I second Gran Turismo. I didn’t have much truck with racing games growing up, minus the brief rentals of Rock n Roll racing, with its amazing soundtrack, or the criminally underrated Diddy Kong Racing, showing that even a small hub world could give imagination the elbow room to breathe. No, not until Gran Turismo was I interested in real cars. Cars your friends mom would drive them to soccer practice in or to the grocery store, everyday cars that with just a little tlc, some better tires, and maybe a four stage turbo, could make your palms sweat as you let it all loose on the final straight of Route 5 or feathered the buttons delicately around the final s-turn on Trial Mountain. Real cars became real possibilities with Gran Turismo. I finally understood the drive and excitement of my friend a few years earlier as he devoted every waking moment to fixing up a dusty Honda Prelude in his garage. The hot show on TV at that time was Viper, a stupid as hell advertisement for the recent Dodge behemoth, and every kid I knew drooled over the phallic sports car filled with oil slick and other Bond-like tricks. But even though Evan had posters of Countaches and Diablos on his wall, his Prelude was the altar at which he prayed, morning, noon, and night. And who could, once seeing those lights flip for the first time, not fall in love? I mean it looks like the car was having a snooze and just woke up. Points for personality.
Gran Turismo 2 was everything, but more. Hundreds of hours I sunk into that game, restarting over and over again, never growing bored. Every car felt different, sounded unique. Crazy people made this game, the kind of crazy I could get down with. I loved GT2, and it stayed with me, even after I sold everyone of the rest of my playstation games in the trough at Funcoland to finance my Dreamcast ambitions. Bleemcast! was a good friend in those times, and the racing never stopped, it just looked smoother.
At some point over the hundreds upon hundreds of hours of racing simulation, something somewhere in my lizard brain was taking careful notes…
It was a late night, 1, maybe 2 am driving back from DC to my home. I had been following the only other car on the road by around four lengths, close enough to convoy but far enough for respect, and sufficient braking time should a deer try its luck. The car in front was some white Camry looking thing, and I myself in a VW Beetle, all the rage at the time as they had made a major comeback, mostly due I think to the inclusion of a plastic flower bouquet to the right of the steering column as standard. We were both cruising at 70 in the leftmost lane.
As the Camry crested a hill approaching the first few exits to my hometown, the world went crazy. The Camry’s taillights bled red as the car made impact with a stalled vehicle on the other side of hill and the Camry’s rear launched into the air, sending the entire car spinning like a top towards the right lane. The stalled car’s front was rammed into the wall on the left by the impact, the twisted frame now perpendicular to the highway, the entire lane in front of me a tangled wall of metal and fiberglass.
Slow motion for me.
The one part of my brain, the sometimes logical, the all the time sarcastic, was in total shock. Things were happening, bad things, and that part needed to have a little sit down, maybe a snack, and puzzle this whole thing out in a corner somewhere.
Fortunately, lizard brain had taken notes while it sat at the back of the class most of my life, not allowed to have the controller but only watch, and now it had taken the wheel.
A yank of the wheel left and the beetle barreled toward the wall and the front of the stalled car and doom. The wheel moved sharp like to the right and then the beetle’s rear loosened a little and for a beautiful, awful instant the Camry was pirouetting upside down at a 45 degree angle a breath away from the beetle’s careening hood. And then it drifted up and away, as only large hunks of aluminum and fiberglass can, and the beetle slid right, just where it had been a fraction of a second before.
“But now what about that?” said the logical part of my brain, pointing at the stalled car and the then imminent impact of drivers-side on drivers-side love that was about to happen. Or would have, were they not still in the corner sucking their thumb.
Lizard brain whipped it left again, the beetle swerving hard, the front bumper almost kissing the stall’s trunk as it slipped by.
To the best of my estimation, this all happened between 1.5 and 2 seconds.
It was several more seconds coasting down the highway before the lizard brain handed the reins back, and several minutes after pulling over before the adrenaline let me even begin to process.
I guess I’ve never really thought about how Gran Turismo saved my life until typing this out today. All those Sunday Cups, all the laps, all the developer’s attention to detail, all the absolute balls of Bleem! coalesced into an educational course that allowed my inner lizard to grab the gold in that most important of license tests.