(NOTE: Ordinarily, this post would appear on my blog about life in Japan, Enter the Gaijin. However, due to some content that I've deemed unsuitable for parental consumption, I'll be posting it here instead. Please feel free to share this with other people in America who are not my immediate family. Please do NOT share it with anyone in Japan without asking me first.)
The year is 2006. In Israel, Prime Minister Ariel Sharon suffers a massive stroke, sending him into the permanent vegetative state in which he remains to this day. In the Pacific, an earthquake rocks Indonesia, killing more 6,000 and leaving over a million more homeless. In Germany, Italy wins its fourth World Cup after French star Zinedine Zidane bludgeons a chatty opponent with his expansive forehead.
And in America, millions of young men, ages 16-29, flock to multiplexes across the nation, drawn in by a little movie with big ideas about courage, friendship, and the inertia of hope.
I'm talking, of course, about The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.
Less a movie than a master course on philosophy in motion, Tokyo Drift swept through America with the devastating speed and precision of protagonist Sean Boswell in his climactic showdown against Tokyo's reigning Drift King, the Yakuza-connected Takashi. Almost overnight, drift-fever seized the nation, and an automotive lifestyle was born.
Actually, no, that didn't happen. But Tokyo Drift did gross $158M, and if you don't mind a movie set in Japan where everyone speaks perfect English, it's a pretty entertaining. I saw the movie on TV a couple of years ago, enjoyed it, and hadn't thought about it since.
Until last month. I was having a conversation over drinks with an acquaintance of mine, whose relationship to me will be left ambiguous for reasons that will become obvious soon enough. We were chatting about very ordinary matters when the topic of cars came up.
Now, this is a favorite subject of young men around the world, but one I've always felt a little out-of-place discussing. I've never owned a car and never really wanted one. To me, a car is a mode of transportation rather than a status symbol or a fetish object. I know basically nothing about car parts, car maintenance, car makers, car anything. During the few times I've ever found myself amongst gear-heads, I just try to be polite and not embarrass myself.
This passive method of non-conversation is especially easy in Japan because, well, even I did know something about cars, I probably wouldn't know how to say it in Japanese. So when my friend whipped out his smartphone to show me a picture of his ride, I nodded my head and gave a compulsory response. As I was preparing to change the subject, he said in English, "I practice drift."
Sufficed to say, that got my attention. "Uhh... Tokyo Drift?" I said.
The smile of recognition. "Drift is Japanese culture," he replied.
The rest of the conversation doesn't merit a blow-by-blow, but basically, what I gleaned was that he went drifting with his friends on the weekends. He didn't say too much more about it, and I didn't press him, but later we went back to his apartment, where we drank more beer and watched Japanese drift-racing videos with his wife while his four-month-old daughter slept in the other room.
At the end of the night, I drunkenly asked him whether it might be okay for me to come and watch him drift sometime. "Okay, okay," he said (Japanese people almost always say okay twice when they say it at all), and gave me his phone number.
Over the next month, I tried to follow-up on this offer as delicately as possible. Finally, on Saturday, I got a text in Japanese: "Tonight, I will go. Meet at my apartment at 11." It was on.
Needless to say, I was excited, curious, and a little nervous. Most of the things I get invited to by Japanese people are work- or community-related functions. Only on rare occasions am I invited to something of a more intimate, less public nature. And this was about as intimate as it gets, since, strictly speaking, what we were going to do wasn't exactly street legal.
Just before 11, I met him outside his house. Now, without revealing too much, let me say this about my friend: he's about the most-unassuming lawbreaker you can imagine. Quiet, well-groomed, and a devoted family man at a very young age, if someone told you he breaks the law on a weekly basis, you would probably guess that he downloads movies illegally on the internet. You would definitely NOT guess that he is involved in a street racing syndicate.
Unless you saw his car, in which case you might have some suspicions. Because, although you can't tell from the pictures, this ain't no normal car. First off, it's a shakotan, or Japanese low-rider. Second, the car itself is tricked out with all kinds of custom parts, the likes of which I can't even begin to describe. All I know is it has lights like a spaceship and an engine that roars like its launching from an aircraft carrier. Third, the entire back of the car is gutted, save for some rear-mounted speakers. Behind the two front seats, there's nothing but empty space, partially filled by spare tires, a tool kit, and other assorted car parts waiting to be unloaded. I didn't ask, but I have to assume this is to make the back unweighted so that the wheels will slide more easily.
When he came out of the house, he wasn't dressed in the trendy, fitted styles so popular amongst younger Japanese guys that I often see him in. Instead, he was wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit and a wool cap. We made a pit-stop at a convenience store so that he could buy cigarettes, and although I hadn't planned on it, I decided to buy some beer. There are no open container laws in Japan, even in cars, so long as the driver has had nothing to drink. And if I was going to be hanging with a bunch of cigarette-smoking, jumpsuit-wearing, drift-racing Japanese guys, I wasn't about to do it stone sober.
We headed to an undisclosed location outside of town, far away from any houses or people. We didn't talk much on the drive and the sound of Japanese hip-hop played over the car's growling engine. A couple of times on straightaways, he opened her up a little bit, and although I couldn't see the speed gauge I can confirm that his car goes very fast.
Finally, for the first time in 20 minutes, we saw the lights of another car, idling by the side of a mountain road. We pulled up beside the other vehicle and I saw there was a third just behind it. My friend rolled down the window and shouted across to the guy in the other car. Then, the other car peeled out and headed up the mountain with us following close behind.
Coming in, I really had no idea what to expect. When someone tells you that they "practice drift," and this is your only frame of reference, well, you try not to over-think it too much. And besides, I had only asked to watch, which I assumed meant drinking a beer and standing at a safe distance. As we lurched up the mountain and my friend floored the accelerator, it became clear very quickly that I would be doing more than just that.
Like most of things that adrenaline-junkies will do for a rush, the thrill of drifting is hard to describe. What does it feel like to ride a roller-coaster or jump out of an airplane? I've done both, but I'm not sure I can characterize either one in a meaningful way, beyond emphasizing that they are reallllllllllly fun. The difference with drifting is that the rush feels more authentic. Much of the appeal of a roller-coaster ride or a tandem skydive is the simulation of danger in a controlled environment. It feels like you could get hurt, but really, the risks are managed and minimal.
Drifting is different. I gripped the seat-belt with both hands as we came into the first turn. Presumably, they like this course for drifting not just because of its remoteness, but also because the mountain roads are banked wide at the turns to accommodate runaway trucks. Even so, the road is not particularly wide, and it has a drainage ditch on one side that is, well, to be avoided.
I didn't get to see the mechanics of how my friend controlled the car because my eyes were locked on the car in front of us, watching it carve a wide arc across both lanes as the tires squealed and smoked. Then, we entered the turn, and my friend hit the brake and cranked the wheel, throwing the car into a (barely) controlled slide mere feet from the guard rail.
Coming out of the first turn, I saw the car ahead of us going into the second, so I braced for the slide. And by braced for the slide, I mean screamed like a fucking girl and cursed my face off. If the noise bothered my friend, he didn't say so, although he may not hear much over the noise of the engine and screech of the tires.
And it's pretty evident that drifting requires all of his attention, anyway. Until last night, I never really thought of race-car drivers as athletes, but that's a position I'm reconsidering. As an athlete, I've been in the zone enough times to recognize it in someone else. At that moment, the car is as much an extension of his person as a tennis player's racquet or golfer's club.
After three turns, we slowed and came to a stop, although I probably continued screaming for a few seconds. Turning to me, my friend smiled and said, "Kono kanji, ne," which means something like "This feeling, isn't it?" It is.
On the way down, as the course bottomed-out in the final turn, my friend, without any kind of warning, threw the car into a full 180 degree turn, which was way more fun/terrifying than even the regular drift turns. After we came to a stop, he smiled at me and said, "Spin." You motherfucker.
For ten minutes, my friend and his friend ran the course up and down a few times, never hitting the the guard-rail but coming phenomenally close again and again. Then, we got out. The Japanese guys smoked cigarettes. I drank beer.
This patterned repeated itself a few times, with the drifters making frequent adjustments to their cars during the breaks, changing tires and fiddling with engines. As you can imagine, drifting is murder on tires. The back tires take the worst of it. The course was scoured with dozens of jet-black tire trails left by melted rubber. The tires themselves sprouted ribbons of rubber that had to be peeled away in between runs.
But, clearly, the cars themselves take a beating, too. My friend's car, although he obviously cares for it well, shows plenty of evidence of the abuse he puts it through. The front windshield has spidery cracks on one side. The passenger door is dimpled with divots and gouges which I didn't find terribly reassuring. And the back bumper is all kinds of beat to shit, cracked and broken and, in places, seemingly held together by some kind of industrial threading material. Certainly, there have been some crashes. Presumably, no one has gotten hurt. I didn't ask.
Although I referred to this as drift-racing, it's really more of a club. They aren't racing or competing against each other, just having a good time. After a couple of hours, another guy showed up. A little older than the rest, this guy seemed like he might the club's president, or Drift King, if you will. He even came with a girl to boot, a pretty Japanese chick swaddled in jackets and blankets against the freezing mountain wind.
Perhaps because he was with his girl, he had come just to hang out, not to drift. So together, I went with them up to what they called "Gallery Corner," an embankment set back from the first corner. From this vantage point, we watched the other guys drift, which allowed me to see two things: (1) The volume of smoke that comes off the tires during a drift turn, which probably looks like a forest fire at a distance; and (2) The sparks that fly from the fender and spray into the air, which seem like they might cause an ACTUAL forest fire.
I was standing at "Gallery Corner," watching my friend lead through the turn, when a huge POP rang out. The car trailing my friend immediately slowed up and turned around, limping back to the starting line on three tires. The Drift King and his girlfriend found this highly amusing. I assumed this would end the evening, especially since it was almost 2 AM, but these guys had spare tires and other ideas.
For awhile, we stood outside in the cold and talked. And by we, I mean they. I stood outside in the cold and listened. The girl climbed into the Drift King's car and huddled for warmth. Then, the Drift King decided it was time for a "lesson." Evidently the third guy, who, like me, had been riding shotgun despite having brought a shakotan of his own, was a novice drifter, and the night would end with a training session.
We drove to a nearby parking lot, where they set up a single illuminated cone for the aspiring drifter to practice on. The session started with the novice climbing into his car and driving around the cone a few times in tighter circles, building up speed. Then, he would throw the brake and try to drift his car around the turn, with varying success. After a few attempts, he would climb out and go over to the Drift King, who would give him notes.
Eventually, though, the Drift King must have tired of his padawan's feeble efforts, because he climbed into the driver's seat with the novice sitting shotgun. Then, without any prelude or build-up, he floored the accelerator, hit the brake, and expertly slid the car in a circle around the cone. But he didn't stop at one revolution. Without decelerating, he sent the car into a second revolution, a third, a fourth. After five full revolutions around the cone, he let the car drift to a stop. Both men climbed out, with the novice looking just a little queasy. You wanna learn from the Drift King, you better have a strong stomach.
After the lesson, and despite the freezing wind and sub-zero temperatures, they continued to talk for over an hour. About what, I have no idea, as all of my faculties were focused on keeping my body temperature up.
Finally, at just before 4 AM, it was time to go home. It seemed the Drift King's dutiful girlfriend, who had been sitting idly in his car for hours, had to get back to where she had come from. And no doubt my friend had to get back to his home before the sun--and his infant daughter--were up.
In Japan, it's traditional to give small gifts in exchange for kindness, or when you meet new people for the first time. I wanted to thank my friend, and his friends, the drifters, for letting me intrude on their ritual. Thinking ahead, I had brought some omiyage (souvenirs) to give out, in the form of Reese's Peanut Butter cups, sent to me by my uncle for Christmas and saved covetously for the right moment. Peanut butter is a rare commodity in Japan, and no Japanese candy mixes peanut butter and chocolate, so it truly is an alien taste to them. And yeah, it was maybe a little lame to give these guys candy like they're children on Halloween, but come on, who doesn't love Peanut Butter cups?
To each drifter, I gave a Peanut Butter cup, saving one for myself. "Oishii (delicious)," the drifters agreed, except for the Drift King, who--in a show of generosity reminiscent of long-lost chivalry--gave his to his girlfriend. Evidently, you don't get to be the King without making some sacrifices.
We rode home in silence, but as we pulled into his driveway, my friend turned to me. In Japanese, he asked me if I had enjoyed myself, and I said yes, indeed I had. Then, in English, he said, "Drift... it is so excite!"
Boy's got a way with words and no denying it.
