West
01-18-2002, 01:46 PM
I borrowed my girls'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 (gottalook cool
to be fast, and I am *####* 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! #### 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 girl'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!
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 (gottalook cool
to be fast, and I am *####* 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! #### 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 girl'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!