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-----Original Message-----
From: owner-dakota-truck@BUFFNET.NET
[mailto:owner-dakota-truck@BUFFNET.NET]On Behalf Of Crit Bennett
Sent: Monday, April 02, 2001 10:51 PM
To: dakota-truck@BUFFNET.NET
Subject: DML: In a Ricer's own words...
Well crap, I'm a repeat offender. At least this one has a shred of on-topic
dignity. Here goes.
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"), then I stopped at a
streetlight. 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 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 school
bus-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 even cutouts!
Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the electric powered
three-wheeler 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 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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