Racing story!!!

[Khan Klatt <kmk@pacificrim.net>]

[sent again with subscribed addr]

Sent to me from a friend on the RX7 mailing list. Apparently they are a
REALLY TOUGH crowd to beat!!!

-Khan

>From the Rx-7 mailing list, where stoplight racing stories are common.


Actually, I didn't do this, someone sent it to me...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 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!
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Khan Klatt <kklatt@nw.verio.net>                                       Verio
Network Engineer                                    Bellingham Branch Office
Tel 800.591.2757 x 13                                    725 N. State Street
Fax 360.738.8315                                        Bellingham, WA 98225

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