Japanese Drifting Culture

Before the drift race battle is to begin, each driver goes out for one last practice run. JR has to be a little nervous: solo runs in an away court with worst-possible conditions, while the world's best watch? Despite the pressure, he performs remarkably, slipping and sliding like a wet salamander. He comes in from his session and I ask him how it went.

"I feel good," JR responds. "The Falken RT615s are amazing in the wet. It's the first time I've driven them in rain this hard and they have amazing grip."

After days of onigiri rice balls from convenience stores, thanks to the hospitality of the Hot Version crew, we eat a real lunch for the first time on the trip. The rain starts to lighten up and the competition begins. It's JR's turn. As he drifts the course, I ask the Drift King what he thinks about the American drifter's skills.

"I've been a fan of the Mustang ever since I saw JR drifting one at D1 USA," states Keiichi-san. "In my opinion, JR is the best drifter in the U.S."

That's like Jordan declaring Kobe the next Jordan. But for the sake of JR's head being able to fit in his Falken helmet, let's keep Keiichi's last comment between you, the 2NR reader, and I. As for who won the tournament, you'll have to check out the Hot Version video. Eiichirou Yamada, Hot Version's deputy editor-in-chief, threatened to make sashimi out of my left pinkie if I revealed the winner. OK, not really. But he did kindly ask if I'd abstain, after treating us to Yakiniku barbeque the night before. I'm such a cheap whore.

Night 4
Tokyo, Japan
It's 2:10 a.m. on my last night in Japan, and I'm driving for my life. Five-hundred hp might be great on wide American roads, but on the narrow, crowded streets of Tokyo, not so much. It takes every ounce of concentration to keep the torquey rear wheels of the supercharged Ford from getting too sideways.

Of all the times I've been to Tokyo, I've never had the opportunity to drive. Wanted to, and believe me, I've tried, but no one was crazy enough to hand me the keys to their car. Except JR. And after a long, four-hour drive from Gifu, here I am, screaming through the streets of Tokyo, in of all things, a supercharged Mustang, with Kenta sitting shotgun. The translator's new responsibility for the evening? A Tokyo native, my human GPS.

Driving from our hotel in Roppongi Hills to the nightlife district of Shibuya, the meaning of the trip came to full light. Here I am, an Asian guy from the import scene who's never driven a Mustang, driving one for the first time in Japan. On the other hand there's JR, a White dude who's as American as they come, competing in the most Japanese of motorsports, here in its homeland. Talk about some weird Yellow-White yin-yang. And JR didn't come to Japan to defeat the greatest on their home court; this is a cross-cultural exchange-an international exhibition on par with a World's Fair . . . only more rubbery and with a whole lot more driving. Japan gave us Americans the gift of drifting and here we are bringing it back, but with a Yankee twist-and who better to exemplify that than JR?

"Watch out! There's a cop!" cries Kenta, pointing at an officer investigating the rumble of our burbling exhaust. "We need to get out of here-can't let him see the slash (temporary) plates!"

As if I needed an excuse. I hit the throttle and the supercharger whines to life. In half a heartbeat, I hit the 40kph speed limit. Two short murmurs later and I'm breaking all known international speed laws on a major Tokyo artery that would barely pass for a Manhattan alley. It sure beats running.

By Carter Jung

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