It's a warm July evening in Irwindale, CA, and Toyota Speedway is lit bright as day. It's Thursday and the thunder of revving V-8s blasting eighth-mile passes at the weekly Test and Tune session can be heard for miles around with the same intensity as it can be felt up close. I've been there many times before, watching tuned imports run side-by-side with these domestic rivals (and usually faster), but tonight I only catch a glimpse of it from the 605 freeway. Tonight I have more pressing engagements in Irwindale.
I roll a few miles past the legendary "House of Drift" to the parking lot of JRX Rotary, where in front of a huge bay door entrance stands Juni Asuncion, backlit by a mix of fluorescent lights and the intermittent sparks and welding flash of a shop that never sleeps. It's his place, at about 7:30 p.m., and he's only halfway through his work day.
Juni stands over six feet tall, with the athletic frame of a Major League pitcher. Eternally of a calm demeanor, he speaks with a confident voice, collected and concise with his words. He admittedly avoids the spotlight, and as an I.T. professional in a previous life, possesses far more broad-spectrum knowledge than he lets on. With sunglasses on and a cigarette lit, one might take him for a total badass if not for the fact that approachability and customer service are two of his strongest, hidden attributes. "Park wherever you can find a spot," he tells me, pausing his phone conversation to do so. "He should be bringing it around any minute." And then with a grin, "Walk up toward the street. I'll tell him to get on it."
No sooner do I get in position that I hear it. Approaching in the opposite direction of raspy four-cylinders and growling small blocks heading off to wage war at the strip, a coalescence of confused engine tenor fills the air. First, an exhaust note similar to that of a muffled, high-revving Ferrari V-6 grows in the distance. The unmistakable crack of pressurized air exiting a blow-off valve at throttle let-off cuts through it, followed by the rushing sound of boost building under a floored throttle as the beast nears-sonar evidence of turbocharging in the mix. Then, within sight if not for the white glare of HIDs, the scream of what sounds like a belt-driven supercharger straining to keep pace with five-digit rpm commands attention as a bright blue blur flies past at what seems like triple-digit speeds, its automotive symphony playing in reverse as it disappears from sight.
"There it goes," utters Juni with a casual nod.
"WTF was that thing?!" I shout across the parking lot. He just stays in his spot and lets out a laugh.
As I walk back to demand answers, the owner of a Lamborghini-blue FC RX-7-endlessly clean and slammed on flush-fitting, polished, 19-inch SSRs-parks his ride and wanders off to the adjacent body shop to chat with its crew. "That's Anderson, the owner," Juni tells me. My mind floods with a thousand questions for him: "Where do you live? What do you do for a living? How much friggin' money did you sink into this thing?!" Juni can sense it. "He's a cool cat, but it's probably best to let him do his thing," he says with another nod in Anderson's direction. "Come on, I'll tell you everything you need to know."