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- Feb 1, 2008
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Raced from a dig, but I must admit I didn't exactly play fair:
I was stopped at a light on a service road that forcibly enters onto the highway with a 70mph speed limit. A new GSXR600 pulls up next to me in the left lane. We are both at the front of the line sitting at the red light. We are positioned on clean white concrete and the night air is chilly - perfect for a quick jaunt. The motorcycle rider is dawning kevlar laced full rice-gear and nicely matches his paint scheme on his precision machine. I could see that he was clearly jealous of my truck's wing but probably wondered why it was so small. Idling at a Formula One friendly 1400 rpm, he pulls his clutch in and innocently clicks it down into 1st gear with a clunk.
I have two passengers in the truck, and I start to giggle. I tell them, "Watch me bait this guy into a race by out-launching the holy hell out of him." The thought of the injustice of it all just absolutely tickles me pink. My palms begin to sweat as I wait in anticipation for the light to turn green so I can do a top-fuel pass onto the highway and impress everybody and nobody at the same time.
I wait for what seems like an eternity. My adrenaline is starting to pump violently, and my foot begins to shake on the brake pedal. I pass the time trying to appear to remain calm and tell my friend in the front seat, "I figure he'll come around me on the big end, but it will be fun to watch him come by me at a buck fifty...." my voice cracking while I look back and forth at my light and the cross traffic's light. My friend and my back seat passenger are all smiles and think that my plan is a pretty good idea. I try to hide the fact that my hands are sweating and feet shaking. I now look somewhat like a crack addict just released from a weekend lockup about to score his next fix. Sweat is starting to bead-up on my forehead. I don't so much as blink.
The motorcycle driver looks over and begins eye-balling the truck while we are stopped but isn't poised, revved, or ready to launch. He probably has no idea what I have planned for him. I nervously giggle like a school girl and wait patiently to make my kill knowing all the while that I am not playing fair. If I were in grade school, my report card would have the "Does not play well with others" box checked for this incident. The motorcycle rider sat waiting for the light and dreamed of corner-carving and warmer days....
The light turns green.
I floor it and spin off the line with a screech. The unsuspecting superbike pilot sits dumbfounded for a couple of milliseconds, stunned by what has just happened.
He takes the bait.
He very quickly gets his act together, but his high revving, small-displacement Gixxer just won't launch easily, especially since he was just sitting there at idle with the clutch in, minding his own business. He stumbles off the line as I approach redline in 1st. By the time he gets going, I am past the intersection and on my way up the entrance ramp onto the highway, on the floor, balls to the wall.
I leave the transmission in D (QC, auto) and just let the truck handle the shifting duty. At 45-50mph it barks the tires as it jerks into 2nd gear. I continue to stay in it knowing that I can't give the superbike even an inch of leeway, or he will overtake me quickly. We both enter the highway where it is 3 lanes wide, but by this time I have 4-5 lengths on him. He is now nose high with the hammer down. He begins to close the gap at around 100 mph, but I stay the course. There is no way in hell I am not gonna' make this easy on him.
At 125 I am still ahead of him, but he is right at my back bumper. I remain true to my cause and don't let off as if I had a pin in my knee. He is hunkered down on his gas tank and shifting at 15,000 rpm. My Borla exhaust is howling, his titanium pipe shrieking. Now at 135, I am again starting to pull away as his small superbike is starting to run out of horsepower. I shut her down and give the quick 2-blink on the brake lights to signal that I am declaring the win. He pulls up next to me and gives me the thumbs up. He bowed his head in defeat and quickly shot off onto the next available exit.
Victorious, I proudly coast down from ludicrous speed back to the legal speed limit amongst the cheers of my passengers and the imaginary crowd in my head. It was a good night.
He is obviously faster in the qtr mile, but we didn't race a qtr mile. We went from 0 - 135 and he had a bad start. He never once got ahead of me -- the taste of victory sweet, and it was mine!
I was stopped at a light on a service road that forcibly enters onto the highway with a 70mph speed limit. A new GSXR600 pulls up next to me in the left lane. We are both at the front of the line sitting at the red light. We are positioned on clean white concrete and the night air is chilly - perfect for a quick jaunt. The motorcycle rider is dawning kevlar laced full rice-gear and nicely matches his paint scheme on his precision machine. I could see that he was clearly jealous of my truck's wing but probably wondered why it was so small. Idling at a Formula One friendly 1400 rpm, he pulls his clutch in and innocently clicks it down into 1st gear with a clunk.
I have two passengers in the truck, and I start to giggle. I tell them, "Watch me bait this guy into a race by out-launching the holy hell out of him." The thought of the injustice of it all just absolutely tickles me pink. My palms begin to sweat as I wait in anticipation for the light to turn green so I can do a top-fuel pass onto the highway and impress everybody and nobody at the same time.
I wait for what seems like an eternity. My adrenaline is starting to pump violently, and my foot begins to shake on the brake pedal. I pass the time trying to appear to remain calm and tell my friend in the front seat, "I figure he'll come around me on the big end, but it will be fun to watch him come by me at a buck fifty...." my voice cracking while I look back and forth at my light and the cross traffic's light. My friend and my back seat passenger are all smiles and think that my plan is a pretty good idea. I try to hide the fact that my hands are sweating and feet shaking. I now look somewhat like a crack addict just released from a weekend lockup about to score his next fix. Sweat is starting to bead-up on my forehead. I don't so much as blink.
The motorcycle driver looks over and begins eye-balling the truck while we are stopped but isn't poised, revved, or ready to launch. He probably has no idea what I have planned for him. I nervously giggle like a school girl and wait patiently to make my kill knowing all the while that I am not playing fair. If I were in grade school, my report card would have the "Does not play well with others" box checked for this incident. The motorcycle rider sat waiting for the light and dreamed of corner-carving and warmer days....
The light turns green.
I floor it and spin off the line with a screech. The unsuspecting superbike pilot sits dumbfounded for a couple of milliseconds, stunned by what has just happened.
He takes the bait.
He very quickly gets his act together, but his high revving, small-displacement Gixxer just won't launch easily, especially since he was just sitting there at idle with the clutch in, minding his own business. He stumbles off the line as I approach redline in 1st. By the time he gets going, I am past the intersection and on my way up the entrance ramp onto the highway, on the floor, balls to the wall.
I leave the transmission in D (QC, auto) and just let the truck handle the shifting duty. At 45-50mph it barks the tires as it jerks into 2nd gear. I continue to stay in it knowing that I can't give the superbike even an inch of leeway, or he will overtake me quickly. We both enter the highway where it is 3 lanes wide, but by this time I have 4-5 lengths on him. He is now nose high with the hammer down. He begins to close the gap at around 100 mph, but I stay the course. There is no way in hell I am not gonna' make this easy on him.
At 125 I am still ahead of him, but he is right at my back bumper. I remain true to my cause and don't let off as if I had a pin in my knee. He is hunkered down on his gas tank and shifting at 15,000 rpm. My Borla exhaust is howling, his titanium pipe shrieking. Now at 135, I am again starting to pull away as his small superbike is starting to run out of horsepower. I shut her down and give the quick 2-blink on the brake lights to signal that I am declaring the win. He pulls up next to me and gives me the thumbs up. He bowed his head in defeat and quickly shot off onto the next available exit.
Victorious, I proudly coast down from ludicrous speed back to the legal speed limit amongst the cheers of my passengers and the imaginary crowd in my head. It was a good night.
He is obviously faster in the qtr mile, but we didn't race a qtr mile. We went from 0 - 135 and he had a bad start. He never once got ahead of me -- the taste of victory sweet, and it was mine!
