Drag story

["Ken Keith" <ken.keith@specialdevices.com>]

Hey folks,

I just had to forward this funny story to y'all.  I hope you enjoy it.

I got it off the "Saturn Performance Owners Club" list, which I've been lurking 
on lately.

Read on,

Ken

<<Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1999 16:01:56 -0700
From: "Wolf, Adam" <AWolf@mail.pnm.com>
To: "'spoc@mccouch.com'" <spoc@mccouch.com>
Subject: Drag story
Message-ID: <77B5EB1C1565D211A6B000805F957AD03D3DD4@ALBMAIL2>

This is like the funnyest thing I've seen for weeks! I may even put it on my
webpage... Check it out:

Subject: An inspiring story of raw speed and the competitive spirit... 
I borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, 3
cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
alright, nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of Metro
around with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by
surprise... 
I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte cappuccino
blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a
streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I sipped my
bold beverage and wiped the white froth from my stiff upper lip. I was
minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane. 
I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the competition.
Ford Festiva -- a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb
feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure. 
The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my
driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and
I am *damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with the sound of seven
screaming cylinders... 
Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three pounding
cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, as smoke
poured from my front right tire... my unlimited slip differential was
letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and
I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel
juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his .7 extra
liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it, though,
waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the one-gauge (no
tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse of chrome under his
bumper, and knew the ugly truth... 
He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust... maybe
even cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the
crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction... 
Yet still I persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds
had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
intersection, and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his shift
to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed the
shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently in to keep from
bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a
cloud of stinking clutch smoke. 
Not ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard
one wheel *almost* chirp as he finally found second and dropped the clutch.
We careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A
bicyclist passed us, but intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted
an eye. 
He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the shift to
third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot
circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in front of
me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual 6" chrome
tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a
little to take the next corner. 
I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty steed,
I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in carpet.
Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to the left as I
came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease
onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear wheel slowly leave the
ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling
me through the corner, and around the Festiva! 
The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's car eased past him on
the outside, my P165/54R13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next
light. We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my
driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car
meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right. Chevy (Suzuki) superiority
reigns!!! 
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility, looking
for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, Samauri, or maybe even a VW
Vanagon! 
Dave Girvan - St. Petersburg, FL (fd3s@sprynet.com)
(http://rx-7.simplenet.com) '87 RX-7 SE "Project Car" | '86 RX-7 GXL
"Project Car" '93 RX-7 Base "Unintentional Project Car" | '91 B2200 | '96
Suzuki X-90 >>