Rental Car Riot!
Date: Saturday, March 22, 2025
Room opens at 9:30pm EDT (UTC-4), races begin at 10:00pm EDT. Starting grids will be determined exclusively by the race organizer. Grid position assignments are final and not protestable.
The Cars
- Toyota Prius G '09
- Toyota Aqua S '11
- Honda Fit Hybrid '14
- Toyota C HR-S '18
Mazda Atenza Sedan XD L Package
The car selection may be subject to change. These are all close to the same PP setting, and look like cars you might rent from a rental car company. I've not played with BOP before, and I have no idea if we can use it to level the playing field for these cars.
BOP will be turned on. Modifications are not allowed. Because they're rental cars, tires will be limited to Comfort Hard (except in cases where dirt or snow tires are required by the circuit). Liveries are not required, but should be relatively understated; these are rental cars, not race cars. No bill boards. But they are rental cars. All kinds of people with all kinds of skill levels drive these things. They carry all kinds of scars. So, you know, have fun with it.
08-Mar-2025: Removed Eligibility for Mazda Atenza Sedan XD L Package '15 due to drive train restrictions. Added Toyota C HR-S '18 as substitute.
09-Mar-2025: Request to classify Mazda Demio XD Touring '15 denied: engine type compatibility. [itc42]
Race #1: "Jet Lag, Martinis, and a Bad Sense of Direction"
Scenario:
I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating against the cheap hotel nightstand, the ringtone somehow both too loud and not loud enough. My head was pounding—a toxic cocktail of jet lag, airplane martinis, and the aggressive fluorescent lighting of a Tokyo business hotel.
I groggily swiped at the screen, half expecting it to be my boss or some corporate drone reminding me of a morning meeting I was already planning to sleep through.
Instead, a message: "I’m here. Hurry. ❤️"
Oh. Right. Her.
I squinted at the time. 4:47 AM. My flight had landed eight hours ago, but apparently, my decision-making had never quite reached the ground. Five martinis deep at 36,000 feet, I’d sent a text I probably shouldn’t have, and now, my mistress—who was, let’s be honest, technically still my ex-mistress—was standing in Narita Airport, waiting.
I needed to get there. Fast.
I staggered toward the window and peeked out at the city below. Tokyo at dawn was an electric maze, a mess of unfamiliar roads, neon signs, and buildings stacked like Legos. I knew exactly two things about Japanese traffic laws:
- They drive on the left.
- I did not know how to drive on the left.
Also, I had no idea where I was.
Also also, my translator app was dead—probably because I had rage-quit it at baggage claim after it mistranslated “where is the taxi stand?” as “may I purchase your grandmother?”
I had two choices:
- Wait for my hangover to subside, accept my fate, and try to explain myself later.
- Attempt to drive myself to Narita with no GPS, no language skills, and absolutely no understanding of Tokyo’s road system.
I grabbed the keys.
The Race: 25 minutes trying to find a way out of downtown Tokyo at dawn.
Race #2: "Q: Name two things that go 60 mph on a gravel road? A: An M1 tank and a rental car."
Scenario:
It probably started as an innocent discussion about "team-building exercises" before spiraling out of control.
Over a few beers, your co-worker—let’s call him Dave—launches into a passionate monologue about the lost art of real driving. He claims that modern drivers, numbed by lane-keeping assists and traffic congestion, have forgotten what it means to truly command a vehicle.
Then he drops a bombshell:
"You know, back in the day, rally drivers were the last true warriors. They didn’t just drive; they conquered the terrain. If you really want to understand a car, you need to drive it somewhere it doesn’t belong."
At this point, someone—probably you—laughs and says, "Oh yeah? You think you could handle that Camry like a rally car?"
Dave leans in, deadly serious. "I don’t think. I know."
By the next morning, the beer-fueled bravado has solidified into a binding verbal contract. Nobody wants to be the one to back down. You Google the nearest off-road circuit, pile into your rental sedans (which were definitely not designed for this), and suddenly, there you are—traction control off, tires spinning, screaming something about Colin McRae while absolutely voiding the rental agreement.
The race: 25 minutes of off-road madness.
Race #3: "Severance Speedway"
Scenario:
It started as a normal business trip. Meetings, lunches, endless PowerPoints, the usual. But then, over a round (or three) of beers one evening, everything changed.
Someone—probably Dave again—got a mysterious email. Then another. Then a Slack message, followed by an "urgent" calendar invite titled "Org Changes & Future Planning". By the time you all checked your inboxes, the verdict was in: you’ve been canned. Just like that.
At first, there was shock. Then anger. Then that odd, weightless feeling of sudden freedom, like unfastening your seatbelt mid-flight.
And then, the epiphany: the rental cars.
See, corporate policy meant your employer had already paid for them through the end of the trip. Mileage limits? Someone else’s problem. Tire wear? Not yours. Security deposit? Not tied to your personal cards.
Someone—again, probably Dave—brought up a little circle-track speedway just outside of town. "It's Wednesday. That means open practice night."
You all looked at each other. Then at your rental cars. Then back at each other.
At this point, you should have stopped. A reasonable person would have stopped. But you were recently unemployed, slightly buzzed on adrenaline (and possibly lingering beer), and in possession of vehicles someone else would have to clean up after.
So you did what any rational group of ex-employees would do: you lined up on the track and let it rip.
The first few laps were cautious, feeling things out. Then Dave, high on both liquid courage and a deep-seated need to assert dominance, dive-bombed turn three in the Altima, sending up a cloud of dust and bad decisions. The Camry answered by using its rental insurance as a battering ram. The Kia Soul? It understeered directly into the infield, where it nearly became an impromptu lawnmower.
Somewhere around lap 15, it stopped being a race and became an elimination event.
By the time you limped the wreckage back to the parking lot, the Altima’s alignment resembled an optical illusion, the Charger was missing a mirror (unclear when that happened), and the Camry’s front bumper had gained a new, “custom” ventilation system.
You sat on the hoods of your battle-scarred chariots, drinking gas station beer, and staring at the fading sun. Unemployed, bruised, and covered in tire dust, but for the first time in years, truly alive.
Returning the cars the next day was a whole other adventure. But hey, not your problem.
The Race: 25 minutes at Northern Isle Speedway, under the lights. Rolling start. Bonus: no rules the last 10 minutes.