Pitbabe S2, Chapter 28 pg 6

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 28 pg 6

   Pit babes, the gorgeous women (the real pit babes, not the racer named Pitbabe or my ex), sashayed through the gap between my car and Willy’s. She was tall, slender, with tanned skin and long, jet-black hair cascading nearly to her waist. She wore a black spaghetti-strap top, her shocking pink lace bra peeking through, paired with cutoff denim shorts so tiny they barely covered her backside. Her curves were captivating, her waist perfectly contoured. If any woman could make me turn my head, it might be her—but that would require there not being a fierce-looking guy leaning against the hood of a car near the starting line. I spotted Babe sitting there, arms crossed, staring at me with a neutral expression. He glanced briefly at the stunning pit babes before locking eyes with me again. I had to roll down my window and wave at him, as if to say, I’m not looking, I swear. Only at you. Only then did he relax his expression.

   A cloth matching the color of the “eaut’’s bra fluttered in the air, and the roar of engines filled the space, especially from the car to my right. Its sound was so deep and commanding it was like it could speak. If it could, I’m sure it’d be hurling insults straight at me. Add to that the car’s appearance, which seemed to have a face of its own. Willy was driving a Porsche 911 GT2 RS MR in blazing red. Though this model is considered a new contender that outpaces heavyweights like the 918 Spyder by over twenty seconds, in my eyes, it’s just an obnoxiously fast, ugly little beast. That’s why it was one of the first cars I ruled out when choosing my current ride. Phii North frowned at my reasoning, saying a racer should prioritize speed above all. Only Babe didn’t seem surprised. He just said, “Pick one that looks like you.” Naturally, I trusted Babe completely, and that’s how I ended up with this handsome beast.

   The vibrant cloth hit the ground, and the crowd’s cheers erupted, though they couldn’t drown out the roar of the five cars surging from the starting line. The timing of each car’s launch was so close it was nearly impossible to tell who had the edge. But that wasn’t the point. I’m not a commentator here to narrate the race’s progress. My only job is to do whatever it takes to make my car cross the finish line first.

   Today’s race started with a straight stretch about a kilometer long, a smooth road flanked by old factories and warehouses, dark and eerie. Luckily, streetlights provided some illumination at intervals, making this the easiest part of the course. A straight path with no obstacles—it felt like cruising on a runway. To my right was Willy’s ugly car, keeping pace with me since the start. The other three trailed close behind.

   From racing Willy multiple times, I think I’ve got a decent grasp of his driving style. Based on our past races, I’ve concluded that Willy’s strength lies in speed. On straightaways, he easily pulls into the lead group. He’s skilled at finding seamless overtaking opportunities. While you’re focused on the road ahead, Willy slips beside you or zooms past before you even realize it. That’s why racers his age calls him the “Ninja.”

   As for weaknesses, he doesn’t seem to have any—or rather, he’s excellent at hiding them. If you don’t pay close attention, you’d barely notice that Willy struggles with consecutive sharp turns. He handles single corners quite cleanly, knowing his car’s braking distance and weight well, exiting smoothly. But on winding, back-and-forth tracks with multiple turns, his speed starts to drop because he can’t maintain balance coming out of corners. Most people don’t notice this flaw because Willy compensates with his reckless audacity, taking risky turns at the wrong moments and then flooring it near the finish line. In short, his greatest strength is his sheer recklessness.

   Honestly, I think my strengths are pretty similar to his.

   Tonight might give both me and Willy a clearer picture of whether his kind of crazy matches mine.

   Racing without knowing Babe is watching feels strange. Normally, at the track, even if we’re in different races, I can sense Babe watching me through the monitor. In street races, I’ve never gone solo before. If Babe isn’t riding a motorcycle with the guard team, he’s in the car next to or in front of me, meaning he’s always aware of my every move with every change in distance. So this is the first time I’m racing without those godlike eyes on me. At first, I thought it’d ease the pressure since I’m not under the laser gaze of my idol-turned-coach tracking my every move. But in reality, it’s the opposite.

   I’m more nervous than ever. Sure, part of it is because I’m dead set on not losing to Willy, but the bigger part—the main part—is that I can’t relax like I usually do. I know that no matter what I do, Babe won’t see it. It’s like I’ve got a ton of killer moves ready, but knowing he won’t witness them makes me hesitate to use them. It just hit me that I haven’t seen Babe as just a coach critiquing my skills for a long time. I see him as someone important who I want to make proud. If this were an anime or an old romance movie, I’d be the protagonist who performs better when the person I love walks into the theater.

   After the straightaway, the middle of the racecourse is an uphill road. This is private land owned by Ricky’s family. His dad runs a factory making car parts and owns a huge chunk of land in these hills. (I’m not sure how they got this land, but they’ve been here for at least three generations.) The road is flanked by forest, narrowing to just two cars wide. The streetlights are spaced farther apart than at the factory, so you need high beams to see the road and surroundings clearly. The road twists and turns like a giant hibernating snake. As expected, Willy’s car slows down. After keeping pace side by side the whole way, he falls back about one car length behind me, with the others trailing not far behind.

   The one skill that shows my progress is cornering. Early on as a racer, my main issue was that my cornering wasn’t sharp enough. I’d often brake too early, throwing off my rhythm. So Babe drilled cornering into me hard. I worked to learn and understand my car, and once I felt at one with it, I stopped getting nervous about any curve.

   In fact, it’s become my strongest point, especially since Babe once said, “You corner just like me.”

   There’s nothing prouder than that.

   Willy isn’t sitting idle. His attempt to edge me out with that ugly car during a razor-sharp corner shows he’s not content with second place. It’s probably like how I’d rather drive off a cliff than cross the finish line behind that foreigner. Besides Tony, I can’t believe there’s someone else who brings out such extreme thoughts in me. My feelings toward Willy are more intense than I expected. It’s not quite hatred to the point of not wanting to share the same planet, but let’s just say it’d be better if I never had to see his face.

   The mountain road Is too narrow—too narrow for two cars to run side by side. But Willy still tries to squeeze through, not caring if either he or I might spin out and plummet down the hill. As both our cars hit a nearly circular corner, drifting puts us side by side at an angle. The tension of two cars scraping by on a road as narrow as a slum alley eases slightly. The sound of tires screeching against the scorching road, kicking up thick smoke, and the ear-piercing squeal—it’s music to my ears. But for those who aren’t obsessed with racing, it’s probably just noise pollution. I get that.

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