The sun had not yet risen above the mountains when Fuji Speedway stirred awake on Sunday, March 22nd, 2020. The paddock lights glowed with a cold brilliance, illuminating pits that buzzed with life as mechanics, engineers, and drivers alike moved about with the nervous energy only race morning could bring.
At 5:00 AM sharp, the G-Force crew was already at their pit, long before most of the other teams had rolled up their shutters. A kettle boiled in the corner, releasing curls of steam into the crisp spring air. Tools clinked, tires thumped against the ground, and fuel drums were neatly arranged for the long day ahead.
Izamuri, however, sat in a folding chair just inside the pit box, arms crossed, wrapped in his white G-Force jacket, and staring intently at a small laptop screen propped on a tool cart. The faint strains of an old Top Gear episode echoed around the garage. He wasn't laughing much, his nerves were obvious, but the antics of Clarkson, Hammond, and May provided a strange sort of comfort. Even the sound of "POWER!" bellowed across the pit seemed to ground him in something familiar amidst the storm of the unknown.
Meanwhile, the rest of the team worked feverishly. Walter and Daichi were double-checking the torque settings on the suspension arms and making sure the Advan A050 mediums were warmed up in the blankets. Haruka and Rin were rolling fuel lines, discussing their calculations quietly. Ayaka and Hana were handling radios and spares, keeping lists neat and ordered. And somewhere in the corner, the Twins were supposed to be stacking spare wheels, though judging by their muffled arguments, they were one wrong word away from turning the morning into chaos.
Next door, at the Hugo Speed pit, the blue-and-yellow team was similarly alive with energy. Mechanics were fussing around Hugo's #11 EK9, the bodywork polished to a mirror shine under the floodlights. But in the back of the garage, Takamori and Simon were crouched beside a rolling toolbox with Hugo himself, bent over a tangle of cables and transmitters.
"Hold it steady, Hugo," Simon muttered, his British accent sharper than usual under the stress of fiddling with wires. "This thing is more delicate than a McLaren gearbox."
Hugo chuckled. "If this works, Izamuri will have better feed than any of us. My spare transmitter's more reliable than the stock junk they gave us."
Takamori glanced toward the G-Force pit. "You're sure this will sync with his onboard cam?"
Simon gave a little smirk. "If it doesn't, I'll eat my Jaguar. Trust me, I did this stuff back in Benetton when telemetry boxes were the size of a fridge. This is child's play."
With a soft click, the transmitter powered on, a steady green light blinking. Hugo grinned and patted Simon on the back. "Perfect. Consider this my little insurance. If he can see, he can learn. And if he learns, he'll fight harder."
Back in the G-Force garage, Daichi noticed the Hugo crew huddled in the corner. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, if Hugo wanted to help Izamuri, he wasn't going to complain. Not today.
Meanwhile, six paddocks away, the Naka GP pits looked more like a fortress than a garage. Two security guards in black jackets leaned on folding chairs near the entryway, their eyes sweeping over anyone who dared look too long. Inside, mechanics in crisp black-and-gold uniforms moved with military precision, stacking tires and checking tool chests.
Then, as if on cue, the motorhome door swung open with a hiss. Out stepped Giancarlo Antonio Bellasconi, dressed in an immaculately tailored black coat despite the early hour. His silver-gray hair was slicked back, his dark eyes sharp as ever. At 68 years old, his presence still carried the weight of decades in motorsport, a storm of scandal and controversy trailing behind him. He paused at the top of the steps, scanning the paddock like a general surveying a battlefield.
Mike Hunt stood nearby, stretching with a yawn. His face tightened at the sight of Bellasconi. For a moment, he glanced back at the motorhome, suddenly remembering Akagi's words from earlier in the week, that he would only use his motorhome temporarily until Bellasconi's visa paperwork was processed. Mike had brushed it off at the time, but clearly the old man worked faster than expected.
Mike groaned, realizing what that meant. His things, his clothes, gear, even his lucky driving gloves, were all crammed hastily into a duffel bag the night before. He'd been forced to bunk with James Hawthorn in the other motorhome, crammed into a bunk bed like some university dormitory. James, of course, didn't care, he reveled in the arrangement, using it as another excuse to throw late-night drinks and brag about his Hollywood career.
But Mike? Mike hated it. He was a star, a racer, a man who once laughed while causing a pile-up in IndyCar. And now he was reduced to second billing in his own team, displaced by a smug Italian relic.
Bellasconi, for his part, didn't even glance at him. The old man adjusted his cuffs and strolled past the cars, the mechanics stiffening as he passed, their hands moving faster as if the weight of his gaze demanded perfection. Every bolt tightened, every tire cleaned, every panel polished. None dared make a mistake under his watch.
"Buongiorno," Bellasconi muttered, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He glanced toward the gold-trimmed EK9s, his lips curling into the faintest smile. "Today, gentlemen, we make history. Show them that Naka GP is not here to participate… but to dominate."
Mike swallowed hard, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, dominate with what, a miracle engine?"
James overheard and laughed, slapping Mike on the back. "Relax, Hunt. Just follow my lead, keep your nose clean, and smile for the cameras. The old man will handle the rest."
Mike sneered but said nothing. Deep down, he hated being told what to do, even more than he hated bunk beds.
Back at G-Force, Izamuri shifted in his chair, closing the laptop as the episode of Top Gear ended. He rubbed his hands together, staring at the white EK9 parked just meters away. The car gleamed under the lights, spotless, prepared, and deadly. It wasn't just a machine anymore, it was his responsibility, his chance.
Daichi walked over, crouching down beside him. "Nervous?"
Izamuri hesitated before nodding. "Yeah… but watching those idiots crash caravans into each other helped."
Daichi chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good. Remember, this isn't just about speed. It's about focus. Ignore the circus around us. Once you're in that car, the only thing that matters is the track."
Izamuri exhaled, nodding again. He could feel the pressure building, but at least here, surrounded by his team, it felt bearable.
Outside, the sky began to pale with the first hint of dawn, the chill morning air slowly giving way to the warmth of the day. Engines fired up across the paddock, one by one, their roars echoing through Fuji Speedway like the growl of beasts waking from slumber. Race day had officially begun.
By the time Takamori and Simon were done fiddling with Hugo's spare transmitter and syncing it with Izamuri's onboard camera feed, the garage had settled into a quiet rhythm. The hum of tire warmers and the occasional clang of a dropped spanner filled the background, but the frantic energy from earlier was gone. The pit was spotless, the EK9 gleaming, and the crew finally had a moment to breathe.
Daichi clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, everyone. Let's have a quick sit-down before we burn ourselves out. I want all of us on the same page before things start moving too fast."
Chairs were dragged from corners and a folding table was pulled out, stained with old coffee rings. The team gathered around, some sitting, others leaning against toolboxes. Izamuri sat at the far end, helmet resting on his knee, while Walter had his arms folded, his sharp German eyes fixed on Daichi. The twins, predictably, whispered to each other until Rin elbowed them quiet.
Daichi took a slow breath and began.
"First thing, you've probably all noticed the schedule sheet the organizers posted last night said 25 laps. Well, that was wrong." He held up a paper with the corrected itinerary, tapping the circled line in red. "The official number is 32 laps. Some poor clerk hit the wrong key on their template, and they only realized it this morning."
A low murmur spread through the group. Izamuri's brow furrowed, while Haruka tilted his head.
"Thirty-two?" Ayaka asked. "That's more than expected, but… are the tires going to last?"
Daichi nodded firmly. "Yes. Don't panic. These Advan A050 mediums are sturdier than you think. Back in '09, one of my old colleagues ran a set for nearly 60 laps at Suzuka in an N2 car. By comparison, 32 laps here at Fuji isn't going to shred them. We'll still have grip at the flag."
Walter gave a short grunt of approval. "Ja, the compound is reliable. Only risk is overheating if Izamuri pushes too aggressively every single lap. But otherwise…" He gestured with his hand, "…kein Problem."
Daichi leaned forward, his expression hardening. "Still, remember, this is a one-make series. We don't get pit stops unless something goes catastrophically wrong. Loose wheel, puncture, suspension failure, that's it. No strategy calls, no fancy undercuts. It's you and the car until the checkered flag. That's why consistency will win us this race, not just raw pace."
Izamuri nodded slowly, gripping his helmet tighter. "Understood. I'll watch my lines and keep it clean."
"Good." Daichi's tone softened slightly. "You've proven you can pull a fast lap. Now I want you to prove you can hold that focus for 32 of them."
Simon cleared his throat. "And let's not forget fuel load. It's tight, but the EK9 is efficient. We'll finish the race without topping up, assuming you don't redline it down every straight like a maniac."
That got a chuckle out of Rin, though Daichi shot him a look to keep him from adding any sarcastic comment.
Daichi continued. "Next order of business, the race day timetable. Right now, it's—" he glanced at the clock on the wall, "—6:23 AM. We've got almost five hours until the lights go out. At 8:00 AM, there's a track day session by the Honda Enthusiast Community."
At that, Takamori smirked. "So basically, Civics everywhere."
The room laughed lightly, and even Izamuri cracked a smile.
"Exactly," Daichi said. "Mostly EGs, EKs, and a few oddballs. It won't affect us, just stay clear of the pit lane until they're done. Once they're off the track, we get a clear two-hour window for final prep."
He raised a finger for emphasis. "Then, thirty minutes before race start, all 24 drivers and managers must attend the mandatory pre-race briefing. No exceptions. Stewards will dock us if we miss it."
"Where?" Haruka asked.
"Main briefing hall, near the control tower. Standard procedure." Daichi folded his arms. "They'll go over starting procedure, caution flags, and any last-minute notes. After that, we roll to the grid. The race officially starts at 11:00 AM sharp."
Walter leaned forward. "And what about Bellasconi's circus next door? Should we expect… interference?"
Daichi's jaw tightened. "We keep our eyes open. Twins—" he looked over at Tojo and Hojo, who immediately straightened up like schoolboys caught passing notes, "—I want you two keeping an eye on Naka GP. Watch their pit, watch their crew. Don't get caught snooping, but if you see anything unusual, report back. Clear?"
The twins exchanged grins that worried everyone else, then nodded in unison. "Clear."
Daichi sighed but let it slide. Sometimes chaos had its uses.
"Good. That's the plan. We'll regroup before the briefing, but for now…" He looked around the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "…you've all done the work. The car's ready. Izamuri's ready. Now the best thing we can do is conserve our energy. Rest, eat, hydrate. We'll need every ounce of focus when the lights go out."
The crew dispersed slowly, conversations breaking off into smaller clusters. Ayaka began checking the hydration packs. Hana busied herself arranging the radio earpieces neatly on the table. Walter scribbled notes on his pad, quietly muttering lap predictions under his breath.
Izamuri leaned back in his chair, staring up at the fluorescent lights. The weight of the race pressed on him, but there was also a strange sense of calm. Everything was ready. There were no excuses left.
In the corner, the twins whispered conspiratorially again, though Rin kept glancing at them with suspicion. Haruka sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping from a water bottle, while Simon and Takamori quietly chatted about telemetry and whether the FIA would ever adopt real-time streaming systems for grassroots series.
And in the midst of it all, Daichi sat at the folding table, arms crossed, eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping, his mind was spinning, calculating every possibility, every risk. But for now, at least, the garage was quiet.
By 7:00 AM, the morning haze over Fuji Speedway was slowly giving way to clear skies. The air was crisp, the faint smell of rubber and gasoline already present, but the circuit itself was still quiet. No engines yet, no roars echoing across the grandstands, just the calm before the track day began.
Izamuri sat on a low concrete barrier with his helmet bag beside him, legs stretched out lazily. Beside him, Daichi leaned against a lamppost, sipping canned coffee. Haruka had his arms crossed, tapping his foot to some rhythm only he knew. Rin, Takamori, Simon, and Walter were gathered close, each with their eyes trained on the entrance gate just beyond the visitor parking lot.
They weren't there for strategy or reconnaissance. No, this was pure curiosity. The Honda Enthusiast Community track day was about to kick off, and everyone wanted to see what kind of cars would roll in.
The first arrival was… predictable.
A Civic EG6, white with a black hood, rattled its way past the gatehouse. Its exhaust burbled happily, slightly louder than factory spec but nothing too obnoxious. Daichi smirked. "And there it is. The inevitable EG6. Like the rising sun, always the first to appear."
Another Civic followed, then another, and another. Within ten minutes, the visitor lot had twelve Civics parked neatly in a row. EG6s, EK9s, and the occasional modern FK8 Type R, with wings tall enough to double as picnic tables.
Simon scratched his chin. "It's like the Noah's Ark of Civics. Two by two by two…"
Rin snorted. "More like twelve by twelve. And look at that one—" he pointed to a pristine bone-stock EG6, down to its factory rims and even the original Honda badge slightly faded with age. "That one looks like it drove straight out of 1992."
Walter gave a short laugh. "It's either a collector's treasure… or someone's grandma lent them her car this morning."
They chuckled, but then the ground began to vibrate faintly. A low, distinct growl echoed from the entrance.
The group leaned forward.
Rolling through the gate came a sleek NSX NA1 Type R, bright red, its paint glistening under the morning sun. Heads turned immediately, it was impossible not to admire.
"Now that's more like it," Haruka muttered, eyes locked on the low wedge-shaped machine.
Before anyone could comment further, another NSX followed. Then another. And another. The trickle became a flood.
"Wait, what the hell?" Takamori muttered as he counted aloud. "Four… five… six… seven… eight?"
By the time the convoy settled, a staggering twenty NSXs had rolled in—NA1s, NA2s, and even a few modern NC1s. Some wore Type R badges proudly, others had aftermarket body kits, carbon lips, and vented hoods. A handful were immaculate, stock showroom-condition cars, while others looked like they'd just come back from Tsukuba with tire smoke still on their fenders.
And then came the absurdity.
A flatbed truck rattled past the entrance, and the entire group of G-Force froze. On the back sat something unmistakable. An NSX NA2 GT500 race car, stripped and caged, the same kind once seen tearing through Super GT two decades earlier. Its massive rear wing and widebody presence made even the NC1s look tame.
Izamuri's jaw dropped. "They brought… a GT500 NSX… to a community track day?"
Walter's eyebrows shot up. "That is insanity. Who does that?"
Daichi chuckled bitterly. "Someone with too much money and not enough sense. That car isn't going to play nice with weekend warriors."
But the parade wasn't done. Following the NSX fleet came an array of S2000s, their F20Cs screaming as their owners blipped throttles unnecessarily. Then came a wave of Integra DC2 and DC5, each painted in various shades of championship white, red, and yellow.
Rin pointed excitedly as a purple Prelude BB6 slid into the lot, low and wide. "Man, I haven't seen one that clean in years!"
The variety grew stranger with each arrival. A pack of Accords, some mildly tuned, some bone stock, all lined up in their corner. A couple of CRXs, small and eager. Even a fleet of Jazz/Fit hatchbacks rolled in, their owners proudly repping them as if they were NSXs in disguise.
And then came the sound of motorcycles.
At first a few, then dozens, then what felt like hundreds. Honda motorbikes of every breed swarmed the entrance. CBRs with screaming inline-fours, Goldwings the size of sofas, CBFs, and even old-school Super Cubs with baskets on the front. The roar of engines filled the lot as riders revved them like a synchronized orchestra.
Daichi rubbed his temples. "Great. Now it's turning into a Honda festival."
"Not that it wasn't already," Haruka muttered.
Just when they thought the spectacle couldn't get any more ridiculous, another truck rumbled toward the gate. This one was a box transporter with transparent side panels, almost like a mobile museum. And inside, gleaming under spotlights, was a replica of Ayrton Senna's McLaren MP4/4, arguably the most famous Honda-powered machine in history.
Simon's eyes widened, his voice low. "You've got to be kidding me. They brought a Formula One replica."
The group fell silent, watching as the transporter parked in a designated showcase area. The MP4/4's red and white Marlboro livery seemed to glow under the morning light, a rolling reminder of Honda's golden era in motorsport.
It was overwhelming.
By now, the entire visitor lot had transformed into what looked like a Honda-only car show. Civics lined one row, NSXs took another, S2000s and Integras filled gaps, and the bikes swarmed every corner. Everywhere you looked, it was Honda heritage on display. Owners polished their cars, adjusted banners, and set up folding chairs as if preparing for a festival.
The G-Force crew just sat there, speechless.
"This…" Rin finally said, breaking the silence, "…is not a track day. This is a declaration of war."
Walter shook his head. "Nein. This is religion."
Haruka smirked. "I'll give them this… Honda people know how to put on a show."
Izamuri, still seated on the barrier, exhaled sharply. "I thought today was supposed to be quiet before the race. Guess not."
Takamori leaned back, crossing his arms. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if someone rolled in with a Honda lawnmower claiming it had VTEC."
They all laughed, but none of them could take their eyes off the spectacle. The sheer passion, absurdity, and scale of the gathering was mesmerizing. And as more cars continued to roll in, Preludes, Accords, even a rare Honda Beat kei car, the morning only grew louder.
By 7:45 AM, the visitor lot looked like the staging ground of a Honda world fair. And the G-Force crew, sitting in their corner near the entrance, were content to just watch, soaking in the insanity.
By 7:55 AM, the organized chaos of the Honda Enthusiast Community meet began shifting gears. The casual chatter, polishing, and photo sessions slowed as engines fired to life. The sound was deafening in unison: dozens of B16As, B18Cs, F20Cs, and C30 V6s warming up together, the high-pitched scream of VTEC echoing across the visitor lot.
From their vantage point, the G-Force crew leaned forward, watching intently.
Lines began to form. Civics first, naturally. EG6s with stripped interiors, EK9s wearing bold Type R stickers, and FK8s proudly showing off giant wings. Each rolled slowly toward the pits in orderly fashion, exhaust notes bouncing against the concrete walls. Some were pristine showpieces, others battle-scarred veterans with faded paint and mismatched bumpers.
Rin pointed toward one of the Integras. "Look at that, USDM front end."
Sure enough, a DC2 Integra crept by with chunky circular headlights and a wide front bumper, distinctly American in style. Behind it came a few JDM examples, sleeker with their slim headlights and sharper bumpers. It was like watching two different schools of thought roll side by side.
Haruka smirked. "Funny how one small change can make the whole car look like it's from another planet."
Walter raised an eyebrow. "And yet… both sides think they are the superior version. Classic enthusiasts."
More Integras followed, DC5s in championship white, some lowered aggressively on Volk wheels, others still close to stock form. Their FWD stance screamed track-ready, and many bore roll cages and stripped interiors.
Then came the NSXs.
Each one seemed to glide rather than drive, their low noses and pop-up headlights catching the early morning sun. Some had widebody kits, others wore simple factory lines, but all of them had a presence that drew the eye. A few NA2 Type Rs revved loudly, their exhaust notes sharp and metallic, while the newer NC1s purred with a deeper growl.
"Feels like a mini-Super GT grid forming," Daichi muttered under his breath.
The group chuckled, but their eyes widened as a bright orange NSX with a carbon roof rolled past. It looked factory fresh, yet unmistakably aggressive, and the driver waved proudly to the crowd gathered by the fences.
Behind them came the S2000s, their F20Cs buzzing like angry hornets. AP1s and AP2s alike, some sporting GT wings, others with simple lip kits, each ready to scream to 9,000 RPM on the Fuji straights.
The procession continued. A few Preludes, tastefully modified, rolled toward the pit entry. A handful of Accords, mostly Euro R models, joined the mix. Even a couple of Jazz/Fit RS hatchbacks lined up, their owners looking a little sheepish among the big guns but no less proud.
Not every car moved, though.
On the sidelines, plenty of enthusiasts chose to stay parked. Half the lot remained still, their owners preferring to spectate rather than risk their pride and joy on track. Among them was the GT500 NSX, which stayed firmly on its transporter, its presence alone enough to make people gather around for pictures. Nearby, the McLaren MP4/4 replica remained a showpiece, still under its transparent transporter box, cameras flashing as people admired Senna's machine.
Takamori shook his head. "I mean… can you blame them? That GT500 thing would eat half these cars alive if it just sneezed on track."
"Same with the F1 replica," Simon added. "That's not something you casually take for a spin."
The crew stayed a while longer, watching as the pit entrance became a rolling sea of Hondas. Some revved unnecessarily, others crept cautiously, but all of them were eager to be part of the track day.
By 8:00 AM sharp, the paddock atmosphere shifted. The track marshals signaled, and the first wave of cars rolled onto the Fuji main straight, their engines harmonizing into one thunderous overture. Spectators along the fences cheered, phones held high.
Daichi exhaled, finishing the last sip of his coffee. "Well, that's our entertainment sorted. Come on, let's head back. No point standing out here all day."
The group agreed. They stretched, dusted themselves off, and began the short walk back toward their own pits. The morning sun was climbing higher, burning away the last of the mist that clung to the tarmac.
As they approached the G-Force pit, the rest of their crew was already busy. Haruka had a laptop open, double-checking the telemetry settings. Hana and Ayaka were arranging spare tools in neat rows, ready for the race preparations. The twins, miraculously, were behaving for once, carrying tires from the stack to the pit wall without their usual squabbling.
"Perfect timing," Haruka called, glancing up. "You all missed nothing, except for a couple of Civics scraping their exhausts trying to get into pit lane."
"That's part of the experience," Rin replied with a grin.
They regrouped inside the pit garage, taking advantage of the brief lull before their own schedule resumed. The sound of the Honda community's track day carried faintly from the circuit, screaming NSXs tearing down the straights, Civics darting into corners, S2000s wailing at high RPM. The chorus of VTEC echoed through the air, blending into the background of clattering tools and the steady hum of pit fans.
Izamuri sat back down in his folding chair, arms crossed, watching the track activity with a neutral expression. To anyone else, it was just noise. To him, it was data. Every rev, every shift, every braking point echoed against the walls of his concentration.
Walter leaned against the pit wall, eyes following an NSX streak past on the straight. "Even for a community event, they're pushing hard. That's passion… even if some of it is misguided."
Simon adjusted his glasses, his gaze flicking toward the timing screen that displayed non-official laps from the enthusiasts. "They're not professional, but look at them. They take it seriously. And that's why manufacturers love this kind of loyalty. It's free advertising on wheels."
Daichi smirked, though his tone was softer than usual. "Yeah. It's also why some of these people will bankrupt themselves just to shave a second off their lap. Motorsport fever isn't always kind."
The group fell into comfortable silence, letting the roar of the track day wash over them. They weren't part of it, but in a way, they understood it. Every one of them had started somewhere, dreaming behind the wheel of a car that felt like the center of the world. And now, as they sat in their pit, surrounded by tools, tires, and the smell of gasoline, they realized they were closer than ever to chasing the dream again.
By 8:15 AM, the track day was in full swing. But for the G-Force crew, the real battle loomed ahead.