Be My Babe | Initial D

Chapter 12

The man with the flags stood in front of us, signaling that we were ready with no traffic ahead. A voice confirmed, "We're ready. No traffic!" and another flag-wielding individual nodded. As the countdown began, my legs trembled uncontrollably. Biting the inside of my cheek, I scanned the surroundings, then shifted my focus to the R32 next to me. It's just Nakazato. You can do this, Y/N.

"I'm gonna start the countdown! Start in ten seconds. Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! GO!" the flag man yelled, and with that, both Nakazato's R32 and I floored it. Predictably, Nakazato's car surged ahead. I observed him brake for the upcoming turn, mirroring his actions for my drift, mindful of the proximity to his rear bumper. As the race unfolded, my mind went blank, and my eyes remained fixated on the road.

With each drift, my foot danced delicately between the throttle and brake pedals, orchestrating a symphony of power and finesse. The ball of my right foot applied measured pressure on the gas, coaxing the Roadster into a controlled slide, while the heel of my foot delicately brushed the brake pedal, fine-tuning the drift's trajectory.

Simultaneously, my hands engaged in a dance of precision on the steering wheel. Fingers gripped the leather, feeling every nuance of the road through the vibrations. The initial turn-in required a firm yet subtle twist, initiating the drift with a calculated aggression. As the Roadster slid through the apex, my hands seamlessly transitioned, guiding the car through the graceful arc of the hairpin.

Hand-over-hand, I maintained a delicate balance between control and chaos. The steering wheel became an extension of my will, responding to the nuances of the asphalt beneath. Each hairpin presented a unique challenge, demanding a nuanced approach to keep the Roadster on the edge of traction.

In the midst of the drift, downshifting became a rhythmic ballet. My left foot deftly engaged the clutch, while my right hand executed swift, precise movements on the gear shifter. The engine's roar harmonized with the syncopated dance of footwork and hand placement, a testament to the seamless coordination required to maintain momentum through the twists and turns.

As the road unfolded before me, I read its language—the subtle camber changes, the worn patches, the texture beneath the tires—all guiding my decisions in real-time. The downshifts punctuated the drifts, each gear change a heartbeat, syncing with the pulse of the race.

Approaching elevation changes, I modulated the throttle with a delicate touch, adjusting the weight distribution to navigate the undulating terrain. The dance between footwork and hand placement became more intricate, adapting to the evolving landscape of Akina.

The Roadster, an extension of my intent, responded with an almost sentient grace. Drift after drift, the car seemed to anticipate my next move, forming an unspoken alliance between driver and machine. The road, now a canvas of tire marks, bore witness to the artistry of the race.

In the climax of the race, footwork and hand placement reached a crescendo. The Roadster, now an extension of my very essence, glided through the turns of Akina with an almost otherworldly precision.

Approaching the next corner, I knew I had to pull out all the stops. Braking into a calculated drift, I brushed dangerously close to the guardrail, using it to my advantage. The thrill of the race coursed through my veins as I strategically navigated the corner, gaining precious speed.

The familiar rhythm of the Roadster's drifts brought a sense of confidence. It clung to the asphalt, responding with a newfound agility. "these new tyres were a great idea," I thought, realizing the evolution of both my skills and the car. With renewed determination, I pressed on the gas earlier than before, narrowly avoiding a collision with the rail. Inches from disaster, I emerged unscathed, a smile playing on my lips.