Here's one that all max cube macho Moparites will enjoy!
(Thanks, Brian)
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Since my '60 Chrysler 300F was in the shop, 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 event 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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