Life | 4/9/08

So I watched "Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift" last night for the first time since it was in theaters, and candidly, it stinks. It stunk then, it stinks now, and it will continue to stink in the future.

Then again, I've never seen "Redline," which looks like it might be worse, if only by a little. I don't know. Someone loan me a copy.

One weekend toward the end of January, my buddy and I drove out to Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia to watch one of his co-workers drift in competition. I had my own preconceived notions of drifting all fired up and ready to accompany us to the track, based entirely on what I had seen in "Tokyo Drift."

Strange thing is, drifting as I have experienced it is nothing like "Tokyo Drift." Apparently, neither is drifting in Tokyo, but that's another column.

Briefly, let's talk basics. Drifting all but requires a rear-wheel drive vehicle, an unlimited supply of tires and a skillful driver. The aim is to break the car's tail loose and let a combination of forward momentum and high-revving power propel it around the track with the rear wheels spinning and the front wheels steering.

When my buddy and I got there, the grassy lot beside the track was packed with Nissan 240SX's and Toyota AE86's. I noted a handful of Mazda RX7's and Miatas, and one '82 Supra reppin' the old school. We parked and got out to wander around the cars, hoods propped open, all of them up on jacks with wheels and tires strewn everywhere. Turned out the grand prize was $300 in cash and a handful of gift certificates (which isn't much when you take into account the $310 entry fee/price for a set of tires), so I quickly abandoned any notions of "Fast and the Furious: Rural West Virginia." No swagger. No reputations on the line. Just a bunch of cars, a tow truck and an intimidating man named Tex with a bullhorn.

Real drifting, as I've experienced it, is the domain of greasy, impoverished men with old, cheap, beat-up rear-wheel-drive import sports cars. There's the occasional Camaro, the occasional Mustang, and the occasional $50,000 Honda S2000 (but the owner never actually drifts it. Heaven forfend the damn thing gets so much as a scratch).

I got bit that day. Real drifting done by real people on a racetrack in West Virginia-- no CGI, no actors, no closed road courses winding through Tokyo. If I ever get a job and have $310 burning a hole in my pocket, I'll be at Summit Point, and as far as my teachers know, I'll have briefly contracted the plague.

I've been taking my rickety old Supra out in the rain and drifting it on public roads in the meantime. Not on purpose, mind you.

But seriously, spectators get in for free, so if you're ever out in West Virginia and you smell burning rubber, stop by.

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