful not to look at it in the rear view mirror, should I have the bad luck to throw up in my clean car. I hereby dub this maneuver:

"Slingshot Overtake"

And I pull out to the home stretch. I hear the crowd cheering (Wait, the stands are filled. Did 5,000 people really some to watch a bunch of people drive around a tiny little track? These people need a life.) and I see camera flashes. I'm not really sure why, maybe it's because of the amount of giant-slaying I did. (Spoiler. It is.) My car only has about 150 hp, so on the home stretch, the Alfa actually overtakes me for a second. We're neck and neck by the end, and if there is a single person in the world with enough balls to win a late-braking battle with me, they don't drive an Alfa. Pull into the inside, accelerate out of the corner a damn sight faster than the Alfa can ever hope. Oh god, just took a peek at it, good thing it was only a glimpse, otherwise I'd be out of the runnings.

I am just so ridiculously fast, I don't even need to bother to brake. I just slide the rear end out and hope that slows me down enough to get me around the corner in a fun and still faster than Alfa McBeaverface manner. (Spoiler. It does.) I pull out into the straight again, and cross the line a few seconds faster than anyone else. I'd normally be very proud, but these drivers just suck. I mean, man, they suck worse than a Thai hook- actually, not going to finish that analogy. It's probably better not to.

My parade lap is nice, I'm happy, but nothing really important. I mean, seriously. Those driver suck. Worse than Jason, and I call him B-Spec Bob. And he can't keep a car going straight if it killed him. Well, I do actually admire one aspect of him, he can drive better on crappy tires. Tha-STOP GOING OFF ON TANGENT KTHXBAI

And now I can finally pull into the pits. I drive up to the garage, and Jason's there with a smile on his face, clapping, holding a bottle of sparkling cider. Well, I am driving to the hotel after all, the garage only has housing on race day. I pull in, turn off the engine, and get out.

"Well."

"Well," I retorted.

"You set the lap record for this track. First Seattle, now here."

"They must not have very many good drivers here."

"Bolshevik. Tons of world class drivers got their start here. Not only were you the fastest here, you were the fastest by a full second, not counting the other record."

Other record? What does that mean? Did someone post a really fast time like me?

"What other record?"

"Heat 96, there was a lap record set, fastest anyone had ever seen. Until you, but you barely beat it, by one tenth of a second."

"Why didn't I hear about it?"

"You only came back after about heat 110. Then you gave me a car, and I kind of forgot about it."

"Whatever. Was it done by one of those weird people who come back to these races with a ridiculous car for no reason?"

"Those aren't counted. This was done by a bright yellow Honda Integra (J)."

Honda... Integra? Could it be...?

"Um... Hey... is David Johnson here?" A weak, childish voice came from the garage entrance. I looked over and saw a young boy, about 12 or thirteen, with a really big camera.

"I'm here. Why do you ask?"

"I took a photo of your car, and I wanted to know if you could... Um... Sign it?"

He gave me a small photo. On it was the unmistakable image of my MR2, during the struggle I had at the end of the first lap. It looks like I was in a nice battle. I thought it was a really good photo, so I obliged. I quickly jotted down my signature, and handed the picture back to the boy.

"You're a talented photographer, you should really keep it up."

"Wow, thanks! I've always wanted to be a photographer, but my father wanted me to get a more stable form of work. I know he's thinking about me, but I really live pictures."

"Well, you can always look at me. I was a banker until a while ago. Sure, it payed good, but I hated every minute of it. I was born a racer, and while my job now relies on me winning races, I can't say I'd like to do anything more. I say enjoy your life while it's here."

"I'll take that to heart, thanks mister!"

"Oh, by the way, that was my first official race, could you send me a copy of that picture?"

"I have a second copy right here, I accidentally pressed the shutter button twice. You can have it!"

"Thanks! It's a great memento."

The young boy ran off, leaving the picture in my hand.

IMG0000-2.jpg


Then in walked Satanspawn.

"Congratulations on the race. Since you got first place, you get this gold GT symbol for your license, this trophy, and $500."

"500?! For breaking the all time lap record for novices?!"

"We don't give monetary prizes for lap records."

"This sucks. Hard."

Nice. Oh well. The demon walked out again, and I was staring at what I got. A gold GT symbol, a trophy, and 5 $100 bills. I put the bills into my pocket, the GT symbol on my keychain, and the trophy in the trunk of the Cappuccino.

"So, Dinner's on you, Dave?"

"Don't call me Dave, and how about we race on it. I win, you pay, You lose, you pay. How about that?"

"That sounds goo-wait. No, you little jerk!"

"Race starts now!"

I hopped in my car, turned it on, and sped out, with Jason close in tow. We left for a restaraunt that night, to celebrate my first victory, and for many to come.

Any complaints about the chapter should be forwarded to the president himself.
 
Great to see this story revived. When I saw that there were new posts in this section I got excited for a bit, thinking someone actually replied to my story. It's getting kinda lonely for me...:(
 
Thank you for the kind words, I'll be sure to return them.

Fast update, because I'm bored, and I couldn't help but think of this story.

Chapter 7: Refuge in Audacity​

"Calm down!"

"I AM CALM!!"

I threw a beer bottle across the room.

"That wall over there says otherwise!"

I was angry. Very angry. They had stolen from me. I had done so much, they had not recognized it.

"Look, I know! I know! I completely understand! You set track records at every single course you drove! I know that! But you need to calm down. just calm down, and we'll talk about it."

I started to control my breathing, swallowed some saliva, and sat down on the hotel chair.

"Okay, okay," said Jason, gesturing with his hands. "I'm sorry to say it, but these races don't aknowledge lap records. The people whp fund the beginner races don't have a lot of money, and they can barely break even giving $500 to the winners of each heat. I knwo it'd be nice if they set aside about a thousand for the serious record breaking, but it's not to be."

"Every. Single. Track."

"Yes, I know. But let's discuss the problem you REALLY care about, but I want you to remain calm the whole time, or I'll stop. Got that?"

"Yeah, I got it. You're a good friend, Jason."

"Thanks. So, let's get to it. You're supreme champion of the Sunday Cup, no doubt about it. But your prize..."

"A FREAKING HONDA LIFE STEP VAN?!"

"CALM DOWN."

"Okay, sorry."

I took another sip of my beer. Some how, some way, the beer I threw across the room had landed back in my hand, and turned into a Coke. That's fine, caffene helps me relax for some reason, and my blood pressure is through the roof.

"So," I started again, "my prize car, despite beating everyone so badly, is a Honda Life Step Van."

"Yes, that is your prize. This is the first time you've said it without flying into a rage."

"This is the first time a Budweiser has turned into a Coca-Cola."

"Touche. So, tell me your issues with your new van."

"My lawn mover has more power than it, and that is not an exaggeration. It's tiny, front wheel drive, and it can't hit highway speeds without bouncing on the rev limiter."

"Now, some good points."

"It looks cute, I guess, like a shrunk old Transit, it's probably fun around corners, and it's very good on fuel."

"Not to mention, we can now put stuff in it to haul around, like sleeping bags and tents, if we can't get a hotel. Have you warmed up to it yet?"

"Yeah, I guess. Mind if I give it a nickname?"

"Sure. It's your car, you get to deal with it however you want."

I walked outside to where the cars were parked. Jason had left his Cappuccino at the airport, in the 747, and had opted to drive the Life Step Van to hopefully get me to like it. I walked up to the little van, poured a little water on its roof, stood back and said:

"Life Step Van, I now dub thee: 'Boite de Merde.' May your little pistons fire forever."

I started to walk back, but noticed Jason laughing on the second floor balcony. It was obvious he heard what I had said, but I didn't think he would find that so funny.

"Imaginitve with your names, aren't you?"

"Enough of that, we need to talk about racing now."

We walked back to the hotel room, number 221, and sat down in our former positions with a drink in our hands.

"So."

"So," I retorted.

"We have a problem here. In the beginner events, there are only two races your MR2 can enter. The Sunday Cup, and the MR Races. You've already done and beaten the Sunday Cup, but there's a problem. I've seen a few videos about the MR Races, and judging by the guys who show up there regularly, you don't stand a snowball's chance in hell."

"You have that little confidence in me? I'm the man-"

"Yeah, who set the records, blah blah blah. That doesn't matter. Unless the other drivers can't use rational thought, you can't hope to win against NSXs and newer, faster MR2s."

"Err, yeah, I guess you have a point."

The outlook seemed pretty bleak, and I felt that maybe, I had quit the day job a bit too early.

"But I have some very good news for you."

I perked up immediately. Jason's not the person that would instill false hope.

"Outside of the GT races, there are these "Special Condition Events" that the GT Association holds. They're one on one races, usually by some ex-rally driver, on dirt courses."

"But I don't have dirt tires, and they cost a fortune, which I don't have. Plus, the MR2 oversteers on pavement as is."

"I didn't finish. Quite a few of those races are tarmac courses, and the only requirement is an A license, and I'm pretty sure you already got one. Plus, I've heard the races are hard, but pay good, and you've been dying for a challenge this whole time."

This was very, very good news. I actually wanted to be a rally driver when I was younger, and this will be good practice for when I need those rally races under my belt too.

"So, what's your course of action? Any track you think would be good?"

"There's this one, called Costa di Amalfi. The track is narrow, but there's quite a few places to overtake. The other courses are a little unfriendly to my eyes, so I thought we should go there first. Plus, word through the grapevine, the prize car you get is really, really spiffy."

"Costa di Amalfi, eh? You studied Italian back in high school, didn't you?"

"Admittedly, not that great."

"Well, how about you start brushing up on it? I'll ready the passports."

=======

Two days later

=======

"Have I told you I love the Mediterranean?" Jason asked, wearing his sun glasses and a tropical shirt.

"You've mentioned it briefly," I said, with my much more reigned in style. Sun glasses, blue t-shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals.

"Well, we're finally here. I love what a GT badge can get you. A damn near free flight and some pretty good food."

"You're forgetting, I bought the plane."

We were lounging at a bistro right on the coast. Our cars, the Cappuccino, and the MR2, had been cleaned up for this occasion, and right now, we were relaxing, because there was a race tomorrow, and I needed to be in tip top shape for it. I took a sip of my Coke, which had been a pina colada until I turned away briefly, and gazed out on to the water.

IMG0001-2.jpg


Soon after, I heard the unmistakably sound of a modified exhaust, and a red hatchback pulled up next to our cars. To the average person, the man driving would have been called a ricer, for how his car looked; rather blocky and garish, and very unattractive. But I knew better. I am a car person through and through, and that car, is a legend.

"Lancia Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione, if I am not mistaken," said Jason right before me.

"Yeah, and it's got a proper exhaust. This man has respect for this car."

We sat in wonder, at this marvel of automotive achievement. An Italian homologlation car, it was used in rallies against the great Audi Quattro, and it was my favorite car growing up. The man driving it, a damn good looking man too, looked around a bit, saw us, then started to walk toward us.

"Oh great, here we go again. Let's hope we haven't done anything." Jason was a bit of a coward.

"Johnson? David Johnson?" The man spoke with a deep voice and a slight Italian accent.

"At present."

"Ah, Mr. Johnson. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Andrea Vespucci." He shook my hand with a firm grip.

"Please, call me David. You have a wonderful car there. Lancia Delta Integrale, right? It was my favorite car growing up."

"Very good eyes! She is my pride and joy, I take care of her like a family member."

"It's nice to know it's in good hands. So, did you have any business with me?"

"Something like that. I just wanted to meet my opponent for tomorrow."

Opponent? Does that mean...

"I need to properly reintroduce myself. Andrea Vespucci, retired WRC racer, veteran GT racer. I hope we have a very good race tomorrow."

He smiled and walked back to his car. Jason and I were awe struck. This man was my opponent? Not only is the Integrale much faster than my poor MR2, I could tell right now, Andrea Vespucci was also a good driver. I might not even stand a chance here.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you. Better prepare."

Next update will be the next race. Hope you're looking forward to it.
 

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