legokcen
01-03-2004, 12:07 AM
I came across this a while ago and couldn't stop laughing. Thought you all might get a kick out of it.
------------------------
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 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
pouring 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, or maybe even a
Volkswagon
Van!
------------------------
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 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
pouring 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, or maybe even a
Volkswagon
Van!