ghosritr
Full Access Member
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!
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!
