Chapter Eighty-Five: So He Was a Racer Too

Mo Shu couldn’t help but laugh at Uncle Zhang’s comical struggle to recall, saying, “Uncle Zhang, I came to see you, but you’re fixated on my father. Why don’t we go inside and reminisce there?”

“Right, right, let’s go inside,” Zhang Aimin replied, patting Mo Shu’s shoulder a bit sheepishly, though the confusion on his face was still unmistakable.

Inside, Mo Shu carefully arranged his gifts by the entrance, took off his coat and changed his shoes, never forgetting to hand Zhang Aimin a stack of documents.

Zhang Aimin was surprised—wasn’t it supposed to be just a chat? Why were there documents involved?

“Uncle Zhang, this is an idea I’ve been working on. Please take a look first,” Mo Shu said, holding out the papers.

After a serious illness, Zhang Aimin’s health was no longer what it once was. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, settled onto the living room sofa, and began to read.

As he turned the pages, excitement gradually lit up his expression.

He finished reviewing Mo Shu’s draft proposal with meticulous care, closed the file, and praised loudly, “Excellent, excellent!”

“What a superb plan for the Cloud Summit Downhill Race!”

Mo Shu chuckled. He had expected Zhang Aimin to hesitate or offer many suggestions, but the discussion had gone so smoothly that his dream suddenly felt closer.

“Uncle Zhang, after this ERC event, I should—barring any surprises—win a substantial prize and sponsorship. I’ll have gained some international recognition too. Why not host a race right here at home, so international friends can witness China’s racing prowess and our commitment to developing motorsports?” Mo Shu spoke with passion, his ideas spilling out after being bottled up for so long, finally able to share them freely thanks to Uncle Zhang’s appreciation.

“No problem, Mo Shu. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to meet the chairman of Nanshan Automobile Association. He’ll surely support you wholeheartedly,” Zhang Aimin declared, his enthusiasm even greater than Mo Shu’s, already pounding his chest in assurance.

“Haha, thank you in advance, Uncle Zhang!” Mo Shu said with a respectful gesture and a smile.

“Oh, no need to be so formal with me,” Zhang Aimin waved his hand repeatedly, but continued, “Still, meeting your father today troubled me. He looked extremely familiar.”

Clearly, Zhang Aimin wouldn’t rest until his curiosity was satisfied, abruptly steering the conversation back to the question of familiarity.

“I’m the younger generation—I don’t know much about the relationships and circles of you elders. How can I help solve your puzzle?” Mo Shu replied, a little helpless. Though he’d never been far from home before racing, his father had rarely spoken about his youth.

“Forgive me, but what’s your father’s name?” Zhang Aimin asked politely.

“Mo Shanhé,” Mo Shu answered honestly.

“Well, that’s odd…”

“Haha, you must be mistaken, Uncle Zhang.”

“No, no, I have a knack for recognizing people. It’s just age catching up with me…” Zhang Aimin sighed, shaking his head at the relentless march of time.

Mo Shu could only shrug in resignation.

Still unwilling to let it go, Zhang Aimin lit a cigarette and gazed at the ceiling in silence, clearly lost in deep memory.

“But I remember that when I was young, a group of uncles used to call my father ‘Old Ghost.’ Does that ring any bells?” Mo Shu’s mind suddenly flashed back to his vague impression of his father when he was two or three.

“Old…what?” Zhang Aimin’s eyes brightened as he pressed for clarification.

“Old Ghost…”

“Ah—” The words made Zhang Aimin suck in a sharp breath.

Mo Shu was baffled—what was happening? Did Uncle Zhang and his father have some old grudge?

“I’m telling you…I’m not mistaken,” Zhang Aimin said, thumping his thigh with certainty.

“You two actually know each other?” Mo Shu marveled yet again at how small the world was.

“No, I know your father, but he might not know me,” Zhang Aimin said, pursing his lips before taking a deep drag and launching into a lengthy story.

At first Mo Shu didn’t take it seriously, but as he listened, he could hardly believe his ears—was Zhang Aimin making this up?

It began in the 1990s in Nanshan, when most people hadn’t yet tasted prosperity. If a family had ten thousand yuan in savings, relatives would bestow the honorific “ten-thousand-yuan household,” a title that carried great weight in those days, akin to figures like Zhang Aimin or Zhao Kunlun now in Nanshan City.

Mo Shanhé, Mo Shu’s father, was in fact a super-rich man back then, with twenty thousand yuan in savings, though Mo Shu had no memory of it since he’d just been born.

That was odd—Mo Shu had heard from relatives that his father never had a steady job when he was young, so how did he get those twenty thousand yuan?

It turned out that after China opened its economy, a national racing team was formed to compete in Western Europe, both to race and to learn advanced techniques. Mo Shanhé was a young member of this team, ironically nicknamed “Old Ghost” because he was so youthful.

Why did the national team choose Mo Shanhé? Because when he served in the military, he was the fastest and most skilled tank driver.

In those days, there were no professional racers; the team leaders naturally selected the best drivers from various fields.

Yet motorsports originated and flourished in the West. Most of the Chinese team members could drive, but some hadn’t even seen an international-standard racetrack.

Western teams were outwardly welcoming, but many harbored biases and looked down on the Chinese racers.

In the first exchange race, the Chinese drivers were so thoroughly beaten by their Western counterparts that they began to doubt themselves.

They hadn’t imagined cars could be driven that way; some were amazed and bewildered by the opponents’ drifting skills.

The Westerners were proud; the winning driver arrogantly lectured the Chinese team manager about the origins of racing, making the manager extremely embarrassed.

In this awkward and difficult atmosphere, the young Mo Shanhé, who hadn’t even competed yet, volunteered to race again. He disliked being underestimated.

The Westerners accepted the challenge, but no one in the Chinese team, from manager to staff, believed in the tank driver. Even the veterans had lost, so they thought Mo Shanhé’s boldness would only bring more humiliation.

Yet, in a simple five-lap race, Mo Shanhé trailed at first, but in the third lap suddenly erupted, closing the gap with the Western driver in the final two laps. At the last moment, he snatched victory by the slimmest margin, saving a shred of dignity for the Chinese team and astonishing the previously arrogant Western racer.

After the race, everyone asked how Mo Shanhé had won. It turned out he’d spent the first three laps learning the opponent’s cornering techniques. When he felt he’d mastered them, he launched his attack in the last two laps.

Unfortunately, the track was short; otherwise, his lead might have been even greater.

At home, the event went unreported, but it shocked the Western teams and sports media. For a time, stories about Mo Shanhé flooded Western outlets.

However, upon returning home, the Chinese racing team, whether due to finances or other reasons, quietly disbanded, leaving no further word.

As a reward and compensation, the remaining funds were divided among the members who had made significant contributions; thus, Mo Shanhé received his twenty thousand yuan.

Of course, the demise of the racing team meant Mo Shanhé’s achievement was almost unknown within China. Some less scrupulous relatives spread rumors that the money was ill-gotten, envious and jealous, gossiping behind his back.

Yet about a decade ago, Zhang Aimin, a motorsport enthusiast, visited a racing legend in Britain. That legend showed him a photo with Mo Shanhé and recounted the story, leaving Zhang Aimin with a lasting impression of his face.

It was only today, upon seeing Mo Shu’s father, that the memories returned to him—thanks to his pride in his ability to recognize people even after more than twenty years of change.

“So, I guess my ability to drive fast is inherited, after all?” Mo Shu could scarcely believe that his seemingly ordinary father had once been such a legendary figure in his youth.