Somewhere...
Mark sighed, the plight of paperwork still with him even in spite of his role. In a non-descript office, even in spite of the Scotsman's distinct features he would go amiss and out of place. The paperwork was boring, but a necessity to write up the events of what had happened in Mexico, or rather, what hadn't. Most of the report immediately got black lines through it, a good 70% of it, in fact. Most would ask what the fuck happened, but hey, the black lines were indicative. You didn't ask questions of Mark Torridon's methods, they just worked with the last stamp at the end. Sitting up, Mark saw his phone buzz, as he swiped it to accept. The voice on the other end spoke slow but assured, the Scot listening and replying in turn.
"Yeah, we got her on board. She's good, trust me. Oh yeah, we're meeting soon. We have plenty to catch up on."
--
Somewhere in Geneva, Switzerland
Zoe giggled as she flipped her phone to her own perspective, starting a livestream to her account, aware it was time to put on a little bit of a show, the show that her growing following would tune into and want to see an insight into.
"So, we're here at my pad, and well...." Zoe began, turning her perspective, revealing a large pile of equipment behind her in duffel sacks and bags, giggling as she fell back onto her bed, the heavily French-accented Swiss girl almost glowing, looking like she'd explode from positivity, on camera at the least.
"We have this big pile of goodies to go load up! And you think it was easy being an extreme athlete, with all this gear to lug, honestly?" Zoe added, clearing her throat as the white-wooly sweater wearing blonde took a moment to prepare the rest of what was dawdling on her mind, turning the camera back to herself.
"So, me and this other crazy, like, totally crazy girl called Val Calderon are going out into the Aigulles du Mont Blanc, onto some seriously steep lines...She's the only other girl I trust to bring on board, and me and her are gonna collab, like, it's gonna just be the Zoe and Val show up there...aaaaand the Snowglobe Festival is on too in Courchavel, so you bet we're gonna make a....how would you call it, a "drop in" apperance there too!? We're gonna have to load all that stuff in the van when Val comes, and, it, is, gonna be super! Don't go anywhere, stay tuned, allez!" Zoe let go of her button, the live stream ending as she sighed, looking across.
"One fucking day, I'm gonna get a social media manager. Putain..."
--
Somewhere outside Funchal, Madeira, Portgal
0600
Hugo's body was in agony, screaming, yelling, hurling on the bicycle, the Portuguese racer in full lycra and donning a grey-coloured cycle helmet, hardly the epitome of looking good while wokring out. The pissing rain in the early morning sweltered past his cheeks, the winding and twisty tarmac road brutal and unforgiving to cycle up. The carbon fibred, dark grey Boardman racing bike and the pedals his shoe-covered feet wrapped into were light, but the agony of pushing hard on a mountain road without a more mechanical means of propulsion was killing him. Cardio training for F1 and motorsport in general was not something many people saw, and it was solitary on the road, with no support vehicle today to come after him, given Hugo was behind due to delays in the flights out to here. Madeira felt it was Portugal and so sort of like home, but the mountain he was on here felt remote, distant to him. Cursing loudly, Hugo knew this training would pay off to make sure his body would survive all the way through his rookie season. This was how you became better, stronger, more enduring, just like how his team-mate was training too to surive the pressures involved. And the Instagram post at the end when he got to the top of the pass was half a motiviation, perhaps.
--
Los Angeles, California
1900
The grey container opened with a firm pull, Max whistling as he saw the beauty herself back on display, the snow-white coloured Nissan Skyline GTR (R33) sitting there in all her glory, the Brit unlocking the car with a gentle tap as he stepped inside the narrow, tight cotnainer. Pulling some of the straps off that had ratcheted the vehicle down, he barely managed to get through the 1-foot space that was left around the car's sides, the car moving about a little even within that in its tied-down environment. With all straps pulled loose and left inside the cotainer, he barely managed to get the door open wide enough to get his hand on the gear and the handbrake, pulling them loose and slowly, and exceptionally carefully, pushing the car forwards. With enough momentum, the car finally rolled a little further out, enough for him to pull the door shut and then push the car all the way out.
Half-sticking out, Max barely slipped by, and clambered inside, breathing a long sigh of relief. Key in the ignition, he pulled it taught and turned the metal-encased plastic, the loud and uncivil roar of a six-cylinder turbocharged masterpiece echoing inside the container where the back end stuck out, as he chuckled in how shitty and reckless he was. This thing ran alright, and she was mighty fine. Phone in its hands-free magnetic mount, he keyed the directions to Magnus's, to Nordic California, out in the east side of the city. This was gonna be one hell of an evening of real, proper, mythological street racing. Nothing like back home. This was what he had come all this way, imported his car for, and turned up to with no friends. Real shit. Putting it into first, he put his foot down and with a four-wheel drift, was already leaving the Port of Los Angeles, very, very rapidly. The car's audio was hooked up to his phone via a makeshift AUX-bluetooth FM transmitter, and his phone already had his songs loaded, an important taste to him. And with the windows rolled down, he turned it up...
------
Going already 90 on the Freeway was a hell of a blast, windows down, the sunset behind in his rear view as Max took the turn off on the intersection, coming down the ramp and slowing up, the sound of Mura Masa a pitch-perfect soundtrack to this adventure. The R33's four-wheel drift was a symphony, as he straightened up, blasting again and keeping it lively, dodging the late afternoon traffic and keeping fast.
The R33 was a mean machine, despite being older, it handled like an absolute dream and the grip and pace was in equal measures wonderful, the fact he had it here probably a rarity for the US given their draconian rules on import vehicles. While it wouldn't have the raw power of the muscle cars, nor the absolute handling destruction a modern supercar would offer, it was a real driver's car, and felt absolutely joyous to drive, the Brit behind the wheel in total confidence to speed even in spite of being here for only his second time in his life. The community had told him shit was lax here in this part of town- and damn, so far, it seemed just like it so far.
Pulling up to the Nordic Tuning California warehouse, it was filled with plenty of stret racers, everything from tuned Civics to supercars such as Lamborginis and McLarens, and of course, plenty of Porsches. The parking lot outside the warehouse was enormous, and despite usually being a quarter full with business anyway, Nordic was the place to be for street racers to meet on an evening like this, a start point for shit that came straight from the movies themselves. The R33 in first, Max put it into an empty parking bay and cut the power, exhaling for a good moment, taking it in and just giving himself a moment to consider just where the fuck he was now. In sweltering evening heat, and this, this was all real. He took a pair of SunGod sunglasses and placed them on his forehead, as he clambered out of the R33, in search of the Magnus he'd met prior and the racers he'd been in contact with, who had an offer he just couldn't turn down.
Mark sighed, the plight of paperwork still with him even in spite of his role. In a non-descript office, even in spite of the Scotsman's distinct features he would go amiss and out of place. The paperwork was boring, but a necessity to write up the events of what had happened in Mexico, or rather, what hadn't. Most of the report immediately got black lines through it, a good 70% of it, in fact. Most would ask what the fuck happened, but hey, the black lines were indicative. You didn't ask questions of Mark Torridon's methods, they just worked with the last stamp at the end. Sitting up, Mark saw his phone buzz, as he swiped it to accept. The voice on the other end spoke slow but assured, the Scot listening and replying in turn.
"Yeah, we got her on board. She's good, trust me. Oh yeah, we're meeting soon. We have plenty to catch up on."
--
Somewhere in Geneva, Switzerland
Zoe giggled as she flipped her phone to her own perspective, starting a livestream to her account, aware it was time to put on a little bit of a show, the show that her growing following would tune into and want to see an insight into.
"So, we're here at my pad, and well...." Zoe began, turning her perspective, revealing a large pile of equipment behind her in duffel sacks and bags, giggling as she fell back onto her bed, the heavily French-accented Swiss girl almost glowing, looking like she'd explode from positivity, on camera at the least.
"We have this big pile of goodies to go load up! And you think it was easy being an extreme athlete, with all this gear to lug, honestly?" Zoe added, clearing her throat as the white-wooly sweater wearing blonde took a moment to prepare the rest of what was dawdling on her mind, turning the camera back to herself.
"So, me and this other crazy, like, totally crazy girl called Val Calderon are going out into the Aigulles du Mont Blanc, onto some seriously steep lines...She's the only other girl I trust to bring on board, and me and her are gonna collab, like, it's gonna just be the Zoe and Val show up there...aaaaand the Snowglobe Festival is on too in Courchavel, so you bet we're gonna make a....how would you call it, a "drop in" apperance there too!? We're gonna have to load all that stuff in the van when Val comes, and, it, is, gonna be super! Don't go anywhere, stay tuned, allez!" Zoe let go of her button, the live stream ending as she sighed, looking across.
"One fucking day, I'm gonna get a social media manager. Putain..."
--
Somewhere outside Funchal, Madeira, Portgal
0600
Hugo's body was in agony, screaming, yelling, hurling on the bicycle, the Portuguese racer in full lycra and donning a grey-coloured cycle helmet, hardly the epitome of looking good while wokring out. The pissing rain in the early morning sweltered past his cheeks, the winding and twisty tarmac road brutal and unforgiving to cycle up. The carbon fibred, dark grey Boardman racing bike and the pedals his shoe-covered feet wrapped into were light, but the agony of pushing hard on a mountain road without a more mechanical means of propulsion was killing him. Cardio training for F1 and motorsport in general was not something many people saw, and it was solitary on the road, with no support vehicle today to come after him, given Hugo was behind due to delays in the flights out to here. Madeira felt it was Portugal and so sort of like home, but the mountain he was on here felt remote, distant to him. Cursing loudly, Hugo knew this training would pay off to make sure his body would survive all the way through his rookie season. This was how you became better, stronger, more enduring, just like how his team-mate was training too to surive the pressures involved. And the Instagram post at the end when he got to the top of the pass was half a motiviation, perhaps.
--
Los Angeles, California
1900
The grey container opened with a firm pull, Max whistling as he saw the beauty herself back on display, the snow-white coloured Nissan Skyline GTR (R33) sitting there in all her glory, the Brit unlocking the car with a gentle tap as he stepped inside the narrow, tight cotnainer. Pulling some of the straps off that had ratcheted the vehicle down, he barely managed to get through the 1-foot space that was left around the car's sides, the car moving about a little even within that in its tied-down environment. With all straps pulled loose and left inside the cotainer, he barely managed to get the door open wide enough to get his hand on the gear and the handbrake, pulling them loose and slowly, and exceptionally carefully, pushing the car forwards. With enough momentum, the car finally rolled a little further out, enough for him to pull the door shut and then push the car all the way out.
Half-sticking out, Max barely slipped by, and clambered inside, breathing a long sigh of relief. Key in the ignition, he pulled it taught and turned the metal-encased plastic, the loud and uncivil roar of a six-cylinder turbocharged masterpiece echoing inside the container where the back end stuck out, as he chuckled in how shitty and reckless he was. This thing ran alright, and she was mighty fine. Phone in its hands-free magnetic mount, he keyed the directions to Magnus's, to Nordic California, out in the east side of the city. This was gonna be one hell of an evening of real, proper, mythological street racing. Nothing like back home. This was what he had come all this way, imported his car for, and turned up to with no friends. Real shit. Putting it into first, he put his foot down and with a four-wheel drift, was already leaving the Port of Los Angeles, very, very rapidly. The car's audio was hooked up to his phone via a makeshift AUX-bluetooth FM transmitter, and his phone already had his songs loaded, an important taste to him. And with the windows rolled down, he turned it up...
------
Burning Rubber Three
Part One: The Heat
Going already 90 on the Freeway was a hell of a blast, windows down, the sunset behind in his rear view as Max took the turn off on the intersection, coming down the ramp and slowing up, the sound of Mura Masa a pitch-perfect soundtrack to this adventure. The R33's four-wheel drift was a symphony, as he straightened up, blasting again and keeping it lively, dodging the late afternoon traffic and keeping fast.
The R33 was a mean machine, despite being older, it handled like an absolute dream and the grip and pace was in equal measures wonderful, the fact he had it here probably a rarity for the US given their draconian rules on import vehicles. While it wouldn't have the raw power of the muscle cars, nor the absolute handling destruction a modern supercar would offer, it was a real driver's car, and felt absolutely joyous to drive, the Brit behind the wheel in total confidence to speed even in spite of being here for only his second time in his life. The community had told him shit was lax here in this part of town- and damn, so far, it seemed just like it so far.
Pulling up to the Nordic Tuning California warehouse, it was filled with plenty of stret racers, everything from tuned Civics to supercars such as Lamborginis and McLarens, and of course, plenty of Porsches. The parking lot outside the warehouse was enormous, and despite usually being a quarter full with business anyway, Nordic was the place to be for street racers to meet on an evening like this, a start point for shit that came straight from the movies themselves. The R33 in first, Max put it into an empty parking bay and cut the power, exhaling for a good moment, taking it in and just giving himself a moment to consider just where the fuck he was now. In sweltering evening heat, and this, this was all real. He took a pair of SunGod sunglasses and placed them on his forehead, as he clambered out of the R33, in search of the Magnus he'd met prior and the racers he'd been in contact with, who had an offer he just couldn't turn down.
