You guys should enjoy this.....
>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 traffic light. 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 inate 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!
>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 traffic light. 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 inate 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!
