I'm riding shotgun in Signal Auto's Sil-180 with one of Japan's top drifters. It's late. Very late. The kind of late that invites one to participate in all sorts of illicit activities. We're in a desolate industrial area of Osaka. A very desolate industrial area that is just perfect for what we're about to do. My driver waits patiently for the group ahead of us to complete their passes. In this country even the outlaw drifters abide by a proper Japanese manner of code, conduct, and tradition.
When all is clear on the course (and by course I mean the intersection of two public roads), my driver turns on the headlights to announce to the assembled throngs that something wicked this way comes. The car launches with the sort of urgency you'd expect from a 400hp package, and in mere moments we're rocketing at breakneck speed-in fact this speed is enough for broken arms, legs, and internal organs as well. With a flick of the wheel we're still traveling in the same direction, except all I can see through the windshield is a very imposing median fortified with an even more imposing metal guardrail. If I want to see where we're headed I need to check the side window. I start to laugh. Not that I'm having fun-this is more of a blubbering, hysterical, we're-all-going-to-die laugh.
In contrast to my panic-stricken state, my driver is in complete control. Well, as much control as you can have over a car traveling sideways at 60 mph. His deft throttle inputs and staccato twitches of the wheel maintain this seemingly endless powerslide. By the time we reach the intersection it feels as if we've been spinning longer than Disco Jonny during one of his marathon sets. But we're not spinning, we're sliding-and now it looks as if we're going to slide right into the crowd. Just when it seems all is lost (including my lunch), my driver hits his mark perfectly like some sort of Eastern Block gymnast at the end of a routine. As soon as we reach the intersection he recovers the crossed-up Nissan, and nothing is left from the chaos except the hint of tire smoke in our noses. I laugh again. But this time, it's one of those blubbering, hysterical, I-can't-believe-we're-still-alive laughs.
With the exception of my soiled Superman Underoos, this scenario is played out repeatedly at the underground drift gatherings throughout Japan. Super Street has been to this spot before. Cap'n Rich brought back the essence of the drift-and the essence of something else we still can't identify-with an insightful look at this scene (see "Drift to Live, Live to Drift," Dec. '00). This was also where we were introduced to my driver, known only as (cue sinister music)...Drifter X! We really do know his name, but Drifter X is just so much more dramatic. The driver of my crazy taxi is none other than Fumiaki Komatsu. By day, Komatsu works as a mild-mannered tuner for Signal Auto, but at night he emerges as (more sinister music)...Drifter X! In this underground drift community, Komatsu is like Kurtis Blow on a playground full of Lil' Bow Wows.
This type of drifting is illegal and highly dangerous and not something we would recommend. But you cannot ignore the fact that this is where drifting was born-in the bayside areas and mountain passes of Japan. (More sinister music.)
Drifter X To The Extreme!
When I first met Fumiaki Komatsu at the Tokyo Auto Salon, he looked like nothing more than a twig with a mass of hair and an infectious grin. His quiet demeanor gave the impression of some sort of bit player on a bill full of headliners. Of course I don't look like anything more than a tall geek with the splattered remains of the day's meals accenting my faded, wrinkled T-shirt. Sadly, in my case that first impression couldn't be more appropriate, but for Komatsu the difference between appearance and actuality is as divergent as the void between the Bradys and Bundys.