Marco wasn't racing yet. This was just the out lap. The goal was simple: put heat into the rubber, scrub off the mold release compound from the tires, and verify that the engine wouldn't explode.
But Marco Rossi didn't know how to ride slow.
Even at 60% pace, his body moved with a fluidity that looked alien on a beginner. He hung off the bike, his chest low over the tank, his inside elbow pointing toward the ground.
"Okay, Kai," Marco muttered, feeling the chassis flex under him. "Let's see what you're made of."
He squeezed the brake lever approaching the hairpin. The front forks dived. The sensation was immediate and raw. No ABS. No electronic intervention. Just hydraulic pressure and friction.
The front tire chirped. Marco released the pressure instantly, modulating it with a delicacy that would make a surgeon jealous.
[ SYSTEM FEEDBACK ]
[ BRAKING INPUT: 88% EFFICIENCY ]
[ TIRE TEMPERATURE: FRONT 35°C (COLD) / REAR 40°C (COLD) ]
[ WARNING: LOW GRIP DETECTED ]
"I know, I know," Marco grumbled at the floating blue text. "Stop nagging me like a pit crew chief."
He accelerated out of the corner. The little 2-stroke engine screamed in delight. The power hit at 8,000 RPM, a sudden surge that tried to lift the front wheel.
Marco shifted his weight forward, keeping the nose down. He tucked in behind the bubble screen.
Ahead of him, a group of three riders on Kawasaki Ninja 400s were taking a leisurely line through the long sweeper. They were upright, stiff, looking like statutes.
Marco didn't mean to pass them. It was a warm-up lap. Passing was frowned upon. But his momentum was carrying him twice their speed.
He took the outside line. He leaned the NSR over until the footpeg scraped. He swept past them like a purple phantom, the smell of burnt castor oil trailing behind him.
One of the riders wobbled in surprise.
"Sorry!" Marco waved a hand as he disappeared into the next turn.
By the time he pitted, Jiro was waiting with a tire pressure gauge and a face that said 'You idiot'.
"Warm up!" Jiro barked as Marco killed the engine. "That means warm up! Not set a lap record! You passed three guys on the outside of the Dunlop Curve!"
"They were parking," Marco defended himself, flipping his visor up. He was grinning. He was sweating. He felt alive.
"And you!" Jiro pointed at the tires. "Look at this wear pattern! You're tearing the cold rubber! We have one set of tires for the whole day, Kai! One!"
"The pressures were too high," Marco said calmly. "Drop the rear by 2 PSI. It's sliding too much on exit."
Jiro paused. He looked at the tire. He poked it with his thumb. The wear pattern was showing signs of over-inflation tearing.
"How did you feel that?" Jiro muttered, crouching down to bleed some air out. "You've done three laps."
"The bike talks," Marco said, patting the tank. "You just have to listen."
Rin handed him a bottle of water. "You looked cool, Kai! The other guys were like... wobbly ducks. You were like a... zooming grape!"
"Zooming grape," Marco sighed. "I need a new nickname."
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them.
Marco looked up. It was the blond kid. Ryu.
He wasn't wearing his helmet. His face was sharp, handsome in a K-Pop idol kind of way, but his eyes were cold. He was holding a bottle of expensive electrolyte water.
"That's a loud bike," Ryu said. His voice was smooth, bored.
"It's a race bike," Marco replied, taking a sip of his own tap water.
Ryu looked at the NSR with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. "It's a relic. It smokes. It stinks. You're polluting the track for everyone else."
"It's called character," Marco said. "Something your computer-bike doesn't have."
Ryu's eye twitched. "My R3 is state of the art. It's the future. That thing is the past. You should put it in a museum before it blows up and oils the track."
"If it blows up," Marco said, standing up to meet Ryu's gaze, "it'll be because I was wringing its neck trying to find a worthy opponent. I haven't seen one yet."
The air between them crackled. Jiro stopped working on the tire. Rin held her breath.
Ryu laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Big talk for a beginner in a purple clown suit. Stay out of my way in the afternoon session. I don't want to run you over."
He turned and walked away, his white leather suit squeaking perfectly.
"He's pleasant," Marco said, sitting back down.
"He's the track record holder for the 300cc class," Jiro warned. "He's fast, Kai. Really fast. And he has money for tires. He can push harder than you because if he crashes, daddy buys him a new bike. If you crash, we walk home."
"I won't crash," Marco said, watching Ryu's retreating back.
[ SYSTEM QUEST UPDATE! ]
[ RIVAL IDENTIFIED: RYU ]
[ NEW OBJECTIVE: BEAT RYU'S LAP TIME BY THE END OF THE DAY ]
[ CURRENT RECORD: 1:08.45 ]
[ YOUR BEST LAP (WARM UP): 1:15.20 ]
[ GAP: +6.75 SECONDS ]
"Six seconds," Marco whispered. "That's an eternity!"
"What?" Jiro asked.
"Nothing," Marco stood up. "I'm going for a walk."
Marco found a quiet spot near the fence at Turn 3. He closed his eyes.
"System," he called internally. "Simulation Mode. Load Tsukuba Circuit. Vehicle: NSR250. Condition: Current."
[ SIMULATION START ]
The noise of the paddock faded. Marco was back on the ghost track.
He walked the track in the simulation, inspecting every inch of the asphalt. He looked for the dark patches where the rubber had been laid down by cars. He looked for the bumps that would upset the suspension.
"Turn 3 is tighter than it looks," he muttered, crouching down to touch the virtual curb. "It tightens on exit. If I apex early, I run wide into the dirt."
He spent an hour in the simulation, just walking and analyzing.
[ INTELLECTUAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE ]
[ TRACK KNOWLEDGE: 95% ]
[ MENTAL FATIGUE: RISING ]
He exited the simulation.
Back in reality, only five minutes had passed.
He walked back to the van. Jiro was eating a sandwich.
"I need to change the gearing," Marco announced.
Jiro choked on his bread. "What? Now? Lunch break is almost over!"
"The gearing is too tall," Marco explained, grabbing a toolbox. "I'm bogging down in Turn 4. I need more drive. We need to go up two teeth on the rear sprocket."
"We don't have a rear sprocket!" Jiro yelled.
"Yes we do," Marco pointed to a rusty box in the corner of the van. "I saw a 44-tooth sprocket in there yesterday. It's old, but the teeth are straight."
Jiro stared at him. "You memorized the contents of my junk box?"
"I memorized everything," Marco said, already loosening the rear axle nut. "Rin, hand me the chain breaker!"
"Aye aye, Captain!" Rin saluted, tossing him the tool.
For the next twenty minutes, it was a frenzy of activity. Marco's hands still not as strong as he wanted, but guided by muscle memory moved like lightning. He broke the chain, swapped the sprocket, re-riveted the chain, and aligned the wheel.
He finished with grease up to his elbows.
"Done," he panted. "Two teeth up. Better acceleration."
"You're insane," Jiro shook his head. "But... good job."
"ATTENTION PADDOCK. SESSION 2. OPEN TRACK. ALL GROUPS."
"Open track?" Marco perked up. "That means mixed groups?"
"Usually at lunch, they let everyone out for a 'fun run'," Jiro explained. "It's chaotic. Be careful."
Marco's eyes lit up. "Does that mean Ryu will be out there?"
Jiro looked at the Yamaha tent. The R3 was being warmed up. Ryu was putting on his helmet.
"Yeah," Jiro sighed. "He's going out."
Marco grabbed his helmet.
"Kai, wait!" Jiro grabbed his shoulder. "This isn't a race. It's a track day. There are no trophies."
Marco looked at his uncle. He smiled, a fierce, hungry smile that didn't belong on a teenager's face.
"There is always a trophy, Uncle," Marco said, pulling the helmet on. "It's called respect."
He zipped up the purple suit.
"And I'm going to go collect it."
He fired up the NSR. The smoke billowed. The engine sounded crisper now, sharper.
He rolled down the pit lane. Ryu was just ahead of him, the R3 purring like a sewing machine.
Marco pulled up alongside him at the pit exit light. He blipped the throttle.
Ryu turned his head. The black visor stared at Marco.
Marco gave him a thumbs up. The light turned green. Ryu launched. The R3's torque shot him forward instantly.
Marco leaned into Turn 1, his eyes locked on the gold tail section of the Yamaha.
"Come here, plastic boy," Marco whispered. "Let me show you what the 90s tasted like."