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 eighteen wheelers by surpise.
I was headed back from Baskin-Robins with my manly triple latte cappuccino blast ("No cinnamon, ma"am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a street light.
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 when I heard a rev from the next lane, I turned and made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the compition.
Ford Festiva -- a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb feelers, and school bus yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod for sure.
The howl of his motor snapped me to reverie, and I looked back into the drivers 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), the night was split with the sound of seven screanming cylindres!
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 came pouring from my right front tire... my unlimited slip differential was letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eye, 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 a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor streached its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it though, while waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on the one gauge ( no tachometer here) instument panel.
I saw a glimpse of chrome under his front bumper, and I knew instantly the ugly truth... he was running a cutom exaust--- probably a 2 into one dual exaust... maybe even cut-outs!! Damn his hot-rod soul!!!
The Old lady passing us in the cross walk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...yet I still persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady, high pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfull of seconds had passed, we were nearing the cross walk at the other side of the intersection, and I heard the note of his engine changed as he made his shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rear view mirror fade as he missed the shift!!
I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently out to keep from bogging out, keeping the engine screaming hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a cloud of burnt , stinking clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so easily he left his foot in it, reving, and I heard one wheel almost chirp as he finaly found second gear and he dropped the clutch.
We carrened over the crosswalk, now going at le4ast 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 in neck we made the shift to third, the scream of motors deafening pedestrians within a five foot radius. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles and hour, then eased ahead of me, taunting me, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual 6" chrome tips of his exaust, snarling, my cappichino forgotten, as he lifeted a little to take the next curve.
I saw my oppertunity and counting on the inate agility of my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in the carpet. Slowly I inched forward around him,feeling my Metro roll slowly to the left as I came abreast of him in the gentle sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear wheel lift slowly off the ground, no matter though as my front drive wheels pulled me through the corner and around the Festiva!
The Ford driver beat his steering wheel in rage and frustration as my wifes car eased past him on the outside, my P165/R13s squeeling 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 the coward in the Festiva, meekly activated his turn signal and made a right turn.
Chevy (Suzuki) superiority reigns!
I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility, looking for other targets of oppertunity, perhaps a Yugo or maybe even a Volkswagen Microbus!!!
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